40
Graeter wasn’t there.
She went to the comms office and asked. “He’s out on the iceway,” the comms operator said. “Some landing lights are out.”
“I thought it was Condition One.”
“Yeah. But planes won’t land without those lights working right. Gotta be ready for them.”
“Did he take someone with him?”
“Nope.”
“When will he be back?”
“Couple hours, I expect.”
“As soon as he gets in, will you tell him to call me, please? It’s important.”
“Sure will, Doc.” All Draggers called all Beakers “Doc,” she had learned.
“Thanks.”
“Um, ma’am?” He looked at the comms office door, then back to her. His face was partially hidden by his long, lank brown hair and the requisite Pole beard. But underneath all the hair she saw that he was very young. He had large, fanlike ears, bulb cheeks with blemishes, a receding chin, and a squashed-looking nose. And fear in his eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“These women that died?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Rockie Bacon was sick and had a bad accident. I don’t know about Harriet Lanahan or Diana Montalban.”
He paused, looked uncertain, then went on: “You think there’s something down here? Some germ?”
Reassuring lie or frightening truth? She decided on a little of both. “I don’t know that. But I do know that only women have died.”
He lowered his voice. “People are saying you brought something.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Don’t make much sense to me.”
“No. Why not?”
“You aren’t dead.”
“There is that.”
“Tell you one thing. This is my first tour at Pole. And my last.”
“Can’t say I blame you.”
“Ask you something else?”
“Sure.”
“Doc Fida took a penguin?”
“It’s what they’re saying.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I didn’t know him well,” she said.
“I knew Doc Fida.”
“You don’t use his Pole name?”
“He didn’t like it. I could relate. One they gave me? Neuman. As in, Alfred E.”
Hallie understood. Beautiful people sought their kind. So did those at the other end of that spectrum.
“He was a little weird. Everybody gets a little weird down here. But him just up and taking a penguin? Doesn’t compute for me.”
“You know what? Me neither.”
He seemed relieved to hear that he was not the only one.
“Good talking with you,” Hallie said.
“You, too.”
She started away. His voice stopped her. “Hey, Doc?”
“Yes?”
“Strange people down here. A lot of ’em are scared shitless. Do well to watch your back.”
41
The altitude, dryness, and Polarrhea had left her dehydrated. She had no appetite for solid food, but she needed liquid: juice, water, coffee — well, maybe not coffee just yet. She headed for the galley, thinking that she had not had such an unbroken run of bad luck for as long as she could remember. She was still thinking that when she came off the serving line with two big glasses of apple juice and her luck suddenly changed. Maynard Blaine was alone at a corner table, twirling spaghetti around a fork. She sat across from him.
“Aren’t you supposed to be locked up or something?” he said.
“It’s prime dinner time. Why aren’t there any people here?”
“They’re afraid. Don’t want to be with other people.” He forked up a ball of spaghetti dripping with marinara sauce. “Especially not with you. I heard Graeter put you under house arrest. How come you’re out?”
“How come you’re here, Maynard?”
He shrugged. “I hate my goddamned room.”
“No, I mean, how come you’re still sitting here with me?”
“I think it’s probably bullshit, what they’re saying.”
“That I brought in some exotic germ?”
“Yes.” He stopped twirling spaghetti, looked more closely at her. “Maybe I was wrong, though. You don’t look so good.”
“Aw, well, thanks for the compliment, Embie.”
He looked as if she had slapped him.
Polarrhea had turned out to be productive in more ways than one. Maybe there really was something to high colonics, after all, she thought. Ambie wasn’t short for a name beginning with “A-M.” Emily’s Georgia accent had made it sound that way on the video log. She had been saying “Embie.” Short for M.B. And those were the initials of Maynard Blaine.
“What did you call me?”
She leaned forward, lowered her voice. Not really necessary, because only one other table was occupied, and that man was well out of hearing. But she wanted to make an impression. So she hissed just one word:
“Triage.”
He rose too quickly and spilled spaghetti sauce on his shirt. He stood there, staring down at the bright red blotches, seeming to have forgotten all about her.
“Sit down,” she snapped. “We can do this right here, just the two of us, or with Graeter.”
He sat.
The fury she had been holding in made her voice shake. “You told me you barely knew Emily. I know you were sleeping with her. Why did you lie?”
He glanced around, leaned forward. “Please lower your voice.”
“It is low. But it’s about to get louder. Talk to me.”
“Would you want to be known as the jilted boyfriend of a scientist who died under suspicious circumstances?”
She sat back. That was reasonable. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Pole brain. But too soon to let it go. “Other people must have known about the two of you, though.”
“We were discreet. Rarely ate together, no public displays of affection, all very professional.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t care one way or the other. She wanted it that way.”
“Do you know why?”
“She was afraid if word got around, it could hurt her chances for more grants.”
“Who would have cared?”
“Graeter and Merritt both file performance reports on everybody here. In case you haven’t noticed, women are not his favorite people. Women who sleep around are beneath the bottom of his shit list. She thought he would ding her big-time for it.”
“Do you know anything about Vishnu?”
“Yeah. It was the stuff Emily found in the cryopeg.”
“What did she tell you about it?”
“Not much. Ate carbon dioxide like a champ, I think. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Talk to me about Triage,” she said.
Hallie had read the expression “the blood drained from his face,” but she had never actually seen it happen. His mouth opened halfway, but nothing came out. Finally, not looking at her, he said, “About what?”
“I’ll be back with Graeter, Embie.” She stood up.
“Please don’t call me that. And sit down. Please,” he whispered.
“The last time.”
“It could be the end of my career if it goes farther than this table.”
“Could be the end of more than that if you’re involved with Em’s death.”
She had to lean forward to hear. “I’m engineering a new virus that can immobilize enemy combatants without killing them. ‘Humane warfighting’ is what it’s called.”
“By whom?”
“The project originators.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”