‘I’m nervous. I’ve never seen anyone killed before.’
‘You can certainly pick your places.’
‘I already did,’ she said, opening the passenger door. ‘I’ll squat down here, in the road beside the car, just as Marie Antoinette did on the conciergerie cobbles when she saw her waiting tumbril. Only stay in the car until I’ve finished please, Rimmer.’
He nodded and, remaining seated, looked politely away as Ronica got out of the car, closed the door, and then lifted her skirt.
Swiftly she fetched the little Colt Matahari automatic from the holster between her legs — and then had a pee for appearance’s sake before pocketing the gun and standing up straight.
‘All right,’ she said, tapping on the toughened window. ‘I’m ready now.’
Rimmer got out of the car.
‘Let’s go and kill him,’ she added eagerly.
He walked around the car, eyed the still steaming snow where she had urinated, and sniffed the air like a dog.
‘Asparagus,’ he said. ‘For your supper. Quite unmistakable.’
Ronica felt herself blush with embarrassment. She was going to enjoy killing him. Blowing Rimmer’s brains out would count as a service to humanity.
Rimmer turned his back on her and trudged down the narrow street toward the hotel’s front door. ‘When we get in there,’ he said, ‘you can do the talking. Let’s see how clever you really are.’
‘Afraid you’ll fuck it up again, is that it?’ she asked, finding it difficult to keep up with him in her expensive Federico Ingannevole evening shoes, which were not made for walking, least of all in snow.
‘You’re the one who seems to lack the stomach for this, not me,’ he said, sniffing the air again.
‘That reminds me. What blood type are you, Rimmer?’
Rimmer stopped in his tracks and, turning around, fixed her with a look of disdain. ‘Don’t tell me you believe that EPTR[73] bullshit?’
Ronica shrugged. ‘Why not?’
Rimmer shook his head and started walking again. ‘And the director said you were clever,’ he snorted.
‘Why shouldn’t there be some truth in it?’ argued Ronica. ‘There are over four hundred blood groups.’
‘But most people are just O or A. I can’t see how that helps to determine the kind of guy I am.’
‘So which are you, Rimmer?’
‘Neither. I’m AB.’
‘Interesting. Only three percent of people are AB.’
‘I know.’
‘A Universal Recipient.[74] Means you’re full of internal contradictions, as you might expect of someone with your blood group history.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘The melancholic type: quiet, unsociable, reserved, pessimistic, rigid, and moody. Not to mention greedy and manipulative. How am I doing, Rimmer? Recognize yourself?’
Rimmer didn’t reply.
‘Me, I’m group O. Makes me relaxed and sociable, outgoing, poor on details, but with good leadership qualities.’
‘I thought all blacks were group B.’
‘Phenotype frequencies vary across different racial groups. The B phenotype is not exclusive to blacks, merely more common. Talking of misconceptions, you should get your chart done. That is, if you’re planning to marry and have children. Although I can tell you that we’re not the right mix. O’s should stick to their own type.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Rimmer as they neared the hotel’s front door. ‘But I’ll be even more glad to hear what story you’ve thought up to explain our imminent arrival here.’
‘Hey, just watch my relaxed group O style,’ said Ronica, leading the way through the door. ‘You’re about to see someone whose temperament includes the very essence, the sanguis of cool.’
They were met by a hyperbaric attendant, a tall black who stifled a yawn and nodded a silent greeting.
‘We’re from the Oxygen Institute,’ Ronica explained smoothly. ‘Checking free radicals.’
‘Free what?’ The attendant looked back at the glass-walled office from which he had just emerged, as if someone might come to his assistance, but there was no one else.
‘Unstable and reactive electrons,’ she said. ‘In this case, oxygen.’
‘Nobody told me you were coming,’ said the attendant, scratching his head.
‘You’re not supposed to have any prior knowledge,’ tutted Ronica. ‘That’s the whole point of the check.’
‘At...’ The attendant glanced at his watch. ‘At two-thirty in the morning?’
‘Middle of the night’s when people least expect us. When they’re able to offer the least amount of resistance. You know, I’m surprised no one told you about us before. We’ve been to quite a few hyperbaric hotels in this district.’
‘You have?’
‘You obviously have no idea who we are, do you?’
The attendant shrugged.
‘That’s okay.’ Ronica smiled patiently and began to walk around him as she went on with her patter. Rimmer had to admit she sounded pretty convincing, even in a floor-length lambskin coat and pretty shoes.
‘We’re an organization acting under federal law,’ she explained. ‘We’re empowered to check places like this to see if there has been any involvement of iron in the process by which oxidative damage is produced in DNA in human cells that are undergoing oxidative stress. As might be expected in a hyperbaric hotel. You see, through their reactions with this trace metal, elevated levels of activated oxygen species can cause alterations to human DNA. We wouldn’t want that, now would we?’
‘What trace metal is that?’ frowned the attendant. ‘I thought oxygen was a nonmetallic element.’
Ronica sighed loudly. ‘Iron, of course. Cells must maintain iron, even though it can’t be used for metabolic processes. Look, you do work here, don’t you? I mean, you’re not a guest or a patient or whatever you call your customers?’
‘Sure, I work here. I’m the night shift hyperbaric attendant.’
‘In which case you’ll have the superoxide levels of your guests at hand. If we could just check those out, we’ll be on our way.’
‘Superoxide levels?’ The attendant grinned awkwardly.
‘Kind of a place is this?’ muttered Rimmer, getting the idea.
‘When cells are diseased or injured, the normal metabolism of oxygen goes wrong, leading to the increased production of superoxide,’ Ronica explained patiently. It was amazing what she found she knew when she put her Connex-stimulated mind on to the case. She must have read all this somewhere, sometime. ‘For example,’ she added, ‘white blood cells intentionally produce superoxide in order to kill microorganisms. These same white cells are activated by trauma and inflammation.’ She smiled thinly and continued slowly, as if speaking to an idiot. ‘So nearly all diseases involve the production of increased amounts of free radicals.’
‘Free radicals, right?’
‘Yeah,’ growled Rimmer. ‘Listen and you might learn something.’
‘You’re obliged to keep patient records of superoxide levels as a matter of federal law.’ Ronica was making it up now. She had no idea what kind of laws affected hyperbaric hotels, but she thought that there ought to be some, which is as good a legislative philosophy as any.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ grumbled Rimmer. ‘He doesn’t have the first idea what you’re talking about. I say we go back to the office, issue a closure notice, and then it’s someone else’s problem.’
‘Closure notice?’ The attendant sounded alarmed. ‘Wait a second. You guys can close this place?’
‘We just issue the order,’ said Ronica. ‘It’s nothing personal, you understand. But failure to monitor superoxide levels properly is a serious matter.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s out of our hands.’
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