“Commander Tighe?”
Dan’s insides lurched with surprise. He snapped his attention to the here and now.
The two new crewmen hovered between the command center and the utilities section. Lance Muncie clenched a handhold with his massive fist and unconsciously bit his lower lip. His skin was several shades of green lighter than it had been when he blew breakfast down the length of the connecting tunnel. Tighe knew that Lorraine had fitted Muncie with a motion-sickness pad. This was in direct contravention of Trikon’s policy that its people endure a few days of space sickness rather than become dependent on medication. But Trikon preferred a lot of things that just weren’t practical in space, and Lorraine was judicious in her use of medication.
Freddy Aviles rocked gently from his center of gravity, which in his case was located near the solar plexus. His massive arm and chest muscles twitched as if only a supreme effort of self-denial prevented him from launching into a spin.
Tighe had selected them from a number of resumes Trikon had sent him. It was a damn fool way of manning a space station, but Trikon was the boss and constantly assured him that all candidates were top-notch space-worker material. Tighe doubted that anyone, especially Trikon’s personnel department, could predict how a person would react in orbit, but he had to play the hand he was dealt. That same personnel section was on the verge of taking what was left of his career away from him.
His newest two recruits were very personal choices. Freddy Aviles had been born in the South Bronx and enlisted in the Navy after high school. As an electronics specialist he rose to the rank of petty officer, second class, on an Aegis destroyer before losing both legs when a missile broke loose from its mounting and crushed them while the ship rode out a typhoon. After discharge, he went to college for computer science and was working as a Pentagon analyst when he suddenly applied to Trikon for employment. Tighe had always believed that a legless person was well suited for life in micro-gee. The problem was that no space agency ever had recruited one. He was glad that Trikon had the vision, or the balls, to try.
There was nothing special to recommend Lance Muncie, other than that he was a fellow midwesterner. But one fact of personal importance had caught Tighe’s eye: Muncie was a recent graduate of the University of Kansas.
Tighe acknowledged the two crewmen’s salutes with a casual wave of his hand. He presented each of them with a set of thick laminated cards bound together by a plastic spiral.
“These outline your basic responsibilities. I’m sure you already know every word,” he said. “Now for the unofficial stuff.”
Lance Muncie’s expression hardened into a frown. Freddy Aviles grinned as if expecting the punch line of an inside joke. His gold canine twinkled.
“There’s been trouble among the scientists. I’m not going to bullshit you. It’s getting worse. The official line is that they’re working together on a project with environmental ramifications. The truth is that each one would slit the throats of the others in order to be the first to develop whatever it is they’re trying to develop. I don’t concern myself with the specifics, and neither should you. Our job is to see that the station remains in one piece and doesn’t fall out of the sky.
“Now, some of these scientists may see you as possible allies in their games. Others may see you as enforcers. Others might not take any notice of you at all. You’ll get a sense of it pretty damn fast. I want you to remember that you are not a policeman, a judge, or a jury. If you see anything that strikes you as odd, don’t take any action. Report it to me.”
“Odd like what, sir?” asked Lance Muncie.
“Odd like a Japanese scientist roaming through the American lab module late at night. Or vice versa. Or any permutation of scientists or their technicians in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Oh.”
“You’ll get the idea pretty quickly, men. After a few days, you’ll see who’s staring daggers at who.” Tighe paused long enough to look each crewman in the eye. “I’m sure you noticed that there are several women on board. Some are Trikon scientists or technicians, others are part of the Mars Project, and a few are members of the crew. There are no rules against fraternization, but I hope you’ll use your common sense. This is a closed system. Emotions can run high even on the best of days, and there are damn few outlets for blowing off steam. I don’t care how you conduct yourselves in your spare time. But if I see your performance suffering or the safety of this station compromised, remember one thing. I’m your commanding officer, not your father. I don’t get paid for wisdom and understanding.”
The two crewmen muttered in assent, although Muncie looked plainly disturbed.
“Aviles, I understand you are a computer whiz.”
“I have a master’s in computer science from Columbia. The Navy paid my way after the accident. Wanted me to be a useful citizen.”
“The station has an emergency configuration for its computer system that makes sense only to people on the ground,” said Tighe. “We can’t shut off the mainframe without going to auxiliary power. If I get you the specs, can you reconfigure it?”
“I’m not on the ground, sir.”
“Fine. Any questions?”
Muncie’s brows knit slightly. “Sir—half the people up here are doctors, aren’t they? Are we supposed to call them that? Or what?”
Smiling, Tighe answered, “It’s all pretty informal. We call the medical officer ‘Doctor.’ Everybody else is ‘mister’ or ‘ms.’ Except the head of the Martians. He likes to be called Professor Jaeckle.”
Muncie nodded, still frowning uncertainly.
“All right. That will be all,” said Tighe.
Freddy flicked his wrists against the wall and bored like a torpedo toward the entrance to the connecting tunnel. Lance groped his way from handhold to handhold. The two new crewmen: a dour farm boy and a jive-ass Puerto Rican who had no ass.
“Muncie,” called Tighe.
Muncie stopped himself and covered the pad behind his right ear with his hand.
“Sir, if it’s about—”
“Forget it, son. I know about the pad and I know Trikon’s policy. Dr. Renoir is a good doctor. You do what she says, okay?”
Lance dragged his lip beneath his teeth and nodded.
“You graduated from the University of Kansas, right? Ever run into someone named Bill Tighe?”
Lance knit his brow as if rummaging through his memory for a face to connect with the name.
“He would have been a freshman when you were a senior,” prodded Tighe.
“No. Can’t say I did. UK’s a big place, sir.”
“Yeah. I guess it is.”
After mastering the use of the personal hygiene facilities, O’Donnell closed himself in his compartment and began to unpack. He was traveling light, even by space flight standards: socks, toothbrush, comb, and razor. No picture of a girl back home to attach to his compartment wall. No gold crucifix to drift out of his collar and dangle at the end of a thick chain. No blank minicassettes for video letters to home. Everything he needed was in his head—work, memories, dreams, and an invisible line he could not cross.
O’Donnell finished stowing his belongings and checked the time. It was early afternoon. His scientific gear was in the new logistics module and would not be accessible until the next day. He adjusted the sleep restraint, played with the reading lamp, and flipped through the selection of scenes on the viewscreen. He looked at his watch again. Four minutes had passed. The Cape began to look like paradise.
A knock on the doorframe relieved his boredom.
“Who is it?” O’Donnell pulled free of the sleep restraint and pushed toward the door, expecting either Freddy or Lance Muncie.