“What are you driving at?” said Bianco.
“I don’t give a good goddamn who holds title to that aluminum shitcan. It’s crewed by Americans. It’s maintained by a support system based in the United States. And if any accidents happen up there, you can blame the Americans.”
“Are you suggesting—”
“I’m suggesting you don’t push me,” said Welch.
Was this Welch really saying that the station would be destroyed if Trikon refused to cooperate? The thought raised a pinch of angina beneath Bianco’s breastbone.
“Do either of you know about this?” demanded Bianco. He held up a handful of galley pages. “’A Chemical Assessment of Ocean Pollution and Its Long-Term Effects on Marine Flora’. Do you have any idea how serious this is? For everyone?”
Eldredge started to make placating sounds, but Welch cut him off.
“We know all about it,” he said. “We are both doing important work, Professor. Unfortunately, there is only one station suited to both our tasks. You will have to work around O’Donnell. And don’t try to interfere with him during your visit. He is being supervised.”
The images disappeared.
Bianco stared at the suddenly blank screen. Mother of God, he thought, even Trikon Station is not beyond the grasp of an overreaching government. A stab of angina sent him crumpling into a chair. It was more necessary now than ever to journey to the station, for himself and for Trikon.
“Where the hell have you been?”
The connection was poor. Bob Rodriguez sounded as though he were speaking through a plastic bag.
“Working,” said O’Donnell.
“You’ve been working ever since I’ve known you,” said Rodriguez. “But you hardly ever missed a meeting, and when you did you called.”
“Isn’t that easy.”
“Where the hell are you that you can’t call? The clubhouse has a speakerphone. You installed it yourself.”
“I know, I know,” said O’Donnell. “Can you keep a secret?”
“That’s all I fuckin’ do,” said Rodriguez.
“I’m on a space station,” said O’Donnell. There was a long silence from the other end. “Bob?”
“Hugh, if you’re having problems, the club can help. That’s what it’s for.”
“This is no joke. I’m not in trouble. I’m on a fucking space station.”
“Doing what?”
“Working.”
“I didn’t know you were an astronaut.”
“Neither did I.”
“So what’s it like?”
“Weird,” said O’Donnell. “Some people handle it. Some don’t. A guy completely snapped today. He thought the station was burning up. He wrecked part of a module and beat up another guy.”
“That just happened out of the blue?”
“Nothing just happens, Bob. The rumor is that he suffered from Orbital Dementia. That’s a high-tech version of cabin fever.”
“You don’t like being shut in.”
“You’re right. But somehow I don’t mind it here. I actually feel content. Maybe it’s my work.”
“Is there any sort of therapy for you there?”
“Yes, Mother Bob. I report to the medical officer every morning. I talk. She threatens to draw my blood. It’s very therapeutic.”
“A she, huh? Nicer than looking at our mugs.”
“She’s a bitch. Cuts me no slack.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Rodriquez. “You had a strange visitor the other day. A woman named Stacey. She said you owed her money. Wanted to know if your bike was around. Said she had a court order said she could take it.”
“Did you give it to her?”
“They need something stronger than a fuckin’ court order for me to sell out a club member,” Rodriguez snarled. “One funny thing, she called you by the name Jack O’Neill.”
“She probably made a mistake. O’Neill, O’Donnell, all those names sound the same.”
“Nope. Described you to a T.”
“Did you tell her anything?”
“I was so confused—”
“Bob, did you tell her anything?”
“You know the rules. Nobody divulges anything about any club member.”
“Damn right. Now if she comes back, you don’t know me or this Jack O’Neill. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Rodriquez. There was a long silence. “Why don’t you call in during a meeting sometime? Sounds like you might need some support.”
“Bob, I’m on a space station! You think there are extraterrestrial dope dealers hiding outside the airlocks looking to making a sale?”
“All right. Just don’t kill yourself.”
“Thanks for the advice, pal.”
O’Donnell hung up the phone and made a beeline to the ex/rec area. Goddamn that Stacey! How the hell did she find him? Where did she get the balls to go nosing around the club? For the bike. The goddamn bike. Couldn’t she just leave everything the hell alone?
He grunted a curt greeting to Dan Tighe and yanked his set of darts from a compartment. He tossed his first round quickly, completely missing the board with two of his three shots.
“Something wrong?” asked Dan as he chased a tumbling dart through the exercise equipment.
“No. Does it look like something’s wrong?” O’Donnell snapped. He shot himself toward the dart board, striking the far wall with a thump. Chakra Ramsanjawi raised his eyes from his eternal chess game.
“What the hell are you staring at?” snapped O’Donnell.
“Easy, Hugh,” Dan said. “I already had to rope one psychotic today.”
Dan’s jaw was swollen from his struggle with Russell Cramer. His fists were knobbed with jagged knuckles that reminded O’Donnell of spikes on a medieval mace. They could do some damage.
“Sorry,” said O’Donnell.
Ramsanjawi laughed and removed Oyamo’s rook.
O’Donnell calmed as the dart game began in earnest. There was none of the usual banter, and Dan was content to let the silence linger. O’Donnell seemed intent on some inner struggle, going through the motions of the dart game mechanically while his mind fought its battle on its own interior landscape. Dan hoped that O’Donnell was gathering himself for a revelation. He didn’t want to disturb the process.
O’Donnell knew that relating the conversation with Bob Rodriguez could open up a facet of his life he should keep buried at all costs. But sometimes you couldn’t go it alone. Sometimes you just had to get things off your chest.
“Stacey,” he finally said. “My old girlfriend. Every time I try to get past her, she stirs something up.”
“You want to go back with her?” said Dan.
“Hell no! I want to fucking kill her!” O’Donnell said in an intense semiwhisper. “See, after my money problems began, but before Stacey went off with Pancho Weinstein, I wanted to buy a motorcycle. I couldn’t put it in my name because I had lost my license and couldn’t get insurance. So I put it in Stacey’s name. I left it with a friend when I came up here. I just got off the phone with him. He said Stacey came looking for it the other day, saying I owed her money.”
“Pancho Weinstein the lawyer?” asked Dan. Talking with O’Donnell was like piecing together a puzzle.
“You have a damn good memory,” said O’Donnell. “Stacey doesn’t want the money. What the hell could they get for my bike? Eight hundred? A grand? But Stacey knows that the bike is my salvation. That’s why she wants it.”
“How is a bike your salvation?”
O’Donnell looked at Dan as if he had lost his train of thought.
“You just said your bike is your salvation,” said Dan.
“I did? Oh, well obviously you haven’t ridden up the Pacific Coast. Highway on a bike.”