“Run the tape back until you reach the point where Mr. Weiss began shooting your lab,” said Bianco. “Then erase whatever offends you.”
O’Donnell ran the tape in reverse. Weiss had lingered on the plants while devoting comparatively little time to the vials and the computer. Was it coincidence? Dumb luck? Or did Weiss know exactly what he was doing? O’Donnell handed back the camera, thinking, I can’t be too careful as long as Weiss stays on board.
News traveled quickly on Trikon Station; Dan learned about the scuffle in The Bakery within minutes after it happened. He was not surprised to hear the identities of the combatants. Aaron Weiss reminded him of a yelping poodle that deserved an occasional boot in the tail. O’Donnell was restrained enough to avoid a fight unless seriously provoked. Or unless…
Dan felt terrible thinking that O’Donnell’s behavior might have been drug-induced. O’Donnell had been abused by a woman and screwed by a lawyer, just as he had. O’Donnell cared only about his work, just as he did. O’Donnell was the closest thing he had to a drinking buddy, and the irony was that they hadn’t shared a drop of liquor.
But this was Trikon Station, and in light of the Russell Cramer incident Dan had no choice but to be suspicious, no matter how distasteful it felt.
Lorraine Renoir’s office was empty, and Dan left his own door open so that he could see when she entered. Even though he was her commanding officer, he often wondered how Lorraine spent her days. There were reports to be filed and medicine to be dispensed. There were probably whole hosts of everyday complaints that he, in his intentional aloofness, failed to notice. But how else did she spend her time? What did she think about when her mind was not occupied with her work? He never knew. He always had given her a wide berth because he wanted to avoid any sort of entanglement. Now the answer to the question was easy: She was with Kurt Jaeckle. Word around the station was that they were a hot item. They spent long hours rehearsing Jaeckle’s television scripts in the rumpus room. They reserved back-to-back sessions in the observation blister. They had even jetted to the observatory so that Jaeckle could show her spectacular views of the universe.
Dan was a master at suppression, sublimination, replacing people with animals shaped from bonsai trees. So he fought down the anger and bitterness that burned in his gut by concentrating on Carla Sue Gamble’s reaction. She was one tough lady. She would not go quietly into the limbo of being an ex-lover. She was going to raise hell with Jaeckle, sooner or later. The thought almost put a smile on Tighe’s face.
A blue flight suit flashed in the entry hatch. Lorraine flew into the command module in signature fashion—sideways in relation to local vertical. She reminded Dan of an Olympic diver the way she suddenly jackknifed and sliced through the doorway into her office. With a flick of his ankles, Dan propelled himself across the module toward her. He could see Lorraine groping with her stockinged feet for a pair of foot loops as she closed the door.
Dan knocked on the frame, his face hardened with the thought of his plan and the person he was asking to effect it. Lorraine actually smiled at the sight of him. But then, as if she had picked up on his demeanor, her smile vanished. Dan noticed that her normally neat French braid looked like a frayed rope. He didn’t want to think why.
“I want to ask you something, Dr. Renoir.” He hadn’t called her Doctor in months and she seemed startled. The formality sounded strange to him, too. “I assume you will be seeing Hugh O’Donnell tomorrow.”
“As I do every day.”
“When was the last time you tested his blood?”
“What makes you think I test his blood at all?”
“I know about his past,” said Dan. “I know the reason he sees you. He’s told me. Now when was the last time you tested his blood?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“I want you to test it again.”
“Why is that, Commander?”
“I assume you heard of O’Donnell’s altercation with Aaron Weiss.”
A look of surprise crossed Lorraine’s face. She hadn’t heard. Dan coupled that with the disheveled braid and didn’t like the connotation. Everyone should have heard about the fight by now.
“Weiss poked his video camera into O’Donnell’s lab.” Dan spoke quickly so that he would not lose his train of thought. Knowing Lorraine was screwing with Jaeckle was one thing; seeing the actual signs was something else. “O’Donnell attacked him and wrestled the camera away. I want to know whether O’Donnell’s reaction was artificially induced.”
“Maybe he just was angry,” said Lorraine. “Everyone is so security conscious. It’s sickening.”
“I know. Maybe someone will develop a pill that will bring them all back to their senses. But until then, I have to deal with this situation the best way I know how.”
“I haven’t noticed any signs, either subjective or objective, that would lead me to believe that Hugh O’Donnell is using drugs,” said Lorraine.
“Neither have I,” Dan said. “But I have to be certain.”
“Are you ordering me to test him?”
“I’m asking you to indulge me.”
“I see,” said Lorraine. “By the way, Commander—it’s time for your blood pressure to be checked.”
Hisashi Oyamo floated in the middle of his sleep compartment, legs tucked under him and hands resting on his knees in the classic meditative position. Actually his hands bobbed weightlessly several inches above his knees, but the calming effect on his mind was the same.
He had just returned from his evening chess game with Ramsanjawi. Once again he had swallowed his pride and allowed the bloated Hindu to best him. That did not bother him; even the greatest warrior retreats when it is to his ultimate advantage.
No, what bothered him was Bianco and his news about the whale deaths. The old man was convinced that the plankton in the seas were dying, killed by toxic wastes. Oyamo held no special fondness for whales. Not dolphins nor any other animals. His father had been a whaler, his livelihood destroyed by the smug Americans and Europeans who had forced an end to commercial whaling twenty years earlier.
But if the plankton die, the human race dies. Japan dies. My family dies.
Oyamo sighed deeply. Am I being realistic or have I merely fallen under Bianco’s spell? The old man is a magician, surely. A great leader, even if he is not Japanese.
He sighed again. I will have to call Tokyo. I must inform them of this change in the situation. Perhaps Bianco has been right all along. Perhaps we should all be cooperating, without regard to nation or race. Perhaps the problem we face is so great that we must work together, fully and completely.
Tokyo, he knew, would not enjoy hearing that.
Long after disposing of Hisashi Oyamo in yet another chess game, Chakra Ramsanjawi stole into the dimly lit ELM. He unlocked a compartment in his office and dislodged the false wall that concealed a larger storage area behind. Attached to the sides by elastic loops were dozens of small brown bottles. Some contained fluids, others contained powders, still others tiny crystals. Ramsanjawi selected one labeled 3-methylfentanyl, another labeled lactose, and a third that was empty. Then he floated out toward the centrifuge.
In some respects, preparing a batch of designer drugs was more difficult in orbit than on Earth. In other respects, it was easier. He could not tap out a pile of powder onto a piece of glass and chop it into fine granules using a scalpel or a razor blade. That phase of preparation had to be done by the arduous use of a propeller-shaped blade rotating within a specially modified food processor. But once the drug was finely chopped, the lack of gravity assured a perfectly homogenous mix.