Ramsanjawi first spun the fentanyl to be certain that the grains had not clumped together since he had chopped them several days earlier. Then he added a precise amount of the drug to a precise amount of lactose and spun the mix in the third bottle for several minutes.
It was not possible, in microgravity, to simply pour the liquid out of the bottle. The bottle was designed with a piston inside it to force the weightless liquids into a microgravity vial of tempered glass. Otherwise Ramsanjawi would have had to use a syringe to suck its contents out.
Precise proportions were essential. Designer drugs were so much more potent than their naturally occurring analogs that the slightest mistake in synthesizing or the slightest error in cutting could result in a totally different drug capable of producing unintended, even deadly side effects. Ramsanjawi had seen this firsthand.
One night, just before Ramsanjawi was to depart for Trikon Station, Sir Derek called a meeting of the entire group he had recruited for his project. The Lancashire lads, as Sir Derek called his Earthside lab workers, were present, as were the various messengers and henchmen Sir Derek thought were necessary. Early in the meeting, Sir Derek asked Ramsanjawi to create an opiate from a batch of chemicals present in the room. Ramsanjawi obliged. Toward the end of the meeting, a burly fellow named Meade dragged in the cringing and dirty figure of an emaciated young man. Sir Derek explained to the group that the man was a “volunteer” from one of the local flophouses “who would not be missed.” He had consented to help demonstrate the power of one of Ramsanjawi’s concoctions.
Sir Derek boiled the opiate over a burner while Meade stripped the man naked. The group muttered nervously among themselves, puzzled by what they were about to witness. Sir Derek filled a syringe with the liquefied drug. Not all of it, said Ramsanjawi, not all of it. But Sir Derek turned a deaf ear. He jammed the needle into the man’s elbow vein and shot home the entire load.
Meade stepped back. The man stood completely still for a moment, as if listening for a faint sound. Then he began to shake. He fell to the floor, a fountain of urine arcing out of his penis, a flow of wet feces erupting from his anus. He thrashed in his own excrement, his eyes bulging, his tongue flapping, his face turning blue. Then he collapsed in upon himself and lay motionless.
“I trust all of you will honor our commitment,” said Sir Derek. Then he ordered Meade to scrape up the body.
This time, the situation was far more delicate. O’Donnell or O’Neill or whoever he might be was not a starving derelict. He was a man of science, like himself. The method of delivering the drug would be tricky, but Ramsanjawi would find a way. O’Donnell was an ex-addict; he might even enjoy the ride. But Ramsanjawi did not want to kill him. That would never do. O’Donnell might prove useful later.
The presence of Aaron Weiss was a propitious sign. For all his scientific pretension, the man still had the mentality of a tabloid reporter. He would bite at the worm of sensationalism.
Ramsanjawi shut down the centrifuge and returned with the bottle to his office. He chuckled at the thought of a neat little irony. Druggies and tabloid reporters had driven him from his rightful station in England. Now the chance encounter between an ex-druggie and an ex-tabloid reporter would lead him back.
30 AUGUST 1998
TRIKON STATION
BASILIO INVESTIGATIVE SERVICE
P.O. Box 127 Annapolis, Maryland 21401
MEMO TO FILE
CLIENT: C.S. Gamble SUBJECT: Kurt Jaeckle
August 27, 1998, 11:15 a.m.—Spoke to a Mrs. LaVerne Nelson, who worked as housekeeper for subject and his first wife from 1986 through 1988. At first she was reluctant to talk to me, thinking that I was gathering information for a news article or book about the subject. When I explained the real reason for my inquiries, she became very talkative as if she was happy to find someone with a similar opinion on the subject.
Mrs. Nelson informed me of her belief that the real reason for the breakup of the subject’s first marriage was not “irreconcilable differences.” She claims the subject raped his eldest daughter, probably more than once, when she was twelve years old.
August 27, 1998, 2:30 P.M.—Went to the Anne Arundel Courthouse in order to review the court file on subject’s divorce from his first wife. Was informed that these files were sealed by court order immediately upon the entry of the divorce judgment. At present, I am unable to verify Mrs. Nelson’s allegations and must regard them as hearsay.
Dinner had been unusually quiet for Aaron Weiss. The two Martians with whom he shared a table spoke to each other in hushed tones, ignoring him. It’s like they’re really Martians, Weiss grumbled to himself, and they don’t want anything to do with an Earthling.
When they left, no one took their places. Weiss finished his meal alone and groped his way out of the wardroom, feeling distinctly like a leper.
His mood changed as soon as he reached his compartment. Wedged into the door was an envelope. There was something primitive about this method of communication in the midst of the station’s high-tech ambience. But Weiss quickly forgot the irony when he read the note inside.
I have reconsidered my refusal to consent to an interview. I will be at your disposal in the European Lab Module at 2200 hours. Feel free to bring your camera.
Weiss could hear the Indian’s singsong manner of speech in the serpentine style of the handwriting. He was surprised by the invitation. During dinner, he had come to the conclusion that his fight with Hugh O’Donnell had resulted in the station’s scientific community hardening against him. Now the one scientist he had considered least likely to talk was consenting to an interview. These bright boys sure are an unpredictable bunch, thought Weiss.
He swam into ELM at the appointed time, moving cautiously from handhold to handhold, his innards braced against the slight hint of nausea he had felt that morning. The threat of sickness bothered him more than the real thing; he almost wished his guts would get the damned job done, upchuck and have it over with. Almost.
Ramsanjawi was alone, floating at a workstation halfway down the length of the module. His billowing saffron kurta was a brilliant contrast to the salmon-and-gray color scheme. Weiss noticed a flash of the eyes in Ramsanjawi’s dark face and thought he heard laughter echoing off the aluminum walls. He pulled himself closer. Ramsanjawi was staring at a centrifuge.
“Good evening, Mr. Weiss,” Ramsanjawi said without turning around. “I am delighted you accepted my invitation.”
Barely noticing the man’s overly sweet, perfumed scent, Weiss said, “I was happy to receive it. Surprised, too.”
“Why were you surprised?”
“You didn’t exactly lay out the red carpet for me when I came in here with Bianco this morning,” said Weiss, drifting farther away from the Indian. “And after my fight with Hugh O’Donnell, I assumed no one would talk to me. Least of all you.”
Ramsanjawi nodded at each of Weiss’s reasons, then dismissed them with a laugh that blended perfectly with the whir of the centrifuge.
“I will explain why I have once again decided to break ranks with my brethren,” he said.
The centrifuge kicked off and Ramsanjawi reached inside to free a vial from the arm. The vial contained a liquid that shaded from aquamarine to deep blue in four distinct bands. Ramsanjawi motioned Weiss to the adjacent workstation, where a stoppered beaker was secured in a metal rack.