“How’s that?” A jolt of almost electrical intensity surged through Lance.
“We’ve screwed up the environment of Earth,” Weiss explained, looking surprised at Lance’s ferocious stare. “Now we have the chance to play God.”
“Play God?” Something started churning inside Lance, an echo that reverberated with the guilty pleasures of the previous night.
“What these scientists are doing is altering the genes of common microbes so that they’ll devour toxic wastes. They’re creating new forms of life in the labs here instead of waiting for them to develop naturally. That’s kind of like playing God, don’t you think?”
“They’re doing that here?” Lance looked surprised.
“What do you think all those tubes of colored liquids are? Oil paints?”
Lance swallowed bile. Trying to keep a calm appearance, he answered, “Well, like I said, all I’m concerned about is keeping the station flying. Anything else is none of my business.”
“What about industrial espionage?” asked Weiss.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Spying,” said Weiss. “This superbug is a very valuable little animal, you know. Or is it a vegetable? Anyway, someone might want to steal if for himself. What if you, as a crewman, witnessed a theft. What would you do?”
“I’m supposed to report it to Commander Tighe,” said Lance, still shaking inside. “Those are the only orders we have.”
“That’s an awfully laid-back attitude, considering the nature of the project and its potential value.”
“Commander Tighe says we’re not policemen, or judges or juries, either.”
“Is that why you were installing a security system the other night?”
Lance was confused. The other night was ages ago.
“In the Jap module. You and Freddy Aviles were there working on something when I wandered in.”
“Oh, that night,” said Lance. “That was no security system. See, Freddy’s a computer whiz, so Commander Tighe is having him reconfigure the station’s computer system. I don’t know much about it myself. I just hold the tools and—”
“Lance!”
Freddy Aviles sailed through the entry hatch with his usual acrobatic flair.
“Hi, Freddy,” said Lance.
Freddy ignored Lance and spoke directly to Weiss.
“You have a phone call in the command module.”
“I do? Male or female?”
“A guy named Ed Yablon.”
“Oh, him,” said Weiss. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”
“I ain’t goin’ there, and he don’ sound like he got a minute.”
“Bureau chiefs!” said Weiss with mock exasperation. “I’m going. Thanks for the tour, Lance.”
Lance nodded silently. Freddy stared at Weiss until well after he had disappeared into the connecting tunnel.
“What was he doin’ here?” Freddy asked.
“Nothing. He just wanted to see the logistics module.”
“What was he askin’ about me?”
“Nothing.”
“I heard you mention my name.”
“He thought we were installing a security system that night in Jasmine. I told him you were reconfiguring the station’s computer system because you were a computer whiz.”
Freddy stroked the thin strands of black hair that waved on his chin.
“That it?” he said.
“That’s it,” said Lance, confused by Freddy’s reaction to such an innocent conversation. “He was here only about five minutes. He did most of the talking.”
“Anything else he want to know?”
“About spies and the research project. I told him it was none of our business.”
Freddy stared at the hatchway as if expecting Weiss to return.
“Freddy,” Lance said. “Last night. I got to tell you what happened.”
“Save it, Lance,” said Freddy as he launched himself toward the connecting tunnel.
Lance hung in the middle of the logistics module, alone, surrounded by mute canisters and gleaming pipes, knowing that what he had done with Carla Sue was terribly wrong. Playing the devil in the Garden of Eden. That’s what Weiss called it. And he was right. Lance knew he was right.
Lance knew one other fact. He wanted Carla Sue. Wrong or not, he wanted her with a desperate physical ache that hurt so much it was pleasure.
“What the hell are you doing up there?” screamed Ed Yablon. “I haven’t heard a goddamn word from you.”
“Easy, Ed,” said Weiss into the phone. “It took me a while to feel my way around up here.”
“Feel your way around? Where the hell are you? Goddamn New York City?”
“There’s a very complicated social and professional structure on the station. I’ve had to weave my way through it to find the most reliable sources.”
“Cut the crap, Aaron. When do I get the first report?”
“Not for a while.”
“Aaron, if this is another of your goddamn schemes, I’ll make sure you never come back.” Yablon’s voice was never sweet, even face-to-face. Over the phone connection it sounded sandpaper rough.
“Listen to me, Ed. I came up here looking for one thing and I think I found something else, something much bigger.”
“Stop talking in generalities.”
“I can’t. These are unsecured phone channels. All I can say is I’m worming my way to the core.”
“When the hell are you going to get there?”
“Soon.”
“This better be worth the wait, Aaron.”
“This is big, Ed.”
Even the poor connection could not mask Ed Yablon’s sigh of exasperation. “Everything is big with you. If you’re not the death of me, I’m going to see that it’s written on your grave.”
“You’re a bundle of laughs, Ed. Is Zeke there?”
“I’m in his office. He’s the only one around here who goddamn knew how to reach you.”
Zeke Tucker took the phone and stalled until Yablon left the office.
“What did you get?” Weiss asked impatiently.
“Number One,” said Zeke. “The BBC sent us a taped report in 1985. Subject was implicated in an Oxford University drug scandal. Nothing ever was proven, but the university was very sensitive to its own reputation and dismissed him from the faculty.”
“What types of drugs?”
“Designers,” said Tucker. “Bunch of chemical names.”
“Interesting,” said Weiss. “What about Number Two?”
“Wait till you hear this one…”
Even Weiss, the old tabloid reporter, was shocked by the story.
“Who’s your source?”
“A P.I. up in Maryland. Claims he was working for one of Number Two’s recently jilted lovers. She stiffed him on his fee and he shopped it around the media to cut his losses. Nobody wants to use it, though, ’cause he can’t provide anything more’n hearsay.”
“That’s a real humdinger.”
“It’s hearsay, Aaron,” said Tucker.
“Yeah. A guy like that would probably go screaming to a lawyer.”
“Sort of reminds you of the old days, don’t it?”
Stu Roberts fingered the keypad of his hand-held computer. He had stored the data in a secured file and now was having difficulty gaining entry. Looming above Roberts, Chakra Ramsanjawi sighed impatiently. The Indian’s sleep compartment felt small and fumingly hot.
“Be cool, man, I’ll get it,” said Roberts, perspiring.
Ramsanjawi smirked. He was growing tired of Roberts’s jive talk. It made a bad combination with incompetence.
“Dig it,” said Roberts as data played across the tiny screen. “Okay, O’Donnell works an average of three hours in his lab before breakfast. He eats at oh-eight-hundred hours, returns to Hab Two to brush his teeth, then reports to Dr. Renoir at 0830 hours. He does this every day. The amount of time with Dr. Renoir usually runs from five to ten minutes, but today it was close to a half hour. When he returns to his lab, he works an average of four hours before lunch. The actual time doesn’t deviate by more than a minute or two. After lunch, he stops at his compartment, goes to the Whit, then returns to his lab by fourteen hundred hours. Not much deviation there, either.”