He thought for a moment that he should have asked the crewman why he was there. But Lorraine was waiting for him in the observation blister and Muncie looked too glowering, too bellicose, to speak to without an argument erupting. Tighe’s probably sent him in here on some pretext or other. I’ll speak to the commander about it. Later.
He rapped on the hatch and Lorraine swiftly opened it for him. Putting on his highest-wattage smile, Jaeckle entered the observation blister.
Lorraine was not smiling. She backed away from his reaching arms.
“There’s no easy way to say this, Kurt.” Her voice was tense, her hands knotted into tight little fists.
“To say what?” he asked, gliding toward her.
“We’re finished,” Lorraine blurted. “It’s over.”
Jaeckle felt his breath catch in his throat. Finished? She’s telling me it’s over?
As she finally pushed herself away from the biochemistry bench, Carla Sue realized she was playing a losing game. Wearily she nodded farewell to the other late workers and headed back to her compartment in Hab 1. Even though she had spent two extra hours on the soil samples she could still find nothing to confirm Russ Cramer’s supposed discovery.
Worse than that, she was no closer to her goal of penetrating the arrogant, self-absorbed psyche that encased Kurt Jaeckle like a suit of armor than she had been when she first tried to seduce Lance Muncie. Her failure was not for lack of effort. She had spent every possible minute of the last three days in Lance’s dubious company. They ate meals together, exercised in tandem, and spent a well-advertised double session in the observation blister.
The rumor mill, which Carla Sue knew to be more efficient than the station’s computer system, seized on this morsel of gossip with its usual speed. Her fellow Martians whistled when she floated to the biochemistry workstation in the Mars module. Trikon techs smirked when they passed her in the connecting tunnel. Freddy Aviles peered out of the labyrinth of cylinders in the logistics module and flashed a smile dripping with forbidden knowledge.
Everyone on the station noticed—except Kurt Jaeckle.
Carla Sue’s resolve was beginning to ebb. Her choice of Lance seemed more blunder than brilliance. There was something weird about Lance Muncie. It was as if there were actually two of him: he was awkward, reticent, almost afraid to be alone with her—until she touched his body. Anywhere. Then he exploded in a passion of animal fury that left her gasping and a little frightened. Lance was a big guy; when he threw away his self-control he could hurt you.
Other than those wild bursts of ardor he was as dull as a wheat field. No, not dull, exactly. No matter how boring his conversation, or lack of it, there was always something lurking just beneath the surface—something scary.
I’ve created a Frankenstein, Carla Sue said to herself, trying to make light of her predicament. But then she thought of how Kurt must be laughing at her behind her back. That she could not tolerate.
Carla Sue finally reached her compartment. She slipped inside, but kept the door open a crack to peer down toward the aft end of Hab 1. Kurt Jaeckle would be coming down this way, heading for his own compartment. Carla Sue hoped he had nothing important planned for the rest of the day. She didn’t expect he would be able to concentrate once she finished with him.
Within minutes Jaeckle floated into view. Carla Sue pulled back her door. “Oh, there you are, Kurt.”
“Hello, Carla Sue,” he replied. He trailed his fingertips along the opposite door as if wondering whether he should stop. “I understand you want to see me.”
“I certainly do.”
“Well, I’m on my way back to the module,” he said.
“This’ll only take a minute.”
Jaeckle eyed her up and down, then looked past her as if suspicious of her intentions, wondering if she had already found out that his affair with Lorraine was finished. She was fully clothed and her compartment appeared to be in order. Satisfied that she was not bent on seduction, he decided to grant her a minute, no more. He turned his body to face her wide-open door, and pushed himself inside.
Carla Sue closed the door behind him. She switched on the viewscreen and turned up the stereo. Snow swirled on a New England countryside to the strains of Leroy Anderson’s “Sleighride.”
Jaeckle frowned with sudden suspicion. “Why do we need music?” he asked.
“You’ll understand the reason,” said Carla Sue. “I wanted to talk to you about LaVerne Nelson.”
“Who the hell’s that?”
“LaVerne Nelson was your housekeeper during your first marriage,” said Carla Sue. “I’ve been in contact with her. Not directly, through a private investigator. I know all about her role in your divorce proceedings.”
Jaeckle blinked several times, rapidly. Then he reached over and turned up the volume of the stereo.
“LaVerne Nelson is a pathological liar,” he said, leaning closer to Carla Sue to be heard over the cheerful music. “I fired her for stealing.”
“I don’t doubt that’s true, Kurt. But there is the small matter of the deposition she gave before you and your first wife decided to settle your differences out of court.”
“A deposition by a liar and a thief is not the most believable document in the world,” said Jaeckle. His lower lip quivered slightly. “Besides, that deposition is sealed by court order. I insisted on it.”
“Well, my investigator tells me that LaVerne’s memory is still very fresh. And she’s still in need of a few dollars.”
“Carla Sue, this is a poor way of getting attention.”
“I don’t want your attention, Kurt. I decided that long ago. I just don’t want you to forget me.”
“Forget you?” he said, summoning a smarmy smile onto his face. “How can I forget the times we had? The Cape. Do you think I could forget the time we—”
“You fool!” Carla Sue snapped. “I don’t give a damn about that sentimental guff. I want you to remember me when it comes to Mars.”
Carla Sue knew that Jaeckle regarded himself as the sole deed holder to Mars. Everyone else, even his colleagues in the Mars project, were squatters. Her statement had the desired effect: Jaeckle’s phony warmth was transmuted to a more authentic iciness.
“What do you mean?” he asked, like a professor quizzing a student.
“I want to take over Russ Cramer’s position, now that he’s gone. And when it comes time to pick the team for the first mission to Mars, I want to be the chief biochemist.”
Jaeckle had been unconsciously backing away from her. He thumped against the closed door; he could retreat no further.
“The standards for the real Mars crew will be very high,” he said, trying to regain his dignity.
“No they won’t, and you damn well know it,” said Carla Sue. “They’ll be just as cockamamy as they were for this project. Carla Sue Gamble in space? You thought that was funny at first, didn’t you? But I’m here. And now that I’ve come this far I’m going all the way.”
“Your work will have to…”
“Never mind my work! It’s good enough, we both know that. I want to be on the first team and you’re going to make damned certain that I am.”
“Carla, I won’t have the power to select the actual Mars team.”
“You know, you’re probably right,” said Carla Sue. “You won’t have any power at all once people start seeing your face plastered over every supermarket checkout in the country. I don’t think anyone would want a man who raped his own daughter to plant the flag on Mars.”