Weiss gathered himself into the corner again. He had performed several routine micro-gee tasks since boarding the station, but had not imagined loosening four screws could be a major project. The problem suddenly seemed obvious: the screwdriver imparted its torque to the object providing the least resistance.
Weiss cast a quick glance out the hatch before resuming. The connecting tunnel was still empty. He returned to the hinge, anchored himself in the loops, and this time braced himself with his back against the forward bulkhead. He applied a shot of power; the screw turned slightly. Aha! He adjusted himself for leverage and shot again. The screw rose out of its hole. Worried that it would fly free, he performed the last few turns with his thumb and forefinger, then discovered that the screw was tethered to the hinge by a fine plastic wire that revealed itself only on the very last turn. These astronauts thought of everything.
The second screw came out quickly. He pulled the hinge away from the frame, leaving its other half still attached to the accordion door itself.
The loose hinge allowed some play in the door. Weiss pulled it back enough to see inside. The leaves of the plants floated in the strong beams of the lamps. Some of the leaves were shiny, almost waxy; others were curled, drooping, their edges brown.
He went to work on the top hinge. As he removed the first screw, he thought he heard a sound in the back of the module. Dismissing it as the groaning of The Bakery’s walls, he turned his attention to the last screw. The blade of his screwdriver never reached the slot.
The blow to his neck hurt for only an instant. In the split second before darkness fell, the chemicals of his brain formed an illogical memory. He was a boy, climbing a tree toward a nest that held three blue robin’s eggs. As he reached out his hand, the branch beneath him snapped.
3 SEPTEMBER 1998
TRIKON STATION
WASHINGTON, D.C. (UPI)—Democrats in Congress garnered enough votes last night to override a Presidential veto of the controversial foreign aid bill. The bill, as originally submitted to the President, indefinitely suspended all foreign aid to Bolivia, based on its failure to eradicate 100 million acres of coca-producing fields in 1997.
Aid to Bolivia reached a high point of $200 million in 1993. Virtually half of the aid went to equipment and training for security forces and cash subsidies for farmers. Farmers received onetime payments of $2,000 for every 2.47 acres on which coca plants had been eliminated. Continuation of the aid in subsequent years was conditioned upon the Bolivian government certifying that acreage quotas had been met.
Earlier this year, the DEA reported widespread fraud in the subsidy program. Farmers reportedly pocketed the subsidies, then returned their acreage to coca production with the complicity of local officials.
In 1995, Bolivia ranked second to Peru in world coca production. It has been estimated that production in 1995 yielded $2 billion, one-quarter of which circulated the country in the form of hard currency. National foreign-exchange earnings for the same year totaled $500 million.
In vetoing the foreign aid bill, the President urged that suspending aid to Bolivia would be tantamount to creating an official safe haven for international drug traffickers. In pleading for the override, both the Senate Majority Leader and the Speaker of the House stated that the American public could no longer afford to pay for another nation’s corruption.
—The Washington Post, 2 September 1998
Sleep came in fits for Lance. Each time he awoke he felt the pattering of his heart and sensed with animal certainty that something evil was pursuing him. He tacked about from module to module like an animated chess piece. His thoughts, even when he was certain he was awake, were as disjointed as dreams. He saw himself as a child, his head hanging in the chipped enamel bedpan his mother kept under his bed. He saw the toothy face of Dr. J. Edward Moorhouse perched atop a pair of tiny shoulders, his long arms sweeping down beneath the folds of his purple robe, his scaly hands cold on Lance’s stomach.
“There is evil in this place,” intoned Moorhouse.
He saw Becky on the moonlit porch on her farmhouse, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted as her face curved up toward his. Before their lips could meet, a hand wrenched him away and cast him down into a large enamel tub of putrid-smelling vomit. He tried to pull himself out, but a horde of gnomes with blistered skin fought him back with pitchforks.
“Man has tried to be God,” gibbered Moorhouse from afar. “But he has created devils.”
Lance sloshed to the other side of the tub, his mouth choking with the stink. The gnomes rushed to head him off, stabbing at him with their pitchforks. Lance grabbed one of the gnomes by the neck and squeezed until he felt the tiny bones crumble between his hands. He flung the limp body at the others and they retreated. Using every remaining ounce of his strength, Lance vaulted over the side. He plummeted through a cold dark void. Above him, a tiny Trikon Station spun like a wobbly top between the huge eyes of Dr. J. Edward Moorhouse.
“The woman is weak, Lance. But you are strong. You are strong.”
Lance awoke with a start. Gradually, he realized that he was in the logistics module, safely nested among empty science-supply canisters and secured by a sleep restraint jerry-rigged out of his belt and shirt. He fumbled for a breath mint. As it melted on his tongue, he released himself from the restraint and peered over the top of his nest. It was morning; the connecting tunnel was brightly lit through the entry hatch. He hastily donned his shirt and hitched his belt around his waist. Speed was all-important. He wanted to be well into the day’s routine before anyone tried to talk to him. Freddy. Carla Sue. Commander Tighe. Anyone.
Lance started to disassemble his protective nest. As he pushed the canisters aside, one of the lids popped open. For a moment, the face that floated out seemed perfectly normal. The eyes were open and the lips were drawn back in a smile. It was only when he saw the purplish indentation on the side of Aaron Weiss’s neck that reality set in.
Lance tilted his head back to scream. All that came out was a torrent of bile.
Freddy Aviles guarded the entry hatch. The Aussie crewman Stanley carefully, almost gently, pulled the contorted body of Aaron Weiss from the aluminum canister into which it had been crammed. Lorraine Renoir hovered close by, dictating medical observations into a minicassette recorder.
“Let’s have that again,” Dan said to Lance. His face looked as grim as death itself.
“I was doing a routine inspection of the supply cylinders,” said Lance. “I had to move some canisters around. I accidentally bumped the latch and it opened.”
“You were working at this hour?”
“I know, sir, it’s early. I skipped breakfast. I haven’t been very hungry lately.”
“I see.” Dan assumed that Carla Sue Gamble was the reason for Lance’s loss of appetite. He made no comment. The affairs of his crewmen’s hearts paled in comparison to the discovery of Weiss’s body.