“You listen to the man, eh?” he said.
Jaeckle and Skillen backed away, then sought out Bianco. The Italian listened to them and nodded, but made no move toward Dan. Yet their insistence had affected Dan. Most of the people on the station had been through the emergency power-down. Some had grumbled and some had complained, but most simply rode out the three hours of semidarkness. Today he had called them without explanation into the rumpus room. This mysterious emergency was not a power-down that would disappear after tinkering with the mainframe computer. He could not bring Aaron Weiss back to life.
Dan stopped counting heads. The people who were here deserved an immediate explanation. Then he would seek out any absentees.
“We have had a very serious and tragic incident,” he said. “Aaron Weiss, the CNN reporter who has been visiting the station, is dead.”
A current of shock coursed through the ranks. Dan could read it on their faces; stunned surprise that made eyes go wide and cheeks pale. He could hear it in the collective gasp of indrawn breath followed by the eerie silence that fell over the rumpus room. The silence deepened for a long moment. Everyone was shaken. Then a murmur rose as people whispered among themselves.
“The crew and I will be conducting an investigation until the authorities arrive,” Dan said, silencing the whispers. “We intend to keep our interference with your science projects to a minimum, but we expect your full cooperation if and when it is requested.”
Stanley, Muncie, and Lorraine entered the rumpus room. Lorraine’s nod indicated that the body had been stowed in the auxiliary airlock.
Bianco drew himself to his full height and said in a voice powerful enough for everyone to hear, “I assure you, Commandante, that the entire Trikon scientific staff will cooperate with you in every way.”
Dan nodded at the old man. “Thank you, sir.” Then he stared pointedly at Jaeckle. The chief of the Martians made no such guarantee on behalf of his people. He seemed pale, shaken.
“All right, then,” Dan said. “I am asking all of you to remain here for a few minutes longer while I report to ground control.” Dan ignored the rumble of protest, ordered Stanley and Muncie to prevent anyone from leaving the rumpus room, and waved for Freddy to follow him. He had completed his mental head count during his announcement. Seven people were missing. Six were the segregated Martians no one ever saw. The seventh was Hugh O’Donnell.
Freddy knew exactly whom they were looking for.
“We split up. Compartment and lab. Is faster, eh?”
Dan agreed. Freddy volunteered for the compartment while Dan went for the lab. Dan hoped that O’Donnell was so engrossed in his work that he hadn’t heard the announcement.
The Bakery was still in its nighttime lighting mode. A few lamps cast weak cones of light in the shadowy recesses of the module. Dan listened carefully for any sound in the darkness. None came. He pulled himself through the hatch and pressed the manual switch that operated the main column of overhead lights. The module was completely empty; the door to O’Donnell’s lab was padlocked. Dan’s stomach felt hollow with apprehension. Still, he let himself drift halfway down the aisle, then reversed direction. Before leaving for Hab 2, he took a close look at the lab door. There were two long scratch marks in the fiberglass surface adjacent to the lower hinge. The screws for that hinge seemed slightly raised as if they recently had been unseated. The screws for the upper hinge were flush.
Dan heard a metallic ping from somewhere near the floor. Instinctively, he focused on a ventilator intake and saw a shiny object adhered to the grid. Forcing himself down like a swimmer going for the bottom of the pool, he picked it off with his thumb and forefinger: a pearl button.
Dan’s apprehension swelled. He tucked the button into a pocket and shot himself through the hatch. He found Freddy in O’Donnell’s compartment. O’Donnell was in his sleep restraint. His eyes were closed and Freddy was trying to awaken him.
“What’s the problem?”
“Don’ know. He won’ wake up.”
O’Donnell moaned softly. His eyelids fluttered. His teeth were clenched down on his tongue, exposing a portion that resembled dry leather.
“Get Lorraine on the double,” said Dan. “Then head over to the rumpus room. Those scientists will be ready to riot before long.”
As Freddy flew off, Dan hurried to the personal hygiene facility and returned with a handful of towelettes. Me pressed O’Donnell’s tongue back into his mouth. O’Donnell gagged and sucked air. Dan slapped his cheeks with the towelettes. O’Donnell groaned.
“C’mon, buddy, wake up,” said Dan. Then he muttered to himself, “What the hell is going on?”
O’Donnell was still only semiconscious when Lorraine arrived. To facilitate the examination they removed him from the sleep restraint and splayed his ankles and wrists to the walls with Velcro bracelets.
“Well?” said Dan, hovering just outside the door.
Lorraine turned off the penlight she had used to examine O’Donnell’s eyes.
“Mr. O’Donnell is suffering from intoxication, most likely due to a narcotic drug.” Her voice was flat, professional. Yet Dan thought he detected a note of disappointment, almost anger.
Dan’s breath had been threatening to leave his body ever since he first realized that O’Donnell had not reported to the rumpus room. Now it escaped in a rush.
“Are you sure?”
“Look, Dan, I know O’Donnell is your friend. I’ve actually grown quite fond of him myself recently. But by all outward signs, the causative factor is a drug. His breathing and heart rates are low. His reactions are dulled. His speech, when he does speak, is slurred. There are no visible wounds on his body. And we’re both aware of his history. The fact that he was found in his sleep restraint means that he probably ingested the drug just prior to retiring.”
“Any idea when that may have been?”
Lorraine shook her head.
“But if it is a narcotic,” said Dan, “wouldn’t there be some sign?”
“Like needle tracks?” said Lorraine. “They aren’t that obvious. Besides, there are other ways to ingest drugs.”
She attached a needle to a syringe.
“What are you going to do?” said Dan.
“Give you the benefit of a doubt. I’ll test his blood.”
“How long will it take?”
“I’ll have the results before he’s fully awake.”
Lorraine was better than her word. Within fifteen minutes she sailed through the hatch with tightened lips. Dan did not have to ask; he knew the results were positive.
“Three-methyl-fentanyl,” she said.
“What the hell is that?”
“An analog of fentanyl, which is synthetic heroin. Far more potent and much longer lasting than the real stuff.”
Dan gripped a handhold, as if he could draw strength from the frame of the station. The evidence that was quickly mounting against O’Donnell seemed overwhelming: the previous fight with Weiss, absence from the nightly game of darts, the missing button stuck to the ventilator grid outside the lab, O’Donnell’s drugged condition. A logical conclusion was that O’Donnell had encountered Weiss at his lab—perhaps in the act of trying to gain entry—killed him during a struggle, hid the body, then concocted an alibi by filling himself with this 3-methyl-fentanyl crap. Or maybe he was already on the stuff when he ran into Weiss at his lab.
What did he really know about O’Donnell? Who knew what he was doing in his lab? He could have cooked up the drugs himself. Maybe he was some sort of special agent sent to test the effects of illicit drugs in space. After all, hadn’t Russell Cramer’s problems mushroomed once O’Donnell arrived?