“The power-down is necessary,” said Tighe.
“For whom?”
Ramsanjawi pulled himself toward a cabinet so that he no longer blocked the light from Tighe. Unconsciously Tighe backed away slightly. The Indian exuded a faintly acrid body odor, subtle but unpleasant, that he tried to cover up with cloying cologne. Tighe mentally pictured a cloud of mingled vapors hovering weightlessly around Ramsanjawi’s bloated body and thought, If only he’d stay in one place long enough he might strangle on his own stink.
“Someone downloaded files from the terminal in the American module,” Tighe said.
“Is that a problem with the Americans?” said Ramsanjawi. “For shame! I thought we all were dedicated to the common good.”
“I don’t care what you do among yourselves. I don’t care if you kill each other, just as long as you do it off company property.”
“Pray tell then, Commander, why are these American files so important?”
“Because they contain a bug. Whoever tries to upload those files will crash his computer. If that bug gets into the mainframe, this power-down will look like the Fourth of July in comparison.”
A laugh bubbled in Ramsanjawi’s throat, but Tighe sensed there was precious little humor in it.
“Commander Tighe, if your power-down had not been so ill-timed your explanation would be merely pathetic. My staff and I have worked for one month”—Ramsanjawi held a stubby finger aloft—“one entire month to produce a microbe with a genetic structure capable of neutralizing seven toxic substances. Not one, not two. Seven! Just before eight o’clock this morning, we began testing the microbe in that pressure tank behind your left shoulder. Don’t bother to look, Commander. This particular microbe can survive only under prescribed conditions of temperature and pressure. Your power-down has caused one month’s work to, how shall we say—evaporate?”
His dark eyes were glittering now, betraying the fury that his smile was trying to mask.
“And now you tell me that this bold move was occasioned by a theft of some American computer files.” Ramsanjawi laughed again, and it sounded even thinner than before. “Are you intimating that I would covet the work of the American microbiologists?”
“Cut the crap, Doctor,” Tighe snapped. “I don’t give a damn what’s in those files except for that bug. I want to know whether anyone in your group stole those files. Because until I find them, the power-down will continue.”
Ramsanjawi exhaled deeply; again, Tighe backed away.
“I will question my staff,” said Ramsanjawi, “I assure you that if any one of them is responsible, he—or she—will turn over the files.”
“You know where to find me,” said Tighe. He started to move toward the hatch.
“And Commander,” said Ramsanjawi. “I would wager that anyone clever enough to download those files would be too smart to attempt to access them here.”
“I don’t have the luxury of being a betting man,” said Tighe.
The next stop was Jasmine. As Tighe and Jeffries traversed the five meters of connecting tunnel between the two entry hatches, they noticed a slight figure speeding toward them in the shadows. They pulled up to a stop. The red-suited figure floated through a band of light. Kurt Jaeckle.
It always surprised Tighe to realize how physically small Jaeckle really was. Tighe himself had the compact build of the typical fighter pilot. Jaeckle was tiny in comparison, skinny and big-domed, almost like a child. But his voice was powerful and he knew how to use it.
“Dan, what the hell is going on?” demanded Jaeckle.
“I ordered everyone to remain where they were,” Tighe said.
“I didn’t think that applied to me,” said Jaeckle. In the weak light his eyes, set deeply in his skull, were totally black pools, like a mask.
“It does.”
“Wait a second, Dan. I’m not one of Trikon’s employees.”
“You’ll be briefed when I deem it necessary,” said Tighe.
“That’s not fair. I’m responsible for eleven other people. I have a right to know the nature of this emergency and I demand to take an active role in whatever decision you intend to make.”
“Everything is under control,” said Tighe. He turned to Jeffries. “Escort Professor Jaeckle back to the Mars module.”
“I wasn’t in the Mars module. I was in the rumpus room, broadcasting a show.”
“All right, Jeff, take him to the rumpus room.”
Jeffries placed his hand on Jaeckle’s shoulder. The professor glared at Tighe but did not resist.
That’s why Jaeckle’s sore, thought Tighe as he watched the two figures fade in the tunnel. His almighty TV show was interrupted.
The Japanese contingent waited together just inside the entryway to their module. Each wore a short lab smock neatly belted at the waist and nylon pants with many pouches. The chief scientist, Hisashi Oyamo, greeted Tighe with a bow. Oyamo resembled a downsized sumo wrestler, stubby but wide in every dimension, practically no neck at all. He had a pockmarked complexion and large watery eyes that complemented the opal ring he wore on one pinkie. Ripples of fat ran up the back of his severely crewcut head.
“We are concerned about your emergency,” he said. “How may we help?”
“Well, Doctor, it seems we’ve had a theft,” said Tighe. Whenever he talked to any of the Japanese, he found himself exaggerating his natural drawl. He assumed it was an unconscious reaction to their clipped, formal manner of speech. “Seems some enterprising person downloaded a set of files from the computer in the American module. I’m not myself concerned about the guilt or innocence of any particular party. I am concerned about those files because there was a bug written into them that will jam any computer used to access it. If that bug gets into the mainframe from any of the terminals, it’ll shut the whole station down.”
“So you disconnected the terminals from the mainframe as a precautionary measure,” said Oyamo. “I understand.”
Tighe waited for more, but Oyamo floated impassively before him.
“Well, Doctor, you’re the first person who’s grasped the situation without sticking it back in my ear.”
“You have been to the European module?”
“I have.”
“Dr. Ramsanjawi was uncooperative?”
“Dr. Ramsanjawi was Dr. Ramsanjawi,” Tighe said. “He promised to let me know if anyone on his staff was responsible.”
“I will consult with my staff and inform you immediately,” said Oyamo. “If you will excuse me.”
Jeffries rejoined Tighe as the six Japanese huddled in the center of the module. “Jaeckle’s pissed, sir,” said the crewman. “He didn’t appreciate being escorted.”
“I don’t care what he did or did not appreciate.”
“He wants to lodge a formal complaint.”
“With who?”
“Beats me. Maybe you, sir. He wants to see you after the power is restored.”
“I guess I’ll see him,” said Tighe. How the hell can you avoid anyone on a space station, he added to himself.
They watched the meeting of the Japanese. Oyamo seemed to do all of the talking. The others simply listened.
“What do you think, sir?” asked Jeffries.
“I think we’re in the wrong module, if you ask me.”
Oyamo floated back toward them, his face as impassive as a blank wall. But he was unconsciously rubbing one hand across the chest of his crisp white smock.
The Japanese director deftly slipped his feet into the nearest floor loops and made a slight bow to Tighe.