Ignoring her implication, he muttered, “I’d like to put him down. Literally.”
“He’s still not going for the rendezvous flight?” Jo asked.
“He won’t even sign a memo about it.”
“Well, it is a long shot,” she said.
“We’re here to make contact with an intelligent extraterrestrial visitor, and you talk about long shots?”
“You take everything so seriously,” Jo said, reaching up to tap a fingertip against the end of his nose. “Relax. Loosen up. We’re here, we might as well enjoy it.”
He brushed her hand away as he would swipe at an annoying insect. “We’re here to make contact with that spacecraft.”
“I know that.”
“How’s it going to look if we let the damned thing get away from us?”
“We won’t,” Jo said.
“You’ve got it all figured out, do you?”
“No.” She shook her head. “But I know you. You’ll figure it out, one way or another. You’ll make Mac look good doing it, too.”
“And it won’t hurt your career, either, will it?”
“Why do you think I’m here?”
“Because Mac brought you with him,” Stoner snapped.
For an instant she looked sad, betrayed. “If you only knew,” she said softly.
“You’ll have to tell me about it sometime. Or better yet, put it into your résumé. It’ll impress the hell out of NASA.”
“Keith, you can be a real sonofabitch when you want to be, you know that?”
“It’s the heat. It’s got me down.”
“Go to hell.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t already rewritten your resume. I know the way your ambitious little brain works.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. I can see it now, right up on the top of the page, where you list your accomplishments: ‘Research assistant, Project JOVE. Worked with elite international research team, in top-priority program to establish first contact with intelligent extraterrestrial life form.’ ”
With a satisfied smile, Jo said, “Sounds terrific. How many girls can include that in their curriculum vitae?”
“I thought you wanted to be called women, not girls.”
“I can say girls,” Jo answered. “You have to call us women.”
“Yeah,” he said tightly. “Figures.”
Her face serious, Jo asked, “Keith, you’re not still sore at me, are you?”
“Are you still sleeping with Big Mac?”
“Oh, Christ! You’ll never figure it out, will you?”
“I’ve already figured you out, Jo.”
Her fists clenched in frustration, she said, “I don’t give a damn about Mac! Don’t you understand that?”
“Of course I understand that,” he said, icy calm, frigid with anger. “That’s what makes it so goddamned rotten.”
She started to reply, hesitated, let her hands drop to her sides. Without another word, Jo brushed past him and continued on her way toward the administration building.
Toward McDermott, Stoner told himself, as he stood alone in the middle of the dusty street and watched her walk away from him.
Chapter 22
Jo shivered in the darkness. As she unhooked her bra and slid her panties down her long legs, she asked McDermott, “Why do you keep it so cold in here?”
From the bed, his bullfrog’s voice croaked, “So that you’ll have to huddle close to me to stay warm.”
She was glad that he kept the lights off and the drapes pulled tightly across the trailer’s windows. He couldn’t see the expression on her face. The damned bunk’s not big enough for a fatass like him by himself, Jo grumbled silently, let alone the two of us.
Still, she padded over to the bunk, pulled the covers aside and squirmed onto the few inches of tough rubbery mattress beside Big Mac. This is ruining my back, Jo thought.
“And how’s my sweet young thing this evening?” McDermott asked, reaching for her breast.
The same line, the same approach, as predictable as sunrise. But McDermott’s own rising was beyond prediction. He needed lots of Jo’s help to raise an erection. And many times nothing she did could help him.
Jo worked on him calmly, dispassionately, a graduate student working on an experiment in order to get a good grade from the professor. She could feel the tensions easing out of McDermott’s body as she massaged and fondled him.
“You’re doing fine,” she cooed. “Big, strong daddy is going to fill me up, aren’t you?”
McDermott was moaning softly, lying on his back, arms at his sides. Bending over him, Jo whispered:
“That’s a good boy…You’re getting big and strong for me…”
Finally she straddled him, rocking back and forth until he came. When she stretched out beside him again, he was whimpering. Tears wet his face.
“What’s the matter?” Jo whispered, genuinely surprised. “Are you all right?”
“They want to take it away from me,” McDermott snuffled. “It’s my project, I’m in charge, but they want to go and turn it into some kind of space cadet circus.”
“Nobody’s going to take it away from you,” she soothed. “You’re the director of the entire project.”
“It’s that Stoner.” His voice was high and quavering, like a little boy’s. “He’s after me all the time. He wants to fly out there and meet the alien spacecraft.”
“Even if he does”—she stroked his chest—“you’ll still be head of the project. So what if he flies off into space…”
She felt his whole body shudder. “Go out and meet it? Touch it? Suppose it’s carrying disease germs? Suppose it’s some kind of slimy, horrible…thing?”
“No, no. It won’t be. Everything will turn out all right. You’ll see. It’ll be all right.”
“It could be evil…dangerous. It’s alien…not like us.”
“There, there. It’ll all work out. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Try to relax and get some sleep.”
It seemed like hours, but finally Big Mac was snoring peacefully, his white-haired chest rising and falling in calm rhythm. Jo slipped gratefully out of the bunk, glanced toward the shower stall. It’d wake him up, she knew. Pulling on her shorts and blouse, she decided to take a dip in the lagoon before returning to her own room at the hotel.
“But it’s a good idea,” Markov was saying to his wife. “A necessary idea!”
It was dark outside as they sat in the front room of their little bungalow. The Americans had given married couples each a tiny cement house of their own. Maria had spent their first two hours in it searching for hidden microphones.
They sat with two trays of precooked dinners—soggy American vegetables and thin slices of unidentifiable meat—resting on their laps. Markov’s was almost untouched.
“A good idea,” Maria mumbled, her mouth stuffed with a buttered soft white roll.
“Yes,” Markov replied.
His wife glared at him from her upholstered chair. “Technically, perhaps it is a good idea. But not politically.”
“Politically?”
Maria finished the roll of butter. As usual, she seemed both annoyed and disappointed with her husband.
“Don’t you understand why the Americans brought up this idea of meeting the alien spacecraft?”
“To capture it and bring it close to Earth for study,” said Markov.