Part 8 (1/2)
”I see. How long have you been thinking about this?”
Tomo had the computer's tone pegged now. ”Oh, no you don't,” he shook his head, grinning. ”That 'I see' opener is a dead giveaway you've tied in your psych program. You're not starting me on that silly motivation questionnaire just because I've been thinking about planets and people lately.” With a gentle tug he removed the top half of the damaged bearing sh.e.l.l, the bottom half dropping neatly onto the grab-cloth he'd spread out beneath it.
”Lately?” Max persisted.
Tomo twisted his head to send a mock glare at the computer monitor.
”Max-”
A beep from the pod-to-pod interrupted him. ”Tomo?” a voice asked. ”What's the word on that antenna?”
”No problem, Andra,” Tomo a.s.sured him. ”Just a fatigued bearing sh.e.l.l. Take me a couple of hours to replace it.”
”Good. I don't like dockings even when Max has all six close-approach systems to work with. I'd hate to try it with one missing.”
”Aw, come on-you'll have Max thinking you don't trust him.”
”Max I trust. It's those rinks who're supposed to hold the port steady for us.
They're all dirtsiders at heart, you know. Lunatics, every last one of them.”
”Yeah.” Tomo grinned, then sobered. ”You've never actually been dirtside yourself, have you?”
Andra snorted. ”What kind of crazy question is that? Of course not.”
”Right. Stupid question,” Tomo backtracked quickly, mentally eliminating Andra as a possible confidant on this. ”Everything else checking out?”
”Far as I know. Max?”
”Everything is functioning properly except for the antenna Tomo is repairing,” the computer replied.
”Good,” Andra said. ”I'll let you work in peace, Tomo. Signing off.” A second beep signaled his departure from the voicelink.
”Doesn't sound like I should invite Andra to come down to Maigre with me, does it?” Tomo remarked, striving to keep his manner light.
”Tomo-” Max began, in neutral tone again.
”No, let's just drop it for now, okay?” Tomo interrupted. ”It's just a random idea-it hasn't got any deep psychological significance or anything.”
”As you wish.””Good. Though I'd appreciate it if you'd keep all of this secret. Andra will be riding me all the way to Canaan Under Vega if he gets hold of it.”
”I understand.” There was just the barest of pauses. ”I'll keep the conversation private.”
”Thanks.” Climbing to his feet, Tomo squinted at the inside of his bearing sphere half. ”Now, how about looking up which locker we keep spare FST-938 bearings in?”
Dr. Alexei Ross was already in a foul mood when the station computer told him Director Halian wanted to see him in his office. ”In his office?” Ross asked, not sure whether to be angry or astonished at the request. ”Is something wrong with the intercom system?”
”The intercom is functioning normally,” Iris replied. ”Director Halian said to tell you that the sensitivity of the topic required a face-to-face meeting.”
”Probably his exact words, too,” Ross grunted. For a moment he considered refusing on the truthful grounds that he was too busy to go running all over Maigre s.p.a.ce Station just because Halian felt like being melodramatic. Parallax Industries might own most of the station, but as chief physician Ross was explicitly out of Halian's direct control. But even as he mentally considered sending back a borderline-nasty message, logic prevailed. If Halian wanted to discuss something without the risk of being overheard, he probably had a d.a.m.n good reason for it.
Possibly something new on the G- and H-deck thorascrine leaks that had put forty- five people in Ross's ward in the past twenty hours. ”All right,” he sighed. ”Inform the director I'll be down as soon as I can.”
”Yes, Doctor. Also, the bioscan data is in on Marc DeSabia now; my a.n.a.lysis indicates thorascrine concentrations in liver, kidneys, and thyroid gland.”
”Okay.” Ross spent a few minutes logging orders that weren't part of Iris's standard medical procedure programming and leaving contingency instructions for his staff. Then, still fuming a bit, he stalked to the elevator and rode down to W- deck and Parallax Industries' executive offices.
Director Jer Halian was staring out the oval porthole when Ross stomped in.
”This better be important, Jer,” the doctor said, stepping over to Halian's desk and sitting down in the plush guest chair. ”I've got a wardful of people upstairs who still need all my attention.”
Halian turned to face him, and Ross saw for the first time the other's expression. It wasn't an encouraging one. ”Anyone died yet?” the director asked, his mind clearly on something else entirely.
”No, and I'd like to keep it that way.” Ross rubbed at his forehead, grimaced at the perspiration oils there. ”Another ten hours and this last batch should be out of danger.”
”Good.” Halian took a deep breath. ”Because in about ninety-five hours we're going to have an even worse mess on our hands. One of the Goldenrod's mainters apparently wants to visit Maigre during his layover.”
Ross felt something p.r.i.c.kly dock between his shoulder blades. ”Holy drine.
You sure?”
Halian picked up a ca.s.sette and rolled the slender cylinder across the desk.
”The Goldenrod's MX computer sent me this private report a half hour ago. The mainter refused to discuss it in depth, so all the MX could give us was his last general psych profile.” He leaned forward a bit. ”This is a problem, now, isn't it? I mean, this Tomo character won't be able to stand it for long down there, will he?”
Ross snorted. ”It's even worse than that. He shouldn't even want to try mixing with other people, any more than you'd seriously consider spending your life in a stars.h.i.+p pod. The very fact he's talking this way means he's already in serious trouble.”
”Great,” Halian said heavily. ”Just what we needed.”
A sudden, horrible thought occurred to Ross. ”He's not flying the s.h.i.+p, is he?”
Visions of the freighter ramming full-tilt into the station- ”Oh, no-no way he can take control away from the computer, either,” Halian a.s.sured him. ”We're not in any immediate danger.”
”I'm sure that's a great comfort to the rest of the Goldenrod's crew,” Ross said dryly.
”They're not in danger, either, at least not at the moment. In fact, they don't even know anything's wrong.”
”Handy. Sounds like one of your ideas.”
Halian didn't seem to notice the barb. ”It was the computer's, actually. But never mind that. I want you to start getting your people and programs ready right away.”
Ross shook his head. ”I'm afraid we're not equipped to handle anything like this. We're going to have to bring a psychoses expert up from Maigre. I'll go check the medical directory.” He started to get up.
”Hold it-hold it,” Halian snapped. ”We can't let outsiders in on this-the company'll have our heads if bad publicity gets out. What about that therapy session you put Randoff through when he went all flutey last month?”
Ross sank wearily back into his chair. ”Jer, we're talking about a stars.h.i.+p mainter here-the most carefully circ.u.mscribed personality type that's ever existed. As far as I know, no mainter has ever gone out the sunward lock like this, and I'm not going to trust him to a computer that hasn't even got a decent data base to draw on.”
Halian turned back to his porthole, and Ross saw the lines around his mouth tightening. ”And there's no one on your staff who can handle it?”
”No.” Ross shook his head. ”Anyone who developed a problem this severe would be immediately s.h.i.+pped to a dirtside facility.”