Part 28 (1/2)

Amariyah had to have everything explained to her: the nets, the gigs towing construction units or cargo containers, where the larger freighters were unloading cargo. Rhyssa wondered if the Station was ever quiet. ”Day” had no meaning on Padrugoi and it probably took all twenty-four hours and its vast crew to keep it, running.

11.

Finally they were docked and permitted to disembark. The security officer didn't seem to take any notice once their retinal check matched their trip IDs.

Rhyssa? And she felt the touch of Shandin Ross, Coetzer's aide and telepath. And she felt the touch of Shandin Ross, Coetzer's aide and telepath. I'm officially here as escort for Commissioner Roznine but the admiral would very much like you to have lunch with him. Yeoman Nizukami will collect you after your tour of the hydroponics. It's nice to see you again, Dorotea. Ping Yung is looking forward eagerly to showing off his gardens. I'm officially here as escort for Commissioner Roznine but the admiral would very much like you to have lunch with him. Yeoman Nizukami will collect you after your tour of the hydroponics. It's nice to see you again, Dorotea. Ping Yung is looking forward eagerly to showing off his gardens.

The aide stepped aside; making room in the cramped entryway for the short, compact Ping Yung who eagerly surveyed the crowd until his eyes rested on her.

”It is an honor to have you here, Ms. Horvath, Ms. Lehardt, and Miss Bantam. If you would be so good as to follow me . . .” He bowed to each in turn in the fas.h.i.+on of his culture.

”You are of Chinese origin?” Amariyah asked very politely.

”Yes, Miss Bantam, from Hong Kong.” He bowed to indicate that being Hong Kong Chinese was special. ”I have looked forward to this hour when I have the pleasure of showing you how we garden in s.p.a.ce. This way, please.” He led them off.

Rhyssa, telepathically aware of the LEO Commissioner, heard Shandin's greeting as Boris and Ca.s.s now disembarked. She was also aware that Ranjit was being hurried off in another direction by his contact. He, too, would immediately start work, investigating Flimflam's activities onstation. As it happened, only Ca.s.s Cutler of the parapsychics had had any sustained mental contact with the suspect, during Flimflam's appearance in Linear G as head of a Religious Interpretation Group. Ranjit could do the background investigating, hopefully discovering as much as he could about Flimflam, and possible confederates, before an active move was attempted. One man, no matter how technically adept, could not have undertaken the sabotage of the Limo in the time available. Boris was required to deal with provable facts rather than the intuitive or psychic realities.

According to the work roster, Albert Ponce, aka Flimflam, was supposed to be on a rest s.h.i.+ft in the quarters he shared with seven other criminals detained on Padrugoi. He was not in his quarters and when Ranjit subtly pressed the minds of the four present in the room, his whereabouts were unknown. This was generally the case. Bert, as his cellmates called him, only slept there. They had long since learned not to ”know” how he spent his waking hours. Officially, so long as he reported for his work s.h.i.+ft, his off-duty activities were not monitored. The double wristband would not permit a detainee access to sensitive areas on Padrugoi. Ranjit then found out where he could find the main Station bookie, also an offender.

Kibon had established an ”office” in a supplies closet, cleared of its authorized equipment. The furnis.h.i.+ngs, such as they were, provided the bookie with a desk that was more like a nineteenth-century clerk's stand (to fit in the cramped s.p.a.ce), a stool, and pencil files neatly arranged in cubbyholes on the walls. With the use of a longarmed gripper tool, Kibon could reach any file without moving from his stool. An old-style thin screen was mounted on the wall and there was an equally obsolete pressure keyplate on the desk.

”Who, what, date, and wager,” Kibon said in a flat, rasping tone without looking up when Ranjit entered. He was a squat man of indeterminate age, his round face scarred with acne. His hands, the first joint on both little fingers missing, were poised over the keys to make the entry. He wore a janitor's tabs on a well-worn, dingy red onepiece coverall that had been Barchenkan issue, patched and frayed at cuffs and collar and almost threadbare at the closings.

Ranjit had had dealings with illegal bookmaking operators before and was primed.

”The kid,” he said, using the onstation t.i.tle awarded Peter Reidinger, ”return, within two weeks, ten credits, what're the odds?”

Kibon glanced up only long enough to read Ranjit's ID number. He grunted. ”New here, arncha? Ten to one against.”

”I'll take it.”

Ranjit also ”took” Kibon's public thoughts about the kid and the wager as the disguised LEO lieutenant carefully counted the credits, in small denominations, into the meaty, thick-fingered hand Kibon held out. Kibon had no opinions one way or another about the kid. He was aware that Peter was one of them psi-kicks. He'd made money on the wager that the kid wouldn't hack the black. He was willing to enjoy profit on this bet, too.

”Bert said it's a winner,” the lieutenant said, imbuing his tone with a wistful hope. Kibon grunted; his thoughts about Bert were uncomplimentary and very wary. Especially since Bert had suddenly taken out of Kibon's keeping a great deal of credit. Certain other persons-Ranjit caught flashes of their faces-also frequent customers, had suddenly been flush enough to put substantial bets against the kid making it to First Base. Kibon was glad to see the credits returned so quickly to his keeping.

Scrupulously counting the quarters and halves piece by piece, Kibon slipped Ranjit's credits into a slot to one side of the keypad. Ranjit could hear them hitting others and realized that the entire body of the desk was Kibon's safe deposit box. The bookie, also listening intently to the sound, thought that he'd better empty it tonight and deposit it. He also inadvertently thought where the deposit was made. Ranjit filed away that information for future reference.

Kibon gave Ranjit a cold stare. ”That all?”

Ranjit nodded, bowed humbly, and retreated quickly from the office, b.u.mping into the skinny man who was waiting to enter. Again quick with apologies, Ranjit bowed himself away, down the narrow hall and into a broader corridor. He went into the first toilet area, which reeked mainly of antiseptic, and into a stall where he could make his report un.o.bserved. Iswah granted to every man some small s.p.a.ce of privacy at least once a day.

Commissioner?

Yes, Ranjit?

And the lieutenant flashed Boris Roznine the faces he had caught from Kibon's mind and reported that Bert, although off duty, was not in his quarters nor did his cellmates know where he was. Boris thanked him and relayed that report to Ottey and Bindra, the Padrugoi security officers in the office with him.

Go on a walkabout, Ranjit, just in case you might come across Flimflam.

Very good, sir.

”Do you want me to do some lurking, too, Commissioner?” Ca.s.s asked, since she, too, could identify Bert.

”That might not be a bad idea, Ca.s.s.”

”An offender can't get above Ten Deck, or in the Malls without guards,” Ottey said.

Ca.s.s smiled and slipped out of the office.

”Could he?” Bindra asked Ottey.

”He's not supposed supposed to have access,” Ottey replied, scowling. to have access,” Ottey replied, scowling.

”With someone like Flimflam, one can never be sure ” Boris said mildly, and then asked to view the ID images of all offenders currently on the station. ”The janitor staff as well. Flimflam can work a crowd a treat.”

”This,” and Ping Yung proudly pressed the entrance plate to his plant kingdom, ”is the major Controlled Environment Life Support System, CELSS on Padrugoi. There are other, smaller units elsewhere throughout the Station.”

His guests followed him onto the balcony that overlooked the many-leveled hydroponic unit that was a deep well in the main stem of the Station. Amariyah gasped, hands crossed over her chest, blue eyes enormous as she saw, to her, a horticulturist's heaven. The air was slightly humid and redolent with hints of fertilizing substances. Dorotea was impressed by its compactness and the amazing variety of recognizable plants in the tanks on the levels below. She had not given much thought to how air was purified on Padrugoi, nor how it managed to feed its population on a daily basis. She'd heard enough about the problem of fuel and supply, but not much about feeding folks, though Peter had told her the food ”wasn't that bad.”

Rhyssa watched the reactions of her two gardening enthusiasts and smiled. It was worth the trip just to see their faces.

They were not the only ones in the unit. Figures moved about this and the lower levels, checking the flow of nutrients into the hundreds, perhaps thousands of tanks. Rhyssa knew enough about growing things to recognize certain foliage and identify the edibles produced. Carrots and radishes were very obvious but their inclusion surprised her and she was about to comment when Amariyah pointed to the tank beside her.

”You're growing Lycopersic.u.m esculentum Lycopersic.u.m esculentum in s.p.a.ce?” in s.p.a.ce?”

”Yes, indeed,” Ping said, beaming at her. ”Tomatoes are, of course, very nutritious, containing Vitamin C and being the basis for many recipes. How do you know the Latin name for them?”

”It is important to know such things if I wish to become a hydroponic gardener and work on the Station, too,” Amariyah replied with as serious an expression as her tone of voice. ”What varietals do you have? What does best on the Station in the tanks? Bush or cordon?”

Rhyssa had no trouble in ”hearing” Ping Yung's amazement at such questions from a youngster but he was also delighted to have someone so knowledgeable to speak to, whatever her age. A nice man, in many ways as eagerly innocent as her ward.

”Amariyah is intensely interested in gardening,” she said.

”That is easy to see, ” Ping replied with a little bow and held out his hand to Amariyah. ”We have both bush and cordon. For the most part, we cultivate Plumito and Tigarella in the bush; Mirabelle and Dombito in the cordon. But we vary them with cultigens.”

”Apples?” Rhyssa asked, spotting that unmistakable fruit, trained to grow against the curving wall.

”Yes, indeed, apples contain essential pota.s.sium,” Ping replied. ”We'd prefer bananas but we don't have the s.p.a.ce for such trees as they grow to a height we can't accommodate. Admittedly plantains would suit more of the resident personnel and we're trying to develop a true dwarf but without success yet. Most of what we grow here serves a dual purpose, you see: oxygen purification as well as fresh produce for minimum dietary requirements. We must have cultivars in all the ranges that do not generally exceed forty centimeters. We even have wheat, a cultigen that's only twenty to twenty-four centimeters.”

”Wheat?” Dorotea exclaimed as Ping guided them around the balcony to the spiral stairs to the lower levels.

”Yes, wheat,” he said almost fondly. ”It's a great oxygen generator. Ten square meters grows enough for one person's oxygen-for two at full growth-and, harvested, it's made into flour, of course.”

”That's Ipomoea batatas,” Ipomoea batatas,” Amariyah said as she stepped onto the lower level and pointed to the tanks of thriving club-shaped leaves. Amariyah said as she stepped onto the lower level and pointed to the tanks of thriving club-shaped leaves.

”Indeed they are sweet potatoes,” Ping said, grinning. ”We eat the tubers and use the foliage the same way we do spinach.”