Outland (4 page)

"Come on, young man. I know you can eat them if you put your mind to it."

He looked resigned and hefted his fork. "It's not my mind that gives me trouble. It's my stomach." He started picking at one of the waffles, using a technique best described as a desultory stab. His attitude was very like that the miners held regarding the rock they worked.

O'Niel had already speed-scanned his way through several routine messages. Now he caught a few words, rewound the tape and slowed the playback. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms as he studied the younger man speaking via the screen.

"Marshal, it's Lowell. The night shift went okay." From time to time the young deputy would glance down at the acrylic message board he carried to check himself.

What've we got? O'Niel asked himself silently. The taped figure was already responding, as though he'd been asked the question directly.

"Nothing much," the deputy said. He sounded bored. "Just a couple of drunks. Oh yeah, the door to the Purser's Office in Dome Nine has some chisel marks on the hinges. May have been an attempt to jimmy. No marks on the air lock, so it'd have to be somebody inside. Or it might be somebody just got bored and decided to devil us. We'll watch it tonight." He set the scanboard aside, stared out of the screen.

"That's about it. Real quiet. Just the way I like it." He grinned. "I'll be in the office at eighteen hundred. We can go over further surveillance possibilities on this possible break-in then, if you want."

Carol glanced over her husband's shoulder at the face of Lowell, which was winking off. She handed O'Niel his cup of coffee. He didn't ask her today whether or not it was real coffee, a running gag not only in their house but throughout the Mine. Hypotheses as to the origins of what passed for coffee throughout the Station generated an endless supply of speculations, some bizarre, few accurate.

A few tasteless folks suggested it was the one product that traveled through the Station's recycling systemology untouched, which would account for its strength if not its distinctive flavor.

On screen the image of Lowell was replaced by that of a heavier, older man.

"Montone here, Marshal. Got nothing more on that incident at the mine yesterday. Looks like it was just some guy who went whacko." The assistant marshal didn't sound especially interested. Death at the mine was nothing unique.

"The Company's having the body shipped back . . . or rather, what's left of it. Immediately, on today's shuttle. Guess they don't want the impressionable newcomers studying it. Can't say as I blame 'em." He made a face. "Christ, you should have seen the mess. They're shipping him back in a vacuum bottle, not a coffin. Don't want the remains leaking all over the rest of the cargo."

Paul had been having enough difficulty struggling with his waffle. At Montone's words a half-hearted forkful halted halfway to his mouth. He returned it carefully to his plate, his expression ample evidence that where eleven year-olds were concerned, talk of bodies and buttermilk definitely did not go together.

Montone had paused, now rambled on. "Anyway, it's for sure no homicide. There were witnesses right next to him when it happened. Two guys saw the whole thing."

"Any witnesses to the witnessing?"

"I know what you're thinking, Marshal. Naw, they didn't cut his suit and push him over or anything. Couple of guys the next level down happened to be blabbing on the same suit frequency and heard the whole thing. Saw the last of it, too. Said the other two cutters were trying to help the guy who did it, there at the last.

"Spoke to both of the witnesses myself. They seemed genuinely broken up about it. At least, as much as anybody can get over a shift partner. They volunteered to take truth serum. I didn't think it was necessary."

"I agree," murmured O'Niel. "They volunteered, you say? You didn't suggest it?"

"Naw. Didn't have to. Figure that clears them, along with the testimony of the guys below who overheard it all." He went quiet for a moment, then shrugged as he continued.

"It just happens here every once in a while. I don't have to tell you that."

"No, you don't."

"Some people just let this place get to them." Montone chewed on his lower lip. "Damn shame, though. No reason for it. The guy . . . name was Tarlow, I think." He checked his scanboard. "Yeah, Tarlow. Damn shame. His year was almost up."

"What about an autopsy?"

Montone shook his head, looked regretful. "Impossible. I told you. Messy." He went down his board a last time.

"So, that's about it. Oh yeah. Tell your wife Transportation got the tickets for her that she wanted. See you when you get to the office. Don't worry. You'll get used to it. We all do, sooner or later."

He smiled perfunctorily. The screen blanked, read, END MESSAGES O'NIEL, W.T.

When Montone had mentioned "Transportation," what little color there was had faded from Carol O'Niel's face. She'd recovered her composure with admirable speed, however, if not for admirable reasons.

The Marshal stared a moment longer at the blank screen, expressionless. Then he reached out and flipped the monitor off. It died to black.

His attention on Montone, he hadn't seen his wife's momentary lapse. "What tickets?" he asked casually.

"Oh, Mr. and Ms. Reynolds," Carol told him easily as she worked at the dishes. "The nice couple from the bakery. They wanted tickets on the shuttle for a friend of theirs." She smiled tightly. "You know, they're low on the priority scale and so I said I'd see what I could do for them. It worked out fine."

"That was nice of you." He downed the last of his coffee. Or whatever it was. "I gotta go." He rose, moved over to the central table.

His son didn't wince at the kiss, though the beard tickled his face, as always. "See you for dinner, sport. Don't forget. Seven frames of math. Two hundred through two-twenty on the tape."

Paul nodded. "I promise." He grinned slightly. "If the Teaching Program can understand my numbers."

"Braces bothering you again? Well, don't worry. It won't be for much longer. You don't want to grow up with crooked teeth, do you?"

"I don't see anybody else wearing them."

"That's because . . ." He stopped himself. He'd been about to say, "that's because there aren't any other kids here." Instead, he said, "Because nobody else right near us needs them. You're just lucky.

"Anyway, the whole mine wears braces."

Paul looked uncertainly at him. "Huh?"

"Sure. You've seen those melted-in beams, the ones that rib the outer walls of all the buildings and the scaffolding for the heavy equipment?" Paul nodded, intrigued. "Well, those are the mine's braces, just like yours. Without them, all the walls would be crooked and weak. Just like your teeth would be if you stopped wearing them too soon."

"I guess I'd better keep them, then."

"I guess you'd better." He turned, starting for the door. "Don't forget that math."

"I won't, Dad."

Carol watched the byplay between father and son, fighting to keep a hold on her emotions. She rushed to intercept him at the doorway.

"You be good today," he told her, kissing her lightly. She pecked back at him.

"I will."

O'Niel was sensitive. to many things. To movement, to eyes, to muscular changes in others. Little things. It was what made him so good at his job. He pushed her back a ways, and stared into her tired face.

"Look," he said softly, "I know this is a bleak assignment. I know what this is for you . . . how difficult. Just . . . give it a chance. It isn't so bad."

She stared back at him, searching his face, hiding feelings behind her eyes.

"I know. It's just that it's so, so . . ." He waited. The words didn't, or couldn't, come. She finally gave up trying to articulate her feelings, shrugged helplessly.

He kissed her again, a comment far more soothing than any words, turned to leave.

"Bill?"

He looked back at her as she walked deliberately up to him, put both arms around his neck and kissed him again, fiercely this time.

"I love you."

"Well, I love you, too." He held her tight, smiled thinly. "Just give it a chance. We've only been here two weeks. It'll get better, I promise. Everything's unfamiliar and little frightening at first in a new place. It's only for a year, and the pay . . . you know what we made on the last job. That's one of the big reasons why I okayed this one. Just one more year, one year here and then, well, I might retire."

She leaned back, stared up at him and shook her head once. "You'll never retire, not you, Bill. Not voluntarily, anyway. You like your work too much."

"Like it?" He laughed softly. "Hon, I don't like it much at all. But it
is
my job. It's what I do, and I take pride in doing it well."

You like it, she thought accusingly, but didn't say anything. Just held onto him and wished, wished, that things were suddenly, magically different.

"I've got to go. You smell good." He touched her cheek with the back of his hand, ran it lightly over her still soft skin. She pressed it tight against her face.

Then he was gone. Carol moved into the doorway and stood there staring after him, seeing him turn down the corridor on his way to the next accessway.

In her mind she traveled outside the accessway, thought she could smell the pungent fumes that burst fitfully into the atmosphere from Io's interior. Sulfur and worse. There was atmosphere on Io, thin and sickly and unfit for anything living to breathe, atmosphere belched out by the unpredictable volcanoes that gradually bled away into space.

Lucky gases, she thought. She turned from the now empty corridor to check on her son . . .

The cafeteria was huge, unattractive, and crowded. Workers exhibiting varying stages of fatigue shoved their trays down the long counter backed with pans full of steaming food. Like the tables and chairs that filled the floor, the counter was formed of unadorned gray metal or dull plastics. The light was harsh and even, pouring down from fluorescent slabs attached to the ceiling.

While the decor was subdued to the point of sterility, the richness of the conversation somewhat made up for it. Clusters of miners swapped dirty jokes as they jostled through the long line or sat eating at individual tables, the peculiar confluence of food and sex as unchanged as it had been for thousands of years.

Many of the jokes were at least that old. Only the telling varied, the slang terms, the occasional references to weightlessness and canned air. Some of the female workers joined in these laughing groups with their male cohorts while others formed clusters of their own off toward the back of the room.

Isolated lumps of spice bottles and condiment containers littered the tables. As the food was generaly undistinguished and dull, these spices were provided to enable the workers to adjust the food to individual tastes, which were usually far more varied than the chef's menus. Meat loaf is meat loaf no matter where you find it, but salt and pepper, can make it taste one way and curry powder quite another. The contract workers at the mine were a polyglot lot.

The men and women continued to file through the entrance, pick up their trays, and shuffle into line. One man did not. He walked in and passed up his turn in line, heading for the eating area.

He was tall and lean, dark-haired and clean-shaven, in contrast to many of the bearded workers around him. His eyes were sunk more deeply than normal into the head and moved with purpose, as though their owner was constantly hunting for something. His hair was cut very short and was receding from the forehead.

He scanned the cafeteria, searching for something besides food. Eventually his gaze lit on a small, slim miner seated off to one side by himself whose attention eventually came round to the other's . . . and passed on. Seemingly nothing had happened between them.

Several minutes went by. The worker at the table concluded some gratuitous conversation with another couple of men seated nearby. He put down his coffee, rose, stretched and headed unhurriedly for the back of the cafeteria, exiting through the rear door.

Another minute and the man with the deep-set eyes casually began to make his way through the noisy crowd, ignoring the occasional greeting or conversational gambit. Then he also left via the rear doorway.

Beyond the mess hall was the central locker room, a labyrinth of narrow aisles that formed canyons between endless ranks of high metal lockers. The benches, hangers, and storage cylinders were made of the same material as the tables and chairs in the cafeteria. The room's function might be different, the shapes altered, but all were born of some drifting chunk of nickel-iron halfway between Jupiter and Mars. It was sobering to think that some asteroid had waited billions of years, swimming in emptiness, only for an anthill of inventive bipeds to come along one day and turn it into, among other things, sewer pipe and clothes' hangers.

If anything, it was slightly quieter in the locker room than in the cafeteria. There was no food here to stimulate conversation. Also, the changing room was designed to facilitate business, not recreation.

Men were changing into or out of enviroment suits. Nearby the female miners had their own locker room.

Those slipping their suits on talked rapidly and with a nervous edge to their voices, trying to cover their anxiety at having to expose themselves once more to the surface of Io. Those taking suits off chattered rapidly and with a nervous edge in their voices to cover their feeling of relief at having completed yet another shift successfully.

There was barely enough room in the cramped confines of the aisles to manipulate the bulky suits but everyone managed. Here it was better to be small. You could move more easily and outside, your emergency oxygen reserve would last longer if you ever had to use it.

The man who'd abandoned his coffee back in the cafeteria made his way down an empty aisle to his own locker. It took him seconds to activate the combination and the door clicked open.

Having accelerated through the back of the cafeteria, the dour-visaged worker who'd crossed eyes with him was barely seconds behind. They stood next to the gaping locker and chatted quietly, though one couldn't say amiably. There was an exchange of some kind.