Iseult cast a curious glance at Lee as she picked up Bulganin's feet and helped her orderlies carry the unconscious Russian out of the spin gym. Cabral stood to one side, watching, panting, and dripping perspiration. One calf was shaking spasmodically—a sign of over-exertion and electrolyte depletion—but the little Brazilian had stayed the distance.
“Cabral.”
The wiry private spun away from the door and came to attention. “Sir!” His chin was up, his eyes straight ahead and fixed, his body tensed with readiness. Lee restrained a smile. The top dog barks and Cabral listens.
“At ease, Rating.”
Cabral fell into the “at ease” position, which looked even more uncomfortable than his previous stance.
“No, no—stand down, Rating. Take ten.”
Cabral's eyes flicked sideways, evidently double-checking Lee's expression against Lee's words: was the American trying to trick him or was this a genuine invitation to relax?
Lee wandered over to a bench, and flopped down. Cabral breathed a sign of relief and joined him.
“So what do they call you, Cabral?
“Me, sir? Eduardo.”
“No, I mean your nickname.”
Eduardo smiled, a flash of white teeth. “They call me Fast Eddie, Sir.”
“Well, Fast Eddie, you didn't do too badly today. How long has it been since you put in”—Lee checked his watch—”fifty minutes in the gym?”
Cabral paused, then admitted, “A long time, sir.”
“Well, we'll be doing at least an hour every day, now. From here on in, we're going by the book.”
Cabral laughed suddenly, unexpectedly.
“Did I say something funny, Private?”
“Oh no, Sir. I mean, yeah, you did say something funny, but I guess you didn't know it. You said ‘by-the-book,' Sir. That's what the workers call Mr. Perlenmann.”
Lee leaned back on his elbows. “Why do they call Perlenmann ‘by-the-book'?”
“Well, it's sort of a double meaning, sir. I mean, he has all those books, right? Thousands of them. But it's also a joke about how he does things. Everything with Perlenmann is ‘by-the-book,' you know?”
Lee licked salty perspiration off his upper lip; odd, Cabral's description didn't quite jibe with his own perception of Perlenmann. “Tell me, Eddie, what do you think of all this sabotage business? Who do you think is behind it, the hardline Dirtsiders or the Sols?”
The Brazilian shrugged. “I don't know, Lieutenant. Could be either one, I guess.”
“What about the rank and file Upsiders? Are there any of them that might have a reason to shut down Callisto?”
Fast Eddie frowned. “I dunno, Sir. I don't see why they would.”
“Me neither. What about the Outbounders?”
“The Outbounders? But why, sir? If there isn't enough fuel, they can't leave.”
That's true, Eddie—which is also why no one would ever suspect them of destroying fuel to frame the group that was most likely to prevent them from leaving the system and resorting to violence: the Sols.
“Besides,” Eddie was continuing, “The Outbounder leaders—Briggs, Kerkonnen, even Xi—they're real nice, real pacifico. They've never done nothing that was, like, harmful or sneaky.”
Well, if this line of inquiry was to bear fruit, it certainly wouldn't be as a consequence of Fast Eddie's political perspicacity. Might as well get back to basics. “Rating, how long since you've done any shooting?”
“Long time, Sir; months.” Fast Eddie's eager smile was a testimony to the fact that he liked guns—a lot.
“Then it's about time we got you back in practice, Rating. What do you use for a range around here?”
* * *
Early the next day, Callisto's comm specialist paged Lee in his planetside quarters. “Incoming message from the Gato, Lieutenant Strong. Shall I match encryption?”
“Yes, please do. Put them through.”
A moment later, Bernie and Finder were crowding their faces into his screen. “Hi, Skipper. How's the chow down there?”
”Indistinguishable from what you're having up there.”
“Ouch. That bad? Well, so much for officer perks, I guess.”
“I guess. Do you have an update for me, Bernie?”
“Sure do. Skipper, this whole hijacking incident is getting weirder and weirder.”
Lee wondered how that was possible. “In what way?”
“Well, when we sent the hijackers' digitized DNA samples back to Earth, they assigned it the lowest priority status in their search queue.”
“That's odd. That search isn't hard and we should be at the top of the priority list.”
“That's what I thought. So we took the liberty of sending the samples to a pair of our Upside friends. One works database management on L-5, and the other is in charge of immigration record-keeping on Mars. They got us concrete results—and very fast.”
“Fast means that the hijackers were already part of the population that is pre-flagged for scrutiny.”
“Bingo. Seems the hijackers were all either convicted or accused felons.”
“Pawns for someone else, then. Not surprising.”
“No, but this is: every single one of them were Upsiders. They were either from cis-lunar or Belt communities. And all genuinely anti-social types, some with diagnoses of possible sociopathia. What do make of it all, Skipper?”
“Nothing conclusive. They're all Upside-born, so perhaps they were tapped by other Upsiders—Spacers, maybe—who needed cold-blooded killers. But on the other hand, it sounds like someone on Earth was involved, someone who had enough clout to get these brutes out of jail or off parole in exchange for doing this job.”
“But why?”
“Until we find what they were after on the Blossom—until we find that needle in the haystack—I don't think we're going to get any closer to having an answer to that question, Finder. About which: has there been anything interesting on the cargo claim lists send up from Callisto?
“Nothing particularly riveting, Skipper. We've been examining every piece they've asked for, including sensor scans for hidden compartments. If they have electronic components, we've run full data analyses. So far, nothing.”
“What about tantrums by the brass? Has anyone had a coronary about my decision to divert to Callisto?”
“So quiet it's scary, Lieutenant. We've received dispatches and routine orders, but that's all.”
“What orders?”
“Just the ones we were expecting. First a message to resume our patrol route ASAP, then a correction to that order, in response to Perlenmann's indication of our quarantine situation. He bought us an extra one hundred hours on-station. And I got us two extra days beyond that.”
“How'd you do that, Bernie?”
“Well, with Callisto's deuterium refinery down, I explained that we didn't have sufficient authorization to draw on Callisto's reserve fuel cache, since every frozen drop is now reserved for the next Outbound colony ship. At least until their main purifier is running again, and they've built up a sufficient surplus.”
Lee frowned. “I'm surprised the brass didn't kick that upstairs to get you the necessary permission.”
“We didn't give them the chance, sir. In the same communiqué, we indicated that we had made preparations to transfer the fuel from the Blossom to our own tanks. Pending their approval, of course, since that could be construed as tampering with sealed evidence.”
Lee was impressed at Bernie's inspired chicanery. “So what did they do with that pile of tangled prerogatives and priorities?”
“What bureaucrats do best: they passed the buck to Perlenmann. Who sat on the request for a while, and then sent notice to command—and us—that he was authorizing us to tap the Blossom's tanks and take on her fuel. Which, as you know, is a very long process unless you have specialized fuel tending apparatus.”
“True, but Perlenmann has a tender module. Several, I think.”
“So I gathered. But he didn't offer and we didn't ask.”
Lee smiled. “How long can you reasonably extend the refueling operations?”
“Brass tells us that due to the ‘situational impediments,' we have an additional two days to take on fuel. So we can stay on station for another six days, all told. Then you'll have to interrupt your Callistan vacation and—”
“Negative, Bernie. I'm staying.”
“Sir, I'm not sure I heard you correctly. Did you say you're staying?”
“Perlenmann has tapped me to investigate the sabotage that took out their fuel production. It's a matter of regulations: I can't say no. But that could be to our advantage. Did the brass say I had to take the Gato back out in six days?”
“Well, no, but you are the CO and I think they assumed—”
“That's their problem, then. If I haven't wrapped up here in six days, you resume our patrol roster as the acting CO. That gives me more time on Callisto to see if there's some connection between what happened to the Fragrant Blossom and the sabotage here. If they're two pieces of the same puzzle, then in the process of my investigation, I might find whoever was supposed to take possession of that lost needle you're still looking for aboard the Blossom.”
“Maybe, Skipper. I suppose I don't have to tell you that this is another decision that won't earn you brownie points with the brass.”
“This time, they'll have to complain to Perlenmann.” Lee told himself that would shield him from the worst of his superiors' probable wrath. Knowing himself to be a poor liar, he was not convinced. “If I'm not back on board in six days, head toward Hygeia first, quarter speed.”
“Why there, Sir?”
“So that you'll still be close when I call you back for a pick up.”
“Got it, Skipper. Anything else we can do for you?”
“Not unless you believe in the power of prayer or have a lucky rabbit's foot.”
“A what?”
“A barbaric Earth tradition.”
“Sounds Neo Luddite.”
“It probably is. Keep on looking for that missing needle of evidence, Bernie.”
“Will do, Skipper. You just keep your head down.”
“Sound advice. Out.”
* * *
It took the better part of a week to get Cabral and Bulganin reaccustomed to one-gee centrifuge exercise and military discipline. Bulganin remained silent and somewhat surly, but was obedient and seemed to acquire a grudging respect for Lee.
Which was more than could be said for the Upsiders among the facility personnel. Their written responses to Lee's inquiries about the explosion were terse to the point of uselessness. In the corridors, they avoided meeting his eyes, kept responses to his social greetings as brief and closed-ended as possible. The Dirtsiders weren't much better, and the Outbounders already seemed to be living in another world, simply eager to leave the incessant Upsider/Dirtsider bickering behind them.
The only individual who seemed willing to help was Perlenmann, who opened up his personal log for Lee's perusal. According to the administrator's accounts, the Upsider/Dirtsider factionalism on Callisto had never broken out into violence or sabotage before. However, since the explosion, Parsons' Upsider fuel-ops technicians had provoked at least two public confrontations with Dirtsiders, intimating that if they discovered the bombing had been specifically directed against them, they would retaliate. It was far less certain that they would exert much care in ensuring that their retribution was directed only against the guilty parties.
By the middle of the second week, Jack Carroll had finished his forensics report on the technical details of the saboteur's methods—a report which Lee and Perlenmann decided to keep under wraps until the case was nearing its resolution. A general disclosure now would only tell the perpetrator how much the investigators did (or, rather, did not) know.
As he leafed through Carroll's report, Lee sighed, letting his last hopes for an easy investigation escape along with his breath. Ten days of thorough research had turned up nothing. The time had come to press some personal buttons and to see what happened when he did.
* * *
The cavernous gut of the damaged hydrogen purification tank was alive with the echo of distant work crews. Lee craned his neck to look up at the “ceiling” ten meters overhead and moved deeper into the vast space, angling toward the intermittent white-blue glow of workers' torches.
A dozen steps later, he found himself approaching a stocky silhouette, its hands-on-hips stance backlit by the intermittent light of the welding. Parson's voice was less pleasant than usual. “What do you want here, Dirtsider? My people have filled out your idiot reports, so leave 'em alone.”
“I wish I could, Mr. Parsons, but I'm afraid ‘your people' didn't complete the questionnaires I gave them. To be specific, not a single one of them provided the names of any individuals that they suspected of being radicals—either Dirtsiders or Upsiders. Now I wonder why that would be.”
“Wonder all you like, Patrolman.” Parsons spat; the impact of the saliva made a flat sound, like a pebble ricocheting off slate. “We're not snitches on this station. And if that's what you require of us, then you can go to hell.”
“If you, or any of your people, have any relevant suspicions, I advise you not to withhold them. Anyone who does so knowingly is obstructing an official investigation, which in this case makes them accessories to sabotage—and guilty of endangering the lives of the workers at this facility.”
As Lee had guessed, that was the right button to press; Parsons' voice grew taut, his words coming out in a rush. “You're going to accuse my men of endangering their fellow fuel workers? All of whom are Upsiders? Well, take your best shot, Patrolman. But I'll tell you this: we watch out for our own here on Callisto, and if we have any problems, we sort it out ourselves. You don't understand how things work out here—and it's real easy for newcomers to get hurt by things they don't understand. Don't you agree?”
“Threatening a Customs Patrol officer is a serious offense, Mr. Parsons, and it makes me wonder if I shouldn't expand my investigation to include you as a prime suspect.”
Parsons laugh was soft and deep. “Did I threaten you, Lieutenant? Gee, I can't remember saying anything threatening. I was just commenting on how outsiders can find this sort of political problem to be difficult—even dangerous—to handle. And as for investigating me,” Parsons snorted derisively, “be my guest. Let me guess. You're convinced that I'm a deep cover operative for the radical Dirtsiders, right?” His teeth shone as he sneered. “Yeah, while the Dirtside Greens and Neo Luddites are slowly strangling this facility out of existence, you'll waste time investigating the people who need to keep it running in order to survive.”
Parson's tone grew more strident. “You make life hard for us and who knows, maybe production will suffer. Maybe that will make life hard for the Greenie bigwigs on the Steering Committee by giving the Neo Luddite hardliners just that much more ammunition to criticize their handling of Callisto. Maybe that will mean an inquiry, and maybe that will make life hard for you—very hard.” He paused and leaned closer. “You get my drift?”
Lee leaned into Parsons' face. “Yes, and I hope you're getting mine. I'm here to uphold the law and find the saboteur. And that's exactly what I'm going to do—with or without your help.”
Their faces were less than three inches apart, the scratchy hiss-and-whine of torches intermittently piercing the silence. Then Parsons changed his stance, which gave him an excuse to lean back and laugh. “Suit yourself, Patrolman; it's your court-martial.” He turned into the glow of the torches and drift-walked away across the belly of the fuel tank, shouting orders as he went.
* * *
Doctor Iseult arched an eyebrow when Lee entered her office. “And to what do I owe the honor, Lieutenant?” The crisp tone added about a foot to her diminutive frame.
Lee smiled tentatively. “Might I take a seat, Doctor?”
Iseult impaled him with a glare that suggested she was seriously considering a negative response; then she sighed and waved him into the chair on the other side of her desk. “Well, you are sitting. What is it?”
“Doctor, I'm sure it's no secret that I'm not making a lot of progress with my investigation.”
Iseult's smile was genuine, if wry. “You have a talent for understatement, Lieutenant. From what I hear, you are making no progress at all—although you are making a number of enemies.”
Lee nodded. “I was hoping you might be a little more willing to help me.”
Iseult's smile now included a measure of incredulity. “Oh? And why is that?”
“Because you're a doctor.”
“Which would tend to make me resent paramilitary bullies such as yourself, non? After all, I get to clean up the messes made by you uniformed children.”
Lee shrugged. “I suppose so. But I thought that, given the increasing potential for violence on Callisto, you'd want to help me prevent farther bloodshed, rather than just patch it up when it occurs. But I guess I was wrong.”
Iseult's smile had disappeared, although her teeth were still displayed—now in a rictus of rage. “Merde! The gall—that you would attempt to extort cooperation from me in such a manner!”
“Like I said, Doctor, I just wanted to give you the opportunity to save lives.” Lee rose to leave.
“Mon Dieu, you are arrogant—no, sit. Sit down, damn you.” One tiny fist clenched and went white as she regained her composure, a process which took almost half a minute. Then she looked up, her eyes cold and bright. “Unfortunately, you are also right. Parsons' people are getting edgy. I am afraid that they will convince themselves that they must preempt the Dirtsiders—and even the Outbounders—by attacking them first. Physically.”
“And that concerns you.”
She blinked. “Of course it concerns me. As you so astutely observed, I'm a doctor.”
“No, I mean it concerns you because you sympathize with the Outbounders.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Do you wish me to help you—or simply to sit still for an interrogation?”
“Possibly a bit of both, Doctor. I do recall that, when I first arrived, you seemed to stick up for the Outbounders when Parson was bad-mouthing them.”
Iseult drummed her slender fingers against the tabletop, stared at them while she weighed her next statement. Finally: “I suppose I do support the Outbounder point of view, somewhat—as well as other moderates. It's the extremists and their pawns who are the real danger to us. Spacers and Customs Patrol, Sols and pro-Earth fascists—you'll all kill each other yet. And when your final war starts, Callisto and every other innocent spaceside community will be caught in the middle.
“And even if you do not have your idiotic war, it is still true that we live on a razor's edge here on Callisto. If the political mood on Earth worsens, then the Outbounder colonization program will be disbanded, and this facility will be closed. And the same will happen to many of the deep-space facilities which exist to supply us. In that scenario, many—-most—of those displaced Upsiders will have to be relocated to Earth. No other place can absorb such a sudden increase in population.”
“But what about the Upsiders who were born in low- or zero-gee, who can't survive on Earth, even in neutral buoyancy pools?”
“Lieutenant, I am a doctor, not a social planner. I do not have such answers—if any exist.” Frustrated, she looked away, her mouth leaned against her fist.
Lee stole a fast, assessing look at her. She cares, but she's genuinely torn about what to do. She doesn't have the dogmatic certainty of a political factionalist. Time to back off. “I'm sorry, Doctor; I didn't mean to upset you.”
“Lieutenant, it is bad manners to lie, particularly if you lie so badly. You most certainly did mean to upset me.”
Lee felt his face grow uncomfortably warm. “Yes, Doctor. I'm sorry—but I had to.”
“Well, at least you can be embarrassed enough to blush about it. Perhaps you are human after all, Lieutenant Strong.”
“Lee.”
She almost smiled. “Very well. Lee. You may call me Genevieve if you are done provoking me.”
“I believe I'm quite finished, Genevieve.”
“Good. Now, how can I help?”
A new voice intruded. “You can help by giving Mr. Panachuk a sedative, Doctor; he's a bit too eager to get out of bed and back to work.” Perlenmann emerged from the infirmary, pushing open the door and leaning against the jamb. “How goes the investigation, Lieutenant?”
“It's going, Mr. Perlenmann, but not very fast or very far. I was hoping Dr. Iseult could give me some new insights, particularly into the Outbounders.”
The administrator shook his head. “I find it hard to believe that the Outbounder leaders—Mr. Briggs and Mr. Kerkonnen—would advocate violence of any type.”
“What about Ms. Xi?”
Perlenmann shrugged. “She is the most temperamental of the Outbounders, but that makes her almost too obvious a suspect, don't you think?”
“Maybe she didn't do it herself. Maybe she got somebody else fired up enough to do it for her.” Out of the corner of his eye, Lee saw Iseult frown skeptically.
Perlenmann shrugged again. “Perhaps, but the only reasonable underlying motive—that the Outbounders are trying to frame and discredit the Sols or Spacers—seems a bit far-fetched. Now I must regrettably return to my office; I'm swamped with paperwork.”
Perlenmann drift-walked out of Iseult's office. Lee stared after him, and when the door had closed, asked, “What about him?”
Iseult cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
“Could he be—well, a secret Dirtsider fascist, someone who's been waiting for a reasonable excuse to get this facility shut down?”
“Perlenmann? A fascist or Neo Luddite plant? Are you mad?” Iseult's full laugh was a pleasant, musical sound.
“What's so funny?”
“Lieutenant, even if Perlenmann had sympathies for any of the extremist factions, he would never act upon them. Everything with him is by the book, and his mandate is quite clear: to keep Outbounder operations running at ‘the maximum sustainable level.' And despite the supply reductions and delays that the Neo Luddites have caused by their filibustering in Geneva, he has managed to stay close to the original ship launching schedule. Which is no mean feat, believe me.”
“I do.”
“Well, then there's your answer, too. Perlenmann's mandate is spelled out clearly and he does not deviate from its rules.”
Lee nodded. “Yeah—but it's the exception that makes the rule. Maybe this is the exception.”
Iseult shook her head once, sharply. “No. Listen, Lee: I know enough people who either speak to, or are undeclared, radicals. I'm not in on any of their plans, but they trust me—enough for me to know that they all consider Perlenmann to be a stooge for the moderate Greens who are in power back home. Upsiders, Dirtsiders, Spacers, Outbounders: the one thing they can agree on is that Perlenmann won't break the rules.”
Lee shrugged. “Well, I had to ask.”
“Yes, you did. Is there any other way I can help?”
“Not right now.” Lee rose into the almost nonexistent gravity.
“Good; then it's your turn to help me.” Iseult rummaged in her desk, produced a small bottle of pills and handed them to Lee. “For Sergeant Bulganin,” she explained.
Lee smiled. “Weight loss pills?”
Iseult's face became stern. “That is not funny, Lieutenant. Kindly make sure that the sergeant gets these. Promptly.”
Lee frowned. “What are they?”
Iseult, who had directed her eyes to her computer, looked back up at Lee, surprised. “You don't know?”
Lee shook his head.
“He didn't tell you?”
Lee shook his head again.
“Mon Dieu, men are so childish! Lee, Sergeant Bulganin suffers from asthma, and all that exercise you've been pushing him through has been making it worse. Much worse.”
Lee's thoughts were suddenly cluttered with images of Bulganin in the spin gym, his stony face alternately florid and pale, but always creased by rigid lines of suppressed pain. Lee had attributed the strain to the Russian's excess weight, but now he realized why Bulganin's gray sweatshirt was always black with perspiration, why neither his running time nor his endurance had improved: he wasn't getting enough air.
Lee closed his hand around the bottle. “Thank you, Doctor. I'll see that he gets these immediately.”
* * *
Bulganin stood to attention as Lee entered the now-pristine duty officer's room. The American waved him down.
“Be at your ease, Sergeant. Have a seat and take ten.” Bulganin eyed Lee suspiciously and then slowly sank into his chair. He turned back toward the computer on his desk.
Lee extended his hand across the table, uncurled his fingers to reveal the medicine bottle. “Sergeant, I believe these are for you.” Bulganin's face reddened and his jaw locked in place. His bearish paw reached out, removed the bottle with slow dignity, and stashed it in his breast pocket. He nodded faintly and shifted in his seat to readdress the computer.
“Sergeant, why didn't you inform me about your condition?”
Bulganin's jaw worked silently for a moment before he muttered, “It is not serious, Sir.”
“Damn it, Bulganin, that's not true and you know it. More to the point, now I know it, too.”
Bulganin's eyes did not meet Lee's. “You are removing me from duty, then?”
Lee shook his head. “Hell, no, Sergeant. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. I can't afford to lose you.” Bulganin's eyes grew slightly less hard. “But I do want to know how long you've had this condition and why—why—you didn't tell me.”
Bulganin looked away from the computer, considering. Then: “May I speak frankly, Sir?”
“I insist upon it.”
“I did not tell you about my condition because I will not be humiliated by being excused from your physical training requirements—Sir.”
“I did not set those standards, Sergeant, and you know it. They are Customs Patrol regulations.”
Bulganin nodded slightly. “Yes, that is true. But after your arrival, I—I did not wish to receive any special treatment from you, Sir.”
Lee nodded. “I think I understand, Sergeant. But hopefully we've gotten beyond our initial friction—at least somewhat. I'm still going to expect an hour of 1-gee PT from you each day. However, you are now to fulfill that requirement by spending three separate twenty-minute periods in the gym, with at least an hour of nonphysical duties preceding each of those PT periods.”
Bulganin had his mouth open to protest, but Lee held up his hand. “That is an order, Arkady.”
Bulganin closed his mouth, stared, and then smiled slightly. “It will be nice to breathe again.”
Lee smiled back. “I imagine it will. How long have you had this condition, and why isn't it on your records?”
Bulganin frowned. “It's not on my records because I've never reported it.”
“Christ, Bulganin, that's taking a hell of a chance.”
The Russian shrugged. “I would have been taking a bigger chance if I reported it. As you pointed out, my record has some rough patches, including anti-Neo Luddite protests. What do you think would happen if they found out I had severe asthma? Discharged from the service. And then what? I don't know how to do anything other than be a soldier. So I requested spaceside duty and tried to volunteer for the most isolated posts.”
“—Hoping that on those assignments, you could either conceal your asthma, or that your CO wouldn't bother to report it.”
“Da—I mean, yes. That is it exactly.”
“Well, don't worry, Arkady; I'm not going to add any health reports to your record.”
Bulganin blinked and then beamed. “Spaseebo, Lieutenant.” Then he looked away, uncomfortable.
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“Sir, I am afraid I have—er, ‘forgotten'—to tell you something that might be relevant to your investigation.”
Ah hah; now maybe I can get somewhere. “I understand how something might have slipped your mind, Sergeant. It's been a very busy ten days.”
Bulganin smiled gratefully. “It's about Kotsukov, Sir. He was involved with the Outbounders. Although they did not share his fervor for Earth's continuing dominion, they were certainly interested in ensuring the continuation of the Outbound operations.”
“So I've heard. But why would Kotsukov associate with them? Logically, he'd consider them traitors, right?”
Bulganin nodded. “And so he did. But Kotsukov was practical. They had the same foes: the Sols. Besides, for the time being, Kotsukov was only too glad to see Earth ridding herself of dissidents so disaffected that they would rather take their chances traveling to the stars.” Bulganin shrugged. “Towards the end, he even helped them to arrange their secret meetings.”
“Secret meetings? Why secret?”
“Well, I think the Outbounders were starting to make contingency plans, trying to decide what they should do if Earth terminated work on the current colony ship.”
“Were they considering militant options?”
“I'm not sure, Sir, but I think some of them were. And Kotsukov, he . . . well, he . . .”
“Yes?”
Bulganin swallowed. “He told me where they held the meetings.”
* * *
As the ventilation fan cycled to a slow halt, Bulganin uncoupled the unit's hinge. A heavy push, a scratchy squeal of breaking rust, and then the fan and its mounting bracket swung inward, revealing an air shaft approximately one meter in diameter. Bulganin squeezed himself into the aperture and waved for Lee to follow.
It was a tight crawl. On three separate occasions, Lee regretted that Fast Eddie wasn't familiar with the ventilation system. He would have been a much faster duct-crawler than Bulganin.
After half an hour of crawling, Bulganin came to a dead end where the vent broadened and was blocked by a rapidly spinning fan. After cutting power to the fan and waiting for the blades to drift to a halt, the Russian freed the hinge and yanked the fan inward. It swung back, revealing a tight-meshed grate. The two men crawled forward until they were within inches of the mesh.
Beyond the black metal grille-work, about thirty-five individuals were sitting in an irregular semicircle. Bulganin pointed once, twice, three times; “Briggs, the leader and the smartest. Kerkonnen, his right hand. Xi, good spokesperson. She's only twenty-seven; holds more appeal for the younger ones.” The other individuals represented a broad mix of age, ethnicity, and profession.
Lee drew his sidearm: he was once again carrying a standard issue ten-millimeter caseless automatic. Concerned that the homebrewed Upsider gyrojet pistol might raise some eyebrows and unwanted speculation about his own loyalties, he kept it well out of sight.
Lee's attempt to eavesdrop on the Outbounders' debate was unsuccessful. “Bulganin, can you hear what they're saying?”
“No, Sir. Too much noise out there and too much echo in here.”
Lee checked his watch. “Well, we'll have the opportunity to inquire about the topic of tonight's meeting soon enough. Coming up on the two-minute mark. Check your weapon and make sure you've got tranq rounds loaded.”
Bulganin frowned. “Are you sure you want the tranq, Sir?”
“Quite sure, Sergeant. Besides, we'll have another option on call if we need it.”
Bulganin nodded, produced his own ten-millimeter automatic, and sat so that his legs were curled up between his body and the grille.
Lee watched the seconds tick away. “Follow me in as soon as you can. And don't try jumping for distance, Arkady, just a good landing.”
“And ‘safety-on' until I'm steady.”
“Right. Okay, it's show time. Make it a good kick.”
Lee, alongside Bulganin, rose into a scrunched parody of a sprinter's crouch. The sergeant pulled his legs back and kicked the grate—hard.
As the grate tumbled out and away—pinwheeling in the low-gee—Lee launched himself forward. His fast, level glide carried him about seven meters, at which point he swept his bent legs up and then stamped down; a whump and he was grounded. He snapped the handgun's safety off—and could barely keep from grinning at the semicircle of open mouths before him.
“In accordance with Earth Union Legal Code 1770B2, I am detaining all persons here assembled, effective immediately. Please do not—”
Xi and two others launched into a long, floating run toward the room's main entrance, a large door directly opposite the vent Lee had come through. Bulganin, landing with a thump just a few feet behind Lee, made a guttural inquiry. “Drop them?”
“Not necessary, Sergeant. Just flank out.”
Xi and her companions reached the door just as it opened inward, revealing two panicked adolescents. They began screaming about a raid and were then forcibly propelled forward into the room, courtesy of Fast Eddie's booted feet. Xi turned and bolted back the way she had come.
But the other two exits were now blocked by Lee and Bulganin respectively. Xi completed her last leaping step just a few feet away from where she had started, her lips a taut line, her almond-shaped eyes wide and bright—and locked on the pistol Bulganin had pointed at her. Behind Xi, Briggs and Kerkonnen exchanged looks and raised their hands slowly into the air.
Lee holstered his weapon, but left the safety off. “Much better. And now, if you don't mind, I've got a few questions . . .”
* * *
Perlenmann stared at Lee over steepled fingers and across a table littered with open books. “So where does that leave us?”
“Just about back where we started.”
Perlenmann closed a few books, revealing more open ones beneath, as well as the new scanner that had been offloaded from the Gato. “You're sure none of the Outbounders were involved in the sabotage?”
“Am I sure? I don't know if I'm sure of anything.” Lee sighed, wondered what the scanner was doing mixed in with Perlenmann's precious books. “I can tell you this much, however. If any of the Outbounders were involved in some elaborate false-flag sabotage plot, they're keeping it a secret from their own leaders.”
“What about Ms. Xi? She seems to their political firebrand; could she be more militant than she appears?”
Lee shook his head. “Not likely. And she's got a pretty good alibi for the seventy-two hours prior to the explosion.”
“Oh?”
“She was home with a nasty virus that's been going around; confined to bed per Iseult's orders. Lots of folks visited her, so she's got wall-to-wall witnesses who can testify that she was at home constantly during the three days preceding the explosion.”
Perlenmann shrugged. “I suppose we must conclude, then, that the Outbounders were not the saboteurs.”
“Leaving who? The Sols—if any of them are even on Callisto? Or a lone psychopath?”
Another shrug. “Maybe the former, but I doubt the latter. The Earth Union bureaucracy screens for mental aberrations before allowing access to Callisto.”
“Well, then, I'm fresh out of possible suspects.”
Perlenmann re-steepled his fingers. “Well, presuming the explosion is not an expression of madness, it must still advance the objectives of the saboteur, who is evidently not a Dirtsider, an Outbounder, and probably not a Sol.”
“Apparently.”
Perlenmann shrugged. “So maybe it is no longer effective to go looking for the culprit. Maybe we must trick him into standing forth where we can see him.”
Lee frowned. “I don't understand—”
And then, with the suddenness of an eye snapping open, Lee understood—and not just about the sabotage, but about the Fragrant Blossom's hijacking, as well. “Mr. Perlenmann, I'm going to make a quick, private call to the Gato. Then I'm going to confer with Dr. Iseult before we call for a closed-door meeting . . .”
* * *
Lee made sure that his face was set in grim lines when he reentered Perlenmann's briefing room later that day. His nod of greeting was returned by Iseult and the administrator. Parsons scowled at him from the far end of the table. Briggs and Xi simply looked worried.
Lee shoved aside a few books as he sat down. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
Parsons' scowl deepened. “Yeah, well, I got a lot of work to do, so—”
“Then we might as well get straight to it. Dr. Iseult?”
Genevieve folded her hands in front of her but did not look up. Her voice was small and tight. “Mr. Panachuk died a few hours ago.”
Perlenmann's eyes widened slightly. Briggs looked saddened, Xi looked concerned, and Parsons, open-mouthed, struggled to get out a single word: “What?”
Iseult explained. “When the tank exploded, Panachuk was evidently hit by a needlelike fragment traveling at very high speed. It must have entered on the same trajectory as the larger fragment we removed. Consequently there was no separate entry wound. The smaller fragment entered high in his left lung. When Panachuk later reported intermittent coughing with slightly bloody sputum, we presumed he had come down with the same bug that recently affected Ms. Xi and so many others—all the more likely since Panachuk's burns taxed his immune system and made him particularly susceptible to opportunistic infection.
“Possibly Panachuk didn't feel the fragment working its way inward with each coughbecause of the the pain medication he was receiving for his burns. Or possibly, he did feel it but didn't want to risk being invalided out of his job here. Either way, the first warning we had was when we found him unconscious with rapidly deteriorating coronary function.” Iseult looked away. “The fragment ultimately worked its way into his heart. By the time we isolated the problem and prepped him for surgery, he was dead.”
Parsons had grown very pale. “Jesus Christ. Poor Panachuk. His wife Marta is—”
“That will have to wait, Mr. Parsons,” Lee interrupted. “We've got a bigger problem to deal with.”
Parsons frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Panachuk's death means that this is no longer merely material sabotage; the crime now includes murder—the murder of one of your people. How long do you think your workers are going to wait for the wheels of justice to turn? That's why I've asked you all to assemble here. If we don't find the killer fast, your workers may take matters into their own hands and lynch some scapegoat. Fortunately, I think we have a strong suspect.”
Briggs blinked; Xi looked wary. “Who?” she asked.
“Jack Carroll, chief engineer.”
“Jack?” Parsons stared blankly at Lee. “You've got to be kidding.”
“I'm not. He's got the know-how, he had the opportunity, and we have evidence that he tampered with the forensics results.”
“In what way?”
Lee leaned back. “Well, in his report, Carroll claimed that he couldn't establish the make of the commercial watch that the saboteur used as the timer for the electric igniter. I went over the evidence myself and I'm pretty sure I have been able to type the watch—which is identical to one which Carroll owned, and which he reported as missing about a week before the explosion.”
Parsons shuddered, then shook his head. “You're wrong. Even if Carroll did it, he wouldn't have killed anybody. He could—and would—have prevented that from happening.”
Lee frowned. “I'm not sure I understand how you reach that conclusion, Mr. Parsons.”
Parsons scowled “Because if he really wanted to kill people, he'd have used a spark-gap igniter to touch off the hydrogen, not one of those dinky magnetic-induction igniters—”
Parsons stopped. Lee was smiling and Perlenmann's left eyebrow had risen precipitously.
Lee leaned forward. “Tell me, Mr. Parsons, how did you happen to know—know—that the saboteur used a magnetic-induction igniter rather than a spark-gap igniter?”
Parsons' complexion—already pale—became corpselike.
Lee continued. “You couldn't know about it from Carroll's final forensic report; I had that sealed, pending the conclusion of this investigation. And you couldn't have identified the igniter at our first staff meeting; it took Carroll two hours with a microscope to determine that what kind of igniter it was. So I ask you again, Mr. Parsons: how did you happen to know that the igniter used was a magnetic-induction model?”
Parsons didn't say anything; his eyes went around the room, starting at Lee and ending at Perlenmann. Then, he started to rise—
The door opened and Fast Eddie leaned in from the corridor, ten-millimeter automatic held securely in both hands. It was centered on Parsons' chest. Parsons sank slowly, carefully, into his seat.
Lee leaned back with a sigh. “Mr. Parsons, I'm going to ask you this question just one more time . . .”
* * *