MAINTENANCE CENTER
Grant was mildly surprised to see Carter McClintock at the maintenance center. He looked out of place, dressed in a carefully tailored white long-sleeved shirt and neatly pressed gray slacks. Toshio Aichi and Delos Zacharias were wearing their usual tan coveralls, rumpled and faded. Grant himself was in a comfortable pullover and large-pocketed cargo pants.
Zach and Toshio were sitting on stools at a workbench; McClintock stood between them with a puzzled frown creasing his chiseled features. Aichi looked glum, Zach’s usual pleasant smile was nowhere in sight.
Winston’s space suit was stretched out atop the bench like a corpse in a morgue, its hard-shell torso and flexible leggings smeared with gray dust. Grant smelled the faint odor of gunpowder, typical of lunar dust.
“Do you mean to tell me you can’t find anything wrong with his suit?” McClintock was saying.
“Not yet,” Aichi replied, almost hissing the words.
Zach added, “We’ve only been at it for a few hours, man. Give us some time.”
Grant came up to the workbench. “Having a problem?”
Zach shrugged good-naturedly. “Mr. McCee here wants us to find some failure in Win’s suit.”
“And there is none,” Aichi said. Grant could tell from the tone of his voice that Toshio was bristling with suppressed fury.
“Give them some time, Carter,” Grant said easily, smiling as he spoke. “They—”
“We don’t have time,” McClintock snapped. “Selene’s news service has put in six calls about this accident in the past two hours. Earthside news nets are sniffing around, as well. We have to have something to tell them.”
In a small voice, Zacharias said, “No news is good news.”
McClintock glowered at him.
“Look,” said Grant, “if there’re no defects in the suit that’s good news, isn’t it?”
“Good news for you, maybe,” McClintock shot back. “You’ll be off the hook for letting the man go out in a defective suit.”
Grant looked into McClintock’s tawny eyes and said evenly, “The suit checked out fine.”
“But we’ve got a dead man on our hands and the newshounds yapping at our heels.”
“Give the guys some time to check the suit in more detail,” Grant said. “You can’t force results in something like this.”
McClintock turned from Grant to the two technicians. “I want you to call me the minute you find anything. Do you understand me?”
“And if we find nothing?” Aichi countered.
“There’s got to be something!” McClintock insisted. “Find it!”
He brushed past Grant and strode out of the workshop. Neither of the technicians said a word until the door slid shut behind him.
Then Zacharias muttered, “A*shole.”
“Take it easy on him, guys,” said Grant. “He’s right, you know: There’s got to be some reason why Win died, and we’ve got to find what it is.”
Aichi’s stern expression did not waver by a millimeter. “If this suit was the cause of death, we will find the defect. But if that reflects poorly on you, Grant…”
“Find the defect, guys,” Grant told them. “We can’t sort out the responsibilities until we know what the hell happened—and why.”
* * *
Grant went back to the teleoperations center and slumped into a chair next to Josie Rivera.
“How’s it going, Grant?” she asked, without taking her eyes from her console screen.
“Don’t ask,” Grant muttered.
“That bad, huh?”
Grant saw that Josie was monitoring a team of space-suited technicians and gleaming white robots working out at Korolev crater, building the foundation and shelter for the mirror that the nanomachines would create there. Four humans, four robots. They could form teams and play tennis, Grant thought wryly. Doubles.
Turning to face Grant, Rivera asked, “What happened to Win?”
“Damned if I know,” Grant said.
“Damned shame.”
“Yeah.” Jabbing a finger at the console screen, Grant asked, “So how’s the work at Korolev going?”
“No problems,” said Rivera. “They’re getting the job done. Nanomachines arrive from Selene tomorrow.”
Grant nodded. But he was thinking, Nanomachines. Could they have anything to do with Win’s accident? My body’s carrying a shitload of nanobugs. Will they attack me, somehow? He decided to call Kris Cardenas and check out the possibilities.
As he got up from the little wheeled chair he patted Rivera’s shoulder. “Keep up the good work, Josie.”
“Thanks.” As Grant headed for the door, Rivera called out, “Hey, Grant, whatcha doing for dinner tonight? Want to come over to my place?”
“I can’t,” he heard himself say, before he even thought about the consequences. “Until we figure out what happened to Win, I’m not going to be very social.”
“Your loss,” Josie teased.
“Raincheck,” said Grant.
“Sure, boss. Anytime.”