Skillen laughed openly as she swam back toward The Bakery. Repair-crew personnel and technicians stared at her as she floated down the tunnel past them. She could not care less.
Here I’ve been telling myself that science and technology have been at fault, that it’s their fault I came down with cystic fibrosis, and all the while it’s my own scientific discipline that’s been working to save me. Wait till my sisters hear this!
Bianco was smiling happily as he pushed along the tunnel past ELM and The Bakery, heading for Hab 2. If Oyamo could see past his nationality and work for the ultimate good, then he had no doubt that a new team of scientists and technicians could be assembled that would grasp the necessity of cooperation rather than competition. We can learn from our mistakes, he told himself. We can do better next time.
Thora Skillen swam by him, heading in the opposite direction, beaming happily. A thread of memory tickled Bianco’s consciousness. But all he could remember was the sight of a waitress from a Venice cafe from fifty years ago. It must be the drug that was in the air, he thought. It is still playing tricks with my mind.
The lab modules he passed were chaotic messes of smashed equipment and spattered chemicals. The repair crews were working hard, but it would take time before Trikon Station was ready to function again. Bianco’s face hardened. His hands clenched into fists.
A Trikon security guard hovered in the corridor of Hab 2, looking slightly green around the gills. His first time in weightlessness, Bianco understood. I wonder if he would be worth anything if it came to a fight.
The guard made a curt nod of recognition as Bianco sailed past him. No matter, the old man thought. There is no fight left in Ramsanjawi, and Muncie is safely wrapped up in the Constellation.
He knocked once at Ramsanjawi’s door and slid it open. A little gasp of surprise puffed from his lips.
Ramsanjawi hovered up near the compartment’s ceiling, hands folded placidly over his middle, his laptop computer floating in front of him, tethered by a single bungee cord.
The Indian was in a royal-blue flight suit. His dark hair, neatly tucked into a mesh net, sparkled as if freshly washed. Gone were the kurta and the cloying perfume.
“So you were in disguise all along,” Bianco said. Pushing into the compartment, he added, “Or is this your disguise?”
Ramsanjawi pushed gently down to the floor. “I have said all that I intend to say, sir, until I have benefit of counsel.”
“Yes, I know. We will respect your rights as a British subject,” said Bianco.
“Of course. Not even Trikon Station is above the law.” A hint of a smirk twitched at the corners of Ramsanjawi’s fleshy face.
Bianco stared into his deep-brown eyes. He saw fear there: the inescapable fear of a man who knew that his fate was forever sealed.
“Before you recovered from the effects of the drug you put into the station’s air system . . .”
“Lethe,” said Ramsanjawi softly. “I created it myself, you know.”
“Yes.” Bianco nodded. “I have learned much about you in the past day and a half.”
The Indian looked almost pleased with himself.
“While you were still under the drug’s influence,” Bianco went on, “you loudly proclaimed that you were under the protection of Sir Derek Brock-Smythe.”
“Did I? How foolish.”
“You deny the truth of your own statement?”
“Certainly.”
Bianco rubbed his chin for a moment. “If anyone is above the law, it would be a personage as lofty as Sir Derek, would it not?”
“Perhaps.” Ramsanjawi tried to keep his face expressionless, and failed. Bianco saw contempt, anger, and the barest hint of hope there.
“However, I fail to see,” the Italian went on, “why a man of Sir Derek’s stature would want to involve himself in protecting you. He did not protect you when you were fired from Oxford, did he?”
Ramsanjawi’s nostrils flared angrily. “He could not make any money out of that fiasco.”
“But out of this fiasco . . . ?”
“He is a major owner of several companies that would profit enormously from a toxic-waste bioremediation microbe.”