“Ah. I see,” said Bianco.
“I have told you nothing that you could not find out from the newspapers,” Ramsanjawi said.
“I am not a legal expert,” said Bianco. “Nor am I a detective. But I will use the best lawyers and detectives on Earth to determine what role Sir Derek Brock-Smythe has played in the attempted destruction of Trikon Station. I promise you that.”
Ramsanjawi gave the old man a pitying smile. “What good would that do, except to satisfy your curiosity? Sir Derek will never leave enough evidence to bring him to court, let alone convict him.”
“I do not need a court of law,” Bianco said, his voice as thin and sharp as a stiletto.
Ramsanjawi blinked once, twice. Then he understood. And he had no reply.
17 OCTOBER 1998
CORONA DEL MAR, CALIFORNIA
“Hello, Dad?”
“Bill? Is it really you?”
“Yeah. How are you?”
“Where are you calling from, son?”
“From school. I transferred to Wichita State.”
“Oh . . . It’s good to hear your voice, son.”
“Are you okay? I mean, we heard about the trouble on the station. It was on all the news shows.”
“Sure, everything’s okay here. We’re getting things patched up. Why’d you transfer? What happened…”
“I’m not cut out for liberal arts, Dad. They’ve got a good engineering school here at Wichita.”
“Engineering? What kind?”
“Aerospace.”
[Silence for four seconds.]
“Uh, Dad . . . I got kind of worried about you.”
“I’m all right.”
“Are you coming back down to Earth?”
“Not for a while. I’d sure like it if you could come up here, once we’ve got everything shipshape again.”
“You would?”
“Sure.”
“For real?”
“Certainly, Bill.”
[Uncertain sound, possibly laughter.] “I told Mom you would. She claimed you didn’t want to have anything to do with me.”
“Didn’t want . . . ! Hell, I wanted you to come up on the space plane two weeks ago. But I guess it’s a good thing that you didn’t. Things got kind of hairy up here for a while.”
“But it’s all okay now, isn’t it?”
“Yep. Everything’s fine now.”
“Uh, Dad, is it okay if I call you again?”
“Sure! Certainly. I’d like to call you…”
“Well, Mom gets kind of upset when you call, you know. That’s why I waited until I got to campus.”
“I see.”
“She gets all wound up.”
“I do want to see you, son. Whether it’s up here or back on Earth.”
“I’d sure get a blast out of coming up there!”
“Okay, we’ll try to work something out for you.”
“Great!”
“I’ll call you in a day or two.”
“Okay. Make it around this time in the afternoon. I’m usually in the dorm then.”
“I want you to tell your mother, Bill. It’s not a good thing to keep secrets from her.”
“Sure, okay. I’m learning how to handle her — I think. So long for now, Dad.”
“So long for now, son.”
— Transcript of telephone conversation,
William R. Tighe (Wichita, Kansas) to Cmdr. D. Tighe (Trikon Station), 11 September 1998.
Hugh O’Donnell stared at the foaming water of the Jacuzzi. He had always had wiry, marathon runner’s legs, but after six weeks in a hip cast his right leg was toothpick thin. And hairless. From the waist down he looked like two different people. That’s why he enjoyed the Jacuzzi: he didn’t have to see that damn leg.
The synthesized tone of the videophone sliced through the humid air. The apartment may have been equipped with this fancy bathroom/spa, but its only telephone was located in the living room. The rings mounted, five, six, seven times. No one else wanted to answer. Hugh swung out of the water, knotted his bathrobe around his waist, and hobbled into the living room on his cane.
His leg was still too stiff to bend comfortably unless it was immersed in warm water, so he leaned on the back of the sofa and shouted the phone’s answering code. The faces of Dan and Lorraine appeared on the monitor; him grinning, her smiling radiantly.
“How are you, buddy?” Dan asked.
“Hobbling along. I sure miss microgravity, with this leg. How’s everything up there?”
“Hobbling along,” Lorraine answered.