Dan cast a disapproving glance at her. “Repairs are on schedule. We’ll be open for business again in three weeks.”
“Great.”
“It helps to have Bianco here,” Dan added. “It’s funny: he doesn’t push anybody, but somehow things seem to be getting done much faster with him watching.”
“He’s an inspirational force,” said Lorraine.
“I’ll bet,” Hugh said.
“How is your leg?” Lorraine asked. “Is the therapy proceeding satisfactorily?”
“Yeah, I guess. Slow but steady, you know.”
“You ought to come back up here,” Dan said. “It would be good for you.”
Hugh nodded, knowing that it was impossible. Changing the subject, he said, “I hear congratulations are in order.”
Lorraine looked surprised. Dan tried to look noncommittal.
Hugh grinned at them. “Come on, the rumor’s all over the tabloids. ‘Space station commander and medical officer to marry.’ ”
Lorraine broke into a huge smile. “Dan told me what I said under the influence of the Lethe. He asked if I wanted to retract any of it. I said no.”
“Tighe, you’re a true romantic,” said Hugh.
“Ramsanjawi would be surprised to learn he’s a matchmaker, huh?” said Dan. “Is your leg really coming along okay? Is there anything we can do?”
“I’ll miss the next Olympics,” said High. Out of the corner of his eye he saw clothes being tossed into a suitcase on his bed. “You guys are okay up there?”
“The lab modules are still a mess,” said Dan. “Otherwise, we’re operational.”
He continued as if issuing a report to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Mars module had fared the best because it had separated early and somehow had avoided a collision as the station cartwheeled across the sky. Half of the Martians had resigned from the project. NASA and ESA were requiring the rest to recertify, including Jaeckle. Although his demented separation order had saved the multibillion-dollar module from severe damage, neither agency was treating him as a hero.
Fabio Bianco, that old coot, was busily selecting a new contingent of scientists and preaching that the entire incident was an object lesson on the need for international cooperation.
Hugh listened absently to Dan’s account. His time in the station seemed part of a distant past, a dream that reverberated in the deepest chambers of his mind whenever he dropped off to sleep. And these two people, his only friends since he had ceased existing as Jack O’Neill, were now images on a screen.
But there was one memory that prodded him daily. He remembered waking up in the ex/rec area, floating among the debris and damaged equipment. His shattered leg throbbing red-hot inside his EMU, sending up blinding waves of pain. Dan and Lorraine swam out of the shadows. They pried him out of his suit and fashioned a splint for his leg. Later, at the sick bay, Lorraine offered him a painkiller.
“No drugs,” he had said, and slipped back into the darkness. She had honored his request.
Dan stopped talking, and Hugh realized that they were staring at him. He shifted his weight on the cane. From the bedroom came the sound of heavy luggage being slammed shut.
“Company?” Dan asked, arching his eyebrows.
Welch stepped out of the bedroom and peered at Hugh over the tops of his sunglasses. Freddy Aviles, walking rockily on prosthetic legs, passed behind him. Both men carefully stayed out of range of the videophone’s lens. Welch pointed at the screen and drew his finger across his neck.
“Sort of,” said Hugh. “I’ve got to go now.”
“Come up and see us,” Lorraine said.
“Right,” Dan agreed. “Whenever you can. Just let me know and I’ll set up the transportation for you.”
“Thanks,” said Hugh, feeling awkward, under surveillance. “I’ll try.”
“Move your ass,” said Welch as soon as Hugh cut the phone connection. “Plane leaves in an hour.”
Hugh started for the bedroom, leaning heavily on his cane. The damned leg hurt like hellfire.
His eye caught Freddy’s. He saw sympathy there. A shared pain.
“I’m not going on the plane,” Hugh heard himself say to Welch.
“What?”
“I’m not going with you. I’m going back to Trikon Station.”
Welch’s face looked like a smoldering volcano. “What do you think . . .”