They knew now what had killed Wilhelmsen: Ben Pollard had put them onto it and Porey’s question to Dekker had shown it plain as plain. Wilhelmsen had been UDC command track. Pete Fowler had been the shadow behind Dekker’s status, the real decision-maker—and the UDC had put them into the same cockpit. But they couldn’t put mat story in the release to the media—they dared not confuse the issue. Dekker was the point man, the—what had Saito said—the face the public knew? Dekker was the command officer of record in both crews; and that was the way the story was going to Earth.
Himself, he put on his jacket and went to evening rec, where there was a general liberty in force, with most of the reporters packed in with the senators on the shuttle, about six hours distant from the crews, thank God.
Thanks to some other agency, he was trapped with eight of them on station for at least a week. And damned if he was going to deal with them blind.
Beer and vodka were permissible; and Mitch and the UDC’s Deke Chapman were doing a v-vid arcade game, noisy and rude, with bets down and the marine guards in on it, when a command officer walked in on it unannounced.. .
“Graff,” Meg said, the whole room drew a breath, seemed to decide it was a friendly tour, and went back to an abated roar; Vasquez offered the lieutenant a beer.
“Sip,” Graff said, in the way of a Shepherd who was on duty; so Graff got his sip to a cheer from all about, then said, quietly, “Pollard. Word with you. Outside.”
Quick frown from Sal.
“No trouble,” Graff said. “Just an operational. As you were, everybody.”
Jokes on that score, no disrespect at all, just guys on an R&R from death and destruction. Meg slid into her chair again, caught Dek’s hand, because he was looking spaced again—
Letdown, she understood that. Only thoroughly happy moment he’d had in his life, by all she knew; and they’d hit him head-on with that business with his mother and the peacers. He looked her in the eyes now as if she had the answers—as if, as the rab would say, she was the word and the know-how.
And maybe she had been that, once, for a lot of people— maybe she’d been more, once, than she ever let on to those who checked on such things—but the generations changed, the whole human race spun and raced toward tomorrow after tomorrow, and if you were twenty-five now you didn’t know the rab that had been the young and the foolish and the seekers after personal truth. The rab is, they’d used to say—after the Company man had said, No dealing with rabble. The rab is, and the rab will be, and screw the corp— Was it lover or her personal tomorrow—looking into her eyes and hanging on the words?
“She’ll get out,” she told him, because she knew it was his mama he was brooding about; and maybe Cory. He didn’t have many tracks left when he got this far down. She hit his arm, and said, “Rab is and rab does, jeune fils. And they shot us down. Don’t forget that. Shot you down. I got .nothing to teach you about being screwed.” “She never cared about politics, Meg!” “We got to do, got to do, jeune His. Life is, death is, and mat’s all; but we’re here and they got to deal with that. They got to deal with us.”
Dek had been a kid when the rab had lost its innocence, and the blood had run on the Company steps. Severely young, Dek still was, in some ways. She couldn’t be, again; and she told it cold and plain as she’d learned it herself: “There’s no luck, jeune rab, things don’t brut happen for no damn reason, and you aren’t it, forgive, cher. But nobody at this table, not me and not you and not Sal, is that important, mat God is going to screw up somebody else’s life to get you. I dunno who, I dunno why, but we’ve eliminated God as a suspect….”