“They came in during the night shift, when only Inga and Oscar were there, about nine or ten of them, according to Oscar. They beat him and slit Inga’s throat. The man who did it laughed about it. Then they emptied the warehouse. Every box, every carton, every bit of stock we had. It’s all gone. All of it.”
Fuchs’s teeth were grinding together so furiously his jaw began to ache. Amanda was trying hard to keep from crying.
“I’m perfectly fine,” she was saying. “This all happened late last night. The morning shift found Inga on the floor in a pool of blood and Oscar tied and gagged all the way in the rear of the warehouse. And—and that’s the whole story. I’m all right, no one’s bothered me at all. In fact, everyone seems to be very protective of me today.” She brushed at her hair again. “I suppose that’s all there is to say, just at this moment. Hurry home, darling. I love you.”
The screen went blank. Fuchs pounded a fist against the unyielding bulkhead and roared a wordless howl of frustration and rage.
He leaped off the cot and ripped open the flimsy sliding door of his cubicle. Still clad in nothing but his shorts he stormed up the ship’s passageway to the bridge.
“We must get to Ceres as fast as possible!” he shouted to the lone crewwoman sitting in the command chair.
Her eyes popped wide at the sight of him.
“Now! Speed up! I have to get to Ceres before they murder my wife!”
The woman looked at Fuchs as if he were a madman, but she summoned the captain, who came onto the bridge wrapped in a knee-length silk robe, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“My wife is in danger!” Fuchs bellowed at the captain. “We must get to Ceres as quickly as possible!”
It was maddening. Fuchs babbled his fears to the captain, who finally understood enough to put in a call to IAA mission control for permission to increase the ship’s acceleration. It took nearly half an hour for a reply to come back from IAA headquarters on Earth. Half an hour while Fuchs paced up and down the bridge, muttering, swearing, wondering what was happening at Ceres. The captain suggested that they both put on some clothes, and went back to his quarters. Nodon appeared, then left without a word and returned minutes later carrying a pair of coveralls for Fuchs.
Tugging them on and sealing the Velcro closures, Fuchs asked the crewwoman to open a communications channel to Ceres. She did so without hesitation.
“Amanda,” he said, “I’m on the way. We are asking for permission to accelerate faster, so I might be able to reach you before our scheduled arrival time. I’ll let you know. Stay in your quarters. Ask some of the people who work for us to act as guards at your door. I’ll be there as soon as I can, darling. As soon as I can.”
By the time the captain returned to the bridge, face washed, hair combed, and wearing a crisp jumpsuit with his insignia of rank on the cuffs, the answer arrived from IAA control.
Permission denied. Lubbock Lights will remain at its current velocity vector and arrive at Ceres in three and a half more days, as scheduled.
Trembling, Fuchs turned from the robotlike IAA controller’s image on the screen to the uniformed captain.
“I’m sorry,” said the captain, with a sympathetic shrug of his shoulders. “There’s nothing I can do.”
Fuchs stared at the man’s bland, scrubbed face for half a moment, then smashed a thundering right fist into the captain’s jaw. His head snapped back and blood flew from his mouth as he buckled to the deck. Turning on the gape-mouthed crew woman, Fuchs ordered, “Maximum acceleration. Now!”
She glanced at the unconscious captain, then back at Fuchs. “But I can’t—”
He ripped an emergency hand torch from its clips on the bulkhead and brandished it like a club. “Get away from the controls!”
“But—”
“Get out of that chair!” Fuchs bellowed.
She jumped to her feet and stepped sideways, slipping along the curving control panel, away from him.