“That’s not necessarily true,” Lorraine replied, knowing that she was being evasive, at best.
Her slippered feet anchored in the floor loops, Skillen pulled the top of her sky-blue flight suit back over her shoulders and pressed its Velcro seam shut.
For long moments the two women were silent, facing each other in the narrow confines of the station infirmary. Dr. Renoir floated near the display screen that showed an X-ray picture of Skillen’s lungs.
“Cystic fibrosis isn’t inevitably fatal,” Lorraine said. “In your case the antibiotics seem to be working well. Your lungs are almost clear of infection.”
“For how long?”
“If your immune system needs a booster shot…”
Skillen shook her head. “I watched my twin sister die of this. All that the doctors could do was prolong her suffering.”
“I didn’t realize you were twins.”
“Yes. We were . . . very close. I wanted to die with her.”
“But we’re learning more all the time,” Lorraine said, trying to make her voice brighter. “There’s gene therapy now that looks very promising.”
“There’s always something in the lab that looks very promising,” said Skillen, without rancor. “Has it ever occurred to you, Lorraine, that it’s all these altered genes from all these labs that causes these diseases?”
Lorraine blinked with surprise. “Causes them? But cystic fibrosis has been with us since the beginnings of recorded medical history; long before anyone even started the earliest gene-splicing experiments.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Skillen looked almost amused. “You mustn’t believe everything they tell you, Lorraine.”
“They?”
“Men. Men write the history books, and they are not to be believed.”
Lorraine smiled at her. “If I didn’t know you better I’d wonder if you’re starting to come down with Orbital Dementia.”
“Cranky and suspicious?” Skillen smiled back, a rare expression for her. “There’s nothing demented about being suspicious of men.”
“I suppose not,” Lorraine said, looking away from her. She edged away from the display screen.
“Are we finished?” Skillen asked. “I have to get back to The Bakery.”
“Yes, we’re done. Everything checks out well. The antibiotics are keeping you clear of infection.”
Skillen nodded slightly, as though acknowledging a point she would rather resist. She turned and reached for the door.
“Thora?”
Skillen looked back at Lorraine.
Feeling torn, uncertain, Lorraine heard herself ask, “What would you do if—if you felt that someone was, well, using you?”
“A man?”
Lorraine nodded.
“Sexually?”
She nodded again.
Skillen’s hard-bitten features relaxed into an almost tender aspect. “I’d stop seeing him,” she said gently.
“But if you’ve agreed to work with him…”
“Work is one thing,” Skillen said firmly. “Making love is something else. The two are completely separate. Or should be.”
Lorraine nodded. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”
“Keep your work on a professional level. Make it clear that your relationship will be strictly business and nothing else.”
“I see,” Lorraine said, uncertainly.
“If he insists on mixing sex with business…”
“Yes?”
“Kick him in the balls.”
Flashing a wide grin, Skillen yanked the door open and sailed out of the infirmary.
Carla Sue Gamble simmered silently as she rubbed blush into her big cheeks. She felt her blood boiling. She was damned mad. She was goddamned livid. Nobody treated her so shabbily and got away with it.
She had always known where to find her men. As a University of Florida freshman, she had enrolled in an introductory “Rocks for Jocks” course because it was popular with the varsity football team. She snagged the starting quarterback by wearing pastel miniskirts that climbed the length of her tanned legs during lectures. The relationship barely lasted into basketball season, mainly because—much to her own surprise—she found chemistry much more interesting than the quarterback.
As a sophomore, she took as many science courses as she could. Her sorority sisters thought she had taken leave of her senses. Even the coolest science student was still a nerd compared to a varsity athlete. But Carla Sue found herself genuinely interested in biochemistry, of all things. And not all the guys in her science classes were nerds. They clustered around her like bees seeking a flower.
Kurt Jaeckle had been her biggest catch. The mission to Mars was destined to be her biggest prize, the coup that would set her up for life. The competition for the eventual mission was fierce; being a good scientist was nowhere near enough. You had to be the best, better than the best. Or you had to have strong connections to the men who made the decisions. Carla Sue made a strong connection with Kurt Jaeckle.