With that, Carla Sue spiraled away and punched through the curtain.
Thora Skillen reached her sleep cubicle and slid the door tightly shut. O’Donnell worried her. None of her contacts Earthside had been able to glean a shred of information about him. He was not a security agent, that much seemed sure. He certainly acted like a research scientist, and a damned reclusive one at that.
What is he doing here? The question pounded at her.
Her chest hurt. She knew it was psychosomatic, but the pain was real nonetheless. One of the things the Earthside medical people hoped to determine was how well she resisted infection. They had put her on antibiotics, of course. And then thrown her into this tightly confined space station where anyone with the slightest sniffle quickly spread it to one and all. It was like living through the first week of kindergarten every month; you could tell how long it had been since the shuttle’s last docking by the coughs and sneezes echoing through the station.
She was providing them with the data they sought, Thora told herself grimly. They must be very happy with that. Their experimental animal is behaving well for them.
So far, she thought. So far so good. But time is running out.
She opened the compartment where she kept the antibiotic pills. The bottle was nearly empty, she saw. I’ll have to get Lorraine to give me a refill. She’ll probably want to change the prescription, too. Antibiotics lose their effectiveness over time; your body adapts to them.
Using a long-nosed tweezers, Thora extracted two of the pills from the bottle, then turned toward the door, intending to get a cup of water at the washroom. She stopped, turned back, and took two aspirin, as well. The pain might be psychosomatic, but it hurt.
Russell Cramer paused at the access door to the Mars module’s internal tunnel. It was midafternoon and the module was abuzz with activity. Centrifuges whirred. Computer terminals chirped. The other Martians huddled in groups as they discussed findings about the meteorology and geology of the red planet. But his workstation was silent, and would remain so for another two weeks. They were all making progress but he was not.
Cramer opened the door and edged one foot outside as if testing the water of a swimming pool. He wanted someone, anyone, to see him heading for the blister, but no one paid him any mind. They were busy. They were working. He was about to spend two hours in solitary confinement.
Finally, one of the women noticed him.
“Have fun, Russell,” she called.
Cramer hauled himself into the tunnel and slammed the door.
Cramer belonged to the group with Earth-viewing privileges. In the observation blister he pressed a button on the control panel and the lower portion of the clamshell peeled back. Trikon Station was flying over the eastern Atlantic. Cloud cover was sparse and the ocean was a brilliant, iridescent blue. The sun’s reflection off the water traced a fuzzy round highlight eastward directly beneath the station. But Cramer was not interested in gazing at the spectacular scenery curving majestically beneath him. He was too angry at Kurt Jaeckle to enjoy anything.
Cramer didn’t think he was sick. He didn’t think he was crazy, Sure, he had some trouble sleeping, a few bad dreams. Nothing serious. Nothing that would have warranted discussion on Earth, let alone medical treatment. Everyone was too cautious up here.
But maybe caution hadn’t been the reason for Jaeckle’s order that he spend double time in the blister. People had warned him that Jaeckle’s polished manners concealed a snake’s cunning. Maybe he was less concerned with Cramer’s health than with the newly arrived Martian soil sample. Maybe Jaeckle was using these two-hour time blocks to analyze the samples without him. He was screwing around with Carla Sue Gamble, the backup biochemist. Maybe he’s giving the new soil sample to her!
Cramer dived out of the blister and back into the tunnel. He eased open the access door and peered into the laboratory section. His workstation was unoccupied. He closed the door and noted the time, deciding to check his workstation at fifteen-minute intervals. No one was going to discover life in that soil before him. Not Carla Sue. Not even Jaeckle himself.