“That’s all right,” Dan said. “I was out of line.”
”I have something to ask you, Dan.” Lorraine lowered her eyes as if marshaling the precise words, then looked up. “Kurt Jaeckle asked me to assist him in his TV broadcasts. I haven’t given him an answer yet. I wanted to talk to you.”
Dan felt his guts wrench, but kept his face stony. “Are you asking me for my opinion or for my permission?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe both.”
“Do you want to be on TV?”
“It isn’t one of my great dreams, but I think it would be interesting.”
“There’s no regulation against it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It isn’t—” Lorraine turned slightly away from him.
“Well?”
“It’s just that I know that you and Professor Jaeckle are not on the best of terms.”
“That’s irrelevant. The Mars Project is an integral part of this station. If you want to be Professor Jaeckle’s TV assistant, there’s nothing I can do about it as long as it doesn’t interfere with your regular duties.”
“It won’t,” said Lorraine. “So I guess you have no objection.”
He did, but none that he could articulate. Lorraine looked at him as if she expected him to say something, but when he did not she pushed against the bulkhead and headed for the hatch.
Dan watched her sail away, pausing briefly to let the Swede pass on his endless run before slipping through the hatchway. Lorraine had a calming effect on him, all right. But why, after talking to her, did he always feel as though he had just fumbled the ball?
The last dinner shift was long over. The lights in the wardroom had dimmed to a glimmer. In the exercise area, Lance Muncie strained against a variable-resistance rowing machine. With every pull of his bulging arms, with every thrust of his sinewy legs, he grunted out the number of his repetitions. Nine eighty-six, nine eighty-seven…
Freddy Aviles pulled up to the doorway. He had a tool kit lashed to his chest and ten feet of fanfold paper snaking behind him. He gathered the paper into a manageable sheaf, then continued inside.
“Hey, Lance.”
Nine ninety-one, nine ninety-two.
“Oh La-ance.”
Nine ninety-seven, nine ninety-eight.
“Lance Muncie!”
Nine ninety-nine, one thousand.
Lance unhitched himself from the machine and drifted upward. His straw-colored hair was lined with dark streaks of sweat, his cheeks crimson from exertion. His teeth were set on edge, which made his chin protrude as if daring someone to take a poke at it. Freddy had seen this expression before; Lance was worried.
“You okay, man?”
Lance grunted in response. He removed his hairnet and toweled his hair.
“You not okay.”
“I felt my calcium levels decreasing. I needed exercise.”
“Oh, calcium. I see.” Freddy nodded in exaggerated agreement. “You want to help me tonight?”
Lance patted his underarms with the towel, then braced his feet against the rowing machine while he slipped into his shirt.
“Sure, what else do I have to do?”
They drifted leisurely down the connecting tunnel and entered the Mars module. The computer circuits and multiplexers ran behind the ceiling panels in the module’s internal tunnel. Freddy hooked his arm through a handhold and trained a penlight on the top page of his papers. The page was a spaghetti of colored lines and numbers. Freddy muttered thoughtfully as he traced his finger along one of the lines.
“I tried phoning Becky again tonight,” said Lance. “She wasn’t home.”
Freddy directed the penlight at a tiny box set into a crease in the ceiling.
“That’s three nights in a row,” said Lance.
“Maybe she’s away.” Freddy tapped the box with his finger.
“Away where?”
“How would I know? People go places.”
“I’ve never gone three days without talking to her. Never.”
“You have an agreement with her?”
“What sort of agreement?”
“You know, an agreement. You up here for six months. She down there for six months. Six months a long time.” Freddy opened the box with the blade of a screwdriver. “How long you been going out?”
“Two years,” said Lance. “We met when we were seniors at Kansas. She was the prettiest girl I ever saw. Well, I showed you her picture.”