Abruptly, Jeffries and Stanley slid through the hatch. Jeffries, a rangy, long-limbed black from Virginia Polytech, was Tighe’s most experienced crewman, with more than a year in space, the last six months on Trikon Station. He would be rotating back to Earth when the shuttle finally arrived, and Tighe would be sorry to lose him. Stanley was the station’s only Aussie: sandy hair, lazy grin, the powerful build of a swimmer. Neither man had ever experienced an emergency power-down. They both looked worried.
Lorraine backed away from the doorway so the two crewmen could enter. Tighe quickly explained the situation, unconsciously spicing this version with more jargon than the account he had given Lorraine.
“Okay,” he said, taking a breath. “Stanley, you stay here with Dr. Renoir. I want nobody, and I mean nobody, to enter the command module except for me. Jeff, you and I are going to conduct a complete search of the station.”
Jeffries shoved off. As Tighe followed toward the hatch, Lorraine floated back to the infirmary and started to unlock a pharmaceutical compartment. Tighe stopped his momentum and cocked his head.
“Preparing tranquilizers,” she said in response to his unstated question.
“Good thinking,” said Tighe, and dove after Jeffries.
Wordlessly Lorraine watched him disappear down the passageway.
Hugh O’Donnell cast a dubious eye at the roadhouse. Its windows were boarded with plywood and its cratered gravel parking lot was empty except for a single pickup truck.
“Looks like it’s closed,” shouted Lance Muncie over the growl of the relentless wind.
Freddy bounced off the skateboard he used for long-distance treks and clambered up an awning post to an uncovered section of window.
“Somebody inside,” he said as he cupped a hand against the glass.
Muncie was young and big, varsity-football big, with heavily muscled arms and powerful hands. Yet he looked almost baby-fat soft: short-cropped blond hair and pinkly cherubic face. He frowned at the tattered sign clinging to the doorjamb, advertising topless dancing, and at the photos, censored with black squares across each woman’s chest.
“Let’s try another place,” he said, pulling himself away from the peeling poster.
A cardboard box smacked against O’Donnell’s legs, then flew across the parking lot. “There isn’t any other place,” he snapped, already regretting that he had accepted Freddy’s invitation.
Freddy slid down the post until he was eye level with Lance.
“‘Scuse us a second, eh, O’Donnell?” he said.
O’Donnell moved out of earshot, which was only a few feet away in the thundering gale. Apparently Freddy knew how to handle this Muncie kid. Freddy spoke earnestly, and some of the hardness drained from Lance’s face. Lance shrugged. Freddy shot a stage wink at O’Donnell and bounced onto his skateboard. Lance held the door as Freddy rolled through.
The bartender was an amiable sort, fat and bearded and looking like he would be more comfortable in the cab of an eighteen-wheeler than behind a bar on Cape Canaveral. The storm had interrupted food delivery, he explained, but he might rustle up some tuna on toast if that suited their fancy. Everyone agreed that would be just fine.
“Where ya’ll stayin’ at?”
Freddy was gawking at the uncensored photos of the dancers taped to the mirror and Lance was staring at his fingernails, so O’Donnell answered, “The New Ramada.”
“That’s where they put up shuttle passengers.” The bartender looked at Freddy. “Say, I know you. You’re that legless guy they’re sending up.”
“Astronaut Fernando Aviles at your service.” Freddy vaulted onto the bar and spun himself on one hand.
“Goddamn,” said the bartender. “You don’t need no micro-gee to be an acrobat.”
Freddy returned to his stool.
“Goin’ to Space Station Freedom, huh?”
“Not Freedom. Trikon.” Freddy mussed Lance Muncie’s hair. “Lance and me, we’re part of the crew.”
“Trikon, huh? That’s the industrial one, ain’t it?” The bartender looked at O’Donnell. “You a scientist or something?”
“Something,” said O’Donnell.
The bartender served tuna sandwiches and poured three glasses of grapefruit juice. Freddy accepted a shot of rum in his; Lance and O’Donnell refused. As the men ate, the bartender made small talk and professed a deep interest in all matters extraterrestrial. As if to prove his dedication, he switched the television to the “Good Morning, World” show. The screen showed a man wearing a crimson flight suit and bobbing effortlessly in what appeared to be a padded room. Nearby, a lanky blond wearing an identical flight suit pedaled a cycle attached to the floor.