“Someone downloaded files from the terminal in the American module,” Tighe said.
“Is that a problem with the Americans?” said Ramsanjawi. “For shame! I thought we all were dedicated to the common good.”
“I don’t care what you do among yourselves. I don’t care if you kill each other, just as long as you do it off company property.”
“Pray tell then, Commander, why are these American files so important?”
“Because they contain a bug. Whoever tries to upload those files will crash his computer. If that bug gets into the mainframe, this power-down will look like the Fourth of July in comparison.”
A laugh bubbled in Ramsanjawi’s throat, but Tighe sensed there was precious little humor in it.
“Commander Tighe, if your power-down had not been so ill-timed your explanation would be merely pathetic. My staff and I have worked for one month”—Ramsanjawi held a stubby finger aloft—”one entire month to produce a microbe with a genetic structure capable of neutralizing seven toxic substances. Not one, not two. Seven! Just before eight o’clock this morning, we began testing the microbe in that pressure tank behind your left shoulder. Don’t bother to look, Commander. This particular microbe can survive only under prescribed conditions of temperature and pressure. Your power-down has caused one month’s work to, how shall we say—evaporate?”
His dark eyes were glittering now, betraying the fury that his smile was trying to mask.
“And now you tell me that this bold move was occasioned by a theft of some American computer files.” Ramsanjawi laughed again, and it sounded even thinner than before. “Are you intimating that I would covet the work of the American microbiologists?”
“Cut the crap, Doctor,” Tighe snapped. “I don’t give a damn what’s in those files except for that bug. I want to know whether anyone in your group stole those files. Because until I find them, the power-down will continue.”
Ramsanjawi exhaled deeply; again, Tighe backed away.
“I will question my staff,” said Ramsanjawi, “I assure you that if any one of them is responsible, he—or she—will turn over the files.”
“You know where to find me,” said Tighe. He started to move toward the hatch.
“And Commander,” said Ramsanjawi. “I would wager that anyone clever enough to download those files would be too smart to attempt to access them here.”
“I don’t have the luxury of being a betting man,” said Tighe.
The next stop was Jasmine. As Tighe and Jeffries traversed the five meters of connecting tunnel between the two entry hatches, they noticed a slight figure speeding toward them in the shadows. They pulled up to a stop. The red-suited figure floated through a band of light. Kurt Jaeckle.
It always surprised Tighe to realize how physically small Jaeckle really was. Tighe himself had the compact build of the typical fighter pilot. Jaeckle was tiny in comparison, skinny and big-domed, almost like a child. But his voice was powerful and he knew how to use it.
“Dan, what the hell is going on?” demanded Jaeckle.
“I ordered everyone to remain where they were,” Tighe said.
“I didn’t think that applied to me,” said Jaeckle. In the weak light his eyes, set deeply in his skull, were totally black pools, like a mask.
“It does.”
“Wait a second, Dan. I’m not one of Trikon’s employees.”
“You’ll be briefed when I deem it necessary,” said Tighe.
“That’s not fair. I’m responsible for eleven other people. I have a right to know the nature of this emergency and I demand to take an active role in whatever decision you intend to make.”
“Everything is under control,” said Tighe. He turned to Jeffries. “Escort Professor Jaeckle back to the Mars module.”
“I wasn’t in the Mars module. I was in the rumpus room, broadcasting a show.”
“All right, Jeff, take him to the rumpus room.”
Jeffries placed his hand on Jaeckle’s shoulder. The professor glared at Tighe but did not resist.
That’s why Jaeckle’s sore, thought Tighe as he watched the two figures fade in the tunnel. His almighty TV show was interrupted.
The Japanese contingent waited together just inside the entryway to their module. Each wore a short lab smock neatly belted at the waist and nylon pants with many pouches. The chief scientist, Hisashi Oyamo, greeted Tighe with a bow. Oyamo resembled a downsized sumo wrestler, stubby but wide in every dimension, practically no neck at all. He had a pockmarked complexion and large watery eyes that complemented the opal ring he wore on one pinkie. Ripples of fat ran up the back of his severely crewcut head.