“But I have a story that will make you famous,” Jaeckle said.
“Stories don’t make me famous.”
“This one will.” Jaeckle shouldered his way into the compartment. “Some weeks ago one of my scientists discovered signs of life in a Martian soil sample.”
“How interesting,” said Weiss. He checked his watch. Four minutes.
“Didn’t you hear me? Life! On Mars!”
“I heard you.”
“The story is yours, exclusively, if you’ll feature the Mars Project.”
“I don’t have time,” said Weiss.
“Look, I’ll be candid with you.” Jaeckle anchored himself in the doorway. “My man’s finding was very tenuous—too tenuous to report through the usual scientific channels. But you could report it! You’ll be the first man to break the story of life on Mars!”
Weiss could have barreled through Jaeckle’s feeble blockade, but the scientist would have yapped at his heels all the way to The Bakery. It was time to play the trump card Zeke had dealt him. He opened the compartment’s desktop and unfastened a tape recorder from its Velcro stay.
“All right,” he said, starting the tape. “I’m here on Trikon Station speaking to the man many believe will lead the first human expedition to Mars.”
Jaeckle arranged himself as if posing for a camera.
“Dr. Jaeckle,” continued Weiss, “what benefits would an expedition to Mars offer the man in the street?”
“Jaeckle blinked once, as if he had not expected exactly that question, but he immediately launched into his reply, “Economic reasons leap to mind first.” His voice resonated in the tiny compartment. “The project itself will employ hundreds of thousands of people. There are also scientific reasons. We can learn much about our own planet by studying the geological and meteorological history of Mars. Then there are the intangibles, the idea that mankind has spread its seed to another planet. And—”
“Interesting image,” said Weiss, cutting Jaeckle off before the scientist became too wound up in his own oratory. “What about the idea that Mars may be a penal colony, like Australia was centuries ago.”
Jaeckle was not flustered. “Well, of course, there are societal aspects—”
“I’m talking specifically about a penal colony for perverts and sociopaths. For men accused of having incestuous relations with their daughters?”
Jaeckle’s sunny smile turned to a trembling, white-faced mask of hatred.
“So she got to you, huh? The bitch already got to you.”
He pulled himself into the aisle and sailed away.
“Au revoir, Kurt Jaeckle,” muttered Weiss. He still had two minutes to spare.
At precisely 2345 hours, Weiss left his compartment. Hab 2 was silent except for the hiss of a full-body shower. The screwdriver was still tucked into the belt of his jeans, and he held the Minicam with one hand to prevent it from banging against the lip of the entry hatch.
Shadows ribbed the pastel-green walls of the connecting tunnel. Weiss shot himself to the hatch of The Bakery. No one was in sight. The only sounds were the whoosh of the ventilator and the occasional groan of the module’s skin stretching in the sunlit void of space.
Weiss pulled himself through the hatch. His heart thumped at the base of his throat and he steadied himself in the corner opposite O’Donnell’s lab until his anxiety passed. The hinges were each held to the door frame by two screws. Their rounded edges reflected tiny beams of light filtering in from the tunnel.
Enough time had passed for anyone who might have seen him enter The Bakery to follow him inside. Weiss opened a button and wedged the Minicam beneath his shirt. Then he worked the screwdriver out of his belt. Cupping it to his chest, he gave the tool a burst of power. The blade spun slowly and silently.
And Weiss spun in the opposite direction, just as slowly and silently, until he whacked the ceiling with his hip. He stifled a string of curses as he realized that, in micro-gee, he who is not firmly anchored by foot loops will be spun by a power screwdriver while the screw remains stubbornly unmoved.
Grumbling under his teeth, Weiss straightened himself out and started to slide his feet into the nearest floor loops. Then the module groaned, and once again his heart rushed to a gallop. He pushed himself into the corner formed by the lab and the forward bulkhead, his eyes fixed intently on the entry hatch. He remained fro/en until he was certain no one was coming. Listening carefully to the groans and whooshes, he familiarized himself with the harmless sounds and hoped he would hear nothing else. Slowly, he rotated himself into position at the lower hinge. He wormed his stockinged feet firmly into the nearest loops. He had to lean forward and sideways quite a bit to fit the screwdriver’s blade into the notch of a screw. He applied power. The screwdriver’s blade danced across the door with a series of agonizingly loud scratches.