“As I do every day.”
“When was the last time you tested his blood?”
“What makes you think I test his blood at all?”
“I know about his past,” said Dan. “I know the reason he sees you. He’s told me. Now when was the last time you tested his blood?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“I want you to test it again.”
“Why is that, Commander?”
“I assume you heard of O’Donnell’s altercation with Aaron Weiss.”
A look of surprise crossed Lorraine’s face. She hadn’t heard. Dan coupled that with the disheveled braid and didn’t like the connotation. Everyone should have heard about the fight by now.
“Weiss poked his video camera into O’Donnell’s lab.” Dan spoke quickly so that he would not lose his train of thought. Knowing Lorraine was screwing with Jaeckle was one thing; seeing the actual signs was something else. “O’Donnell attacked him and wrestled the camera away. I want to know whether O’Donnell’s reaction was artificially induced.”
“Maybe he just was angry,” said Lorraine. “Everyone is so security conscious. It’s sickening.”
“I know. Maybe someone will develop a pill that will bring them all back to their senses. But until then, I have to deal with this situation the best way I know how.”
“I haven’t noticed any signs, either subjective or objective, that would lead me to believe that Hugh O’Donnell is using drugs,” said Lorraine.
“Neither have I,” Dan said. “But I have to be certain.”
“Are you ordering me to test him?”
“I’m asking you to indulge me.”
“I see,” said Lorraine. “By the way, Commander—it’s time for your blood pressure to be checked.”
Hisashi Oyamo floated in the middle of his sleep compartment, legs tucked under him and hands resting on his knees in the classic meditative position. Actually his hands bobbed weightlessly several inches above his knees, but the calming effect on his mind was the same.
He had just returned from his evening chess game with Ramsanjawi. Once again he had swallowed his pride and allowed the bloated Hindu to best him. That did not bother him; even the greatest warrior retreats when it is to his ultimate advantage.
No, what bothered him was Bianco and his news about the whale deaths. The old man was convinced that the plankton in the seas were dying, killed by toxic wastes. Oyamo held no special fondness for whales. Not dolphins nor any other animals. His father had been a whaler, his livelihood destroyed by the smug Americans and Europeans who had forced an end to commercial whaling twenty years earlier.
But if the plankton die, the human race dies. Japan dies. My family dies.
Oyamo sighed deeply. Am I being realistic or have I merely fallen under Bianco’s spell? The old man is a magician, surely. A great leader, even if he is not Japanese.
He sighed again. I will have to call Tokyo. I must inform them of this change in the situation. Perhaps Bianco has been right all along. Perhaps we should all be cooperating, without regard to nation or race. Perhaps the problem we face is so great that we must work together, fully and completely.
Tokyo, he knew, would not enjoy hearing that.
Long after disposing of Hisashi Oyamo in yet another chess game, Chakra Ramsanjawi stole into the dimly lit ELM. He unlocked a compartment in his office and dislodged the false wall that concealed a larger storage area behind. Attached to the sides by elastic loops were dozens of small brown bottles. Some contained fluids, others contained powders, still others tiny crystals. Ramsanjawi selected one labeled 3-methylfentanyl, another labeled lactose, and a third that was empty. Then he floated out toward the centrifuge.
In some respects, preparing a batch of designer drugs was more difficult in orbit than on Earth. In other respects, it was easier. He could not tap out a pile of powder onto a piece of glass and chop it into fine granules using a scalpel or a razor blade. That phase of preparation had to be done by the arduous use of a propeller-shaped blade rotating within a specially modified food processor. But once the drug was finely chopped, the lack of gravity assured a perfectly homogenous mix.