Dan hovered in the doorway to his office. Dangling several inches above the deck of the command module just outside Tighe’s office, Weiss gripped a handhold firmly, but didn’t show any adverse effects of weightlessness. He had an airsick bag wedged under his belt. Kurt Jaeckle hovered next to Weiss. He had appeared the instant he learned that a reporter had arrived on the aerospace plane.
“The station comprises three distinct sets of personnel,” Dan was explaining, his face taut with tension. “There is the station crew, the Martians, and the Trikon scientists. This last set is divided into three further subsets: the American/Canadian group, the United Europe group, and the Japanese group.”
“I know all this,” Weiss said.
“You are free to visit any of the lab modules,” said Dan, putting more iron into his voice to discourage further interruptions. “But you cannot go beyond what the individual module’s personnel will allow. In other words, you must honor their desires for security.”
“You are welcome in the Mars module,” piped Jaeckle.
“Furthermore,” continued Dan, “certain modules will be strictly off limits to you unless you are accompanied by myself or a member of the crew. These include the command module and the logistics module.”
Weiss nodded, although the expression on his puffed-up face showed he was anything but happy with Tighe’s restrictions.
“Finally,” Dan added, “Dr. Renoir is at your disposal for any and all medical needs.”
“She’s already fitted me with a motion-sickness pad,” said Weiss.
“Fine,” Dan snapped. He glanced at Jaeckle, then returned his stern gaze to Weiss. “That’s all I have to say. I trust you will do your best not to interfere with the smooth operation of the station.”
Weiss mumbled something that did not sound like wholehearted agreement, but Dan let it go.
“Do you want to start with the Mars module?” asked Jaeckle, beaming the smile he reserved for members of the media.
“Not really,” said Weiss.
Hugh O’Donnell held the tiny strip of computer printout to one of the lights in his lab. The blood analysis unit Dan Tighe had pilfered from Dr. Renoir’s medical bay was programmed to screen thirty distinct drugs, from common natural substances like marijuana to obscure synthetics like 3, 4-methylenedioxamphetamine. He had obtained one positive result.
O’Donnell folded the printout into a pocket and squeezed out the door. None of the lab workers scattered throughout The Bakery paid him any mind as he secured his padlock. Except for Stu Roberts. He stared at O’Donnell with a cold, calculating eye as he hovered at an oblique angle between the microwave ovens fifteen meters away.
Dan Tighe was behind the closed door of his office. O’Donnell could hear him talking to someone over the radio. The topic of conversation was a TV news reporter who had apparently arrived at Trikon Station on the aerospace plane. Dan did not sound pleased with his presence.
O’Donnell waited until there was a lull in the chatter before rapping on the partition. The door slid open half a foot to reveal Tighe, his broad face pinched by a set of headphones.
“Be right with you. Let me wind up this report.”
The door closed and, after another minute of highly technical chatter, opened again. Dan no longer wore the headphones, although there was a white line where they had pressed against his roughened cheek.
“I have the blood work,” said O’Donnell, keeping his voice low.
Dan released himself from the foot loops and drifted toward the rear of the office, giving O’Donnell enough room to squeeze inside the narrow compartment.
“Better close the door,” he said.
O’Donnell obliged, then worked the printout from his pocket. Dan looked haggard. He had missed a spot shaving and his mouth was drawn down in an expression that in a lesser man would be worry, perhaps even fear.
“So what have we got?” he asked.
O’Donnell could tell from Tighe’s tone that he was tightly wound.
“The panel allows tests for thirty different types of drugs, some common, some not so common.”
“Get to the point,” said Dan. “Was Cramer dirty?”
“His blood tested positive for PCP.”
“I know that’s bad,” said Dan. “Now what the hell is it exactly?”