The logistics module had been virtually picked clean of scientific-gear canisters by the time O’Donnell and Roberts entered the hatchway.
O’Donnell found one canister with his name stenciled in black secured to the wall behind a waste drum. Roberts found another adjacent to the food supplies.
The canisters were made of medium-gauge aluminum. Each one was four feet long and three feet in diameter, the maximum size that could pass through Trikon Station’s interior hatchways. Inflatable bladders within the canisters cushioned the contents during lift-off. Depending upon the nature of the equipment, a fully loaded canister on Earth could weigh up to two hundred pounds. On Trikon Station, a person could easily lift the weightless canister with the touch of a finger. But maneuvering it was another matter. Regulations required that two people guide the bulky canisters from the logistics module to the labs, to avoid damaging equipment along the narrow aisles.
O’Donnell and Roberts guided the first canister through the connecting tunnel with little problem. The young tech chattered incessantly about rock music, and O’Donnell nodded at all the pauses. At The Bakery, Roberts directed O’Donnell past the people already at their workstations to a partitioned area located in the starboard forward corner of the module. The cubicle was almost the same size as Dr. Renoir’s office, but it appeared much larger since it was totally empty.
“We called it our overflow storage room,” explained Roberts after they jockeyed the canister through its narrow door. He switched on the drafting lamp bolted to a metal runner on the ceiling. “I wondered why they made us clean it out. It’s gonna be your personal lab.”
“Not very bright in here,” said O’Donnell, seeing that the room was separated from the track of fluorescent lights running down the center of the module.
“I can rustle up a few more lamps for you.”
“Do it. Full-spectrum bulbs,” said O’Donnell.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get them.” Roberts fingered a pair of clips attached to vertical runners on the walls. “You can attach equipment to these. I’d put all your bulky stuff here.” He rapped his knuckles against the bulkhead of the module’s exterior shell. “None of this shit weighs anything, but if you accidentally bump against something bulky you could dislodge the partition.”
As they exited the compartment, O’Donnell realized that the other scientists and technicians were eyeing him from their workstations throughout The Bakery. Some were openly staring. He tried closing the door, but it did not latch properly.
“Is the canister safe in here?”
“No sweat,” said Roberts.
They floated the second canister through the connecting tunnel and into
The Bakery. Again, O’Donnell felt many pairs of eyes boring into his back as he and Roberts stood the canister on end and spun it into the storage room. His lab suddenly seemed quite congested.
“You must be O’Donnell,” said a female voice, sharp as a whipcrack.
O’Donnell pushed aside the canisters and saw an unsmiling woman with a strong jawline, chiseled nose, and a salt-and-pepper crewcut.
“I’m Thora Skillen, coordinating scientist for this laboratory.” She extended her hand through the open door. It was red and blistered, as if she washed with hydrochloric acid. Her lab smock was blotched with faint yellow stains like amoebae. “Trikon certainly threw us a curve adding you. This was the only space available.”
“Tight, but I’ll manage.”
“Trikon informed me that you brought your own materials and supplies but will occasionally require use of our hardware.” Skillen pressed her palms against each of the canisters as if to divine their contents. “Remember that my people have preference.”
“You won’t even know I’m here,” said O’Donnell.
“I hope not,” Skillen said. She seemed coiled with an inner tension, almost vibrating with barely suppressed hostility. “I will cooperate with you as long as it doesn’t interfere with my group’s work. But I will not sacrifice my project for yours, whatever it is.”
She jutted out her chin, nodded in a combination of warning and farewell, and sailed back into The Bakery.
“Charming, isn’t she?” said Roberts.
“I’ve met worse,” O’Donnell said, silently adding, But I’m not sure where.
“Thora baby is the hardest of the hard-asses. When I heard she wasn’t going back Earthside this rotation, I almost decided to go back myself. Could have, too. I’ve been here six months.”