A knock on the doorframe relieved his boredom.
“Who is it?” O’Donnell pulled free of the sleep restraint and pushed toward the door, expecting either Freddy or Lance Muncie.
“Dr. Renoir.”
He slid the door open.
“The medical officer,” she added. She hung in the doorway, stockinged feet barely touching the floor, one hand on a grip set into the wall: good-looking, not quite beautiful, strong alert features, ample figure filling out her blue flight suit nicely.
“I remember,” O’Donnell said, making himself smile at her. “From Commander Tighe’s welcoming speech. You dodge projectile vomit very well.”
“It comes with medical training,” she said. She glanced down at the computer in her other hand. “You are required to report to me every day. Trikon’s orders.”
“I know. Does today count as a day?”
“It does.”
He noticed her looking past him, taking in the entire compartment in one sweeping glance. He was accustomed to the probing eyes, the seemingly innocuous questions, the tricks. Was this visit a coincidence? Or had she come here as soon as Jeffries reported him safely in his compartment.
“We can talk here or you can come to the infirmary. It has slightly more room.”
“I think I’ll be seeing enough of this place.”
“Fine. The infirmary is in the command module.” She quickly turned and pushed through the hatch into the connecting tunnel.
Dr. Renoir’s infirmary was larger than O’Donnell’s compartment, but just barely. With the door closed, the only way for them to fit comfortably was for her to hover near the ceiling and for him to hook an arm through a foot loop on the floor. The positions were disorienting at first, but O’Donnell quickly adjusted his perceptions. Her legs, foreshortened from his angle, were tightly pressed together and crossed at the ankles. Excessively prim and proper. More like prudish, since she wore a trousered jumpsuit just like everybody else. He considered suggesting that she unwind, then thought better of it. There was a severity in her broad, blunt features. Her lips, pressed tightly together, seemed to be made of stone. Her brown eyes were narrowed in concentration and her dark eyebrows were shaped like the horns of a ram. She was too well scrubbed for O’Donnell’s taste. In fact, her neatly wrapped French braid reminded him of a University of Oregon sorority sister he had tried unsuccessfully to bed. Then he laughed to himself. She’ll look like Miss Universe in a couple of weeks, he predicted silently.
“Do you know why you are here?” she asked. Her voice was a rich mezzo, almost sultry despite the severity of her looks.
“On Trikon Station?”
“No.”
“Seeing you? You want to make sure I won’t get sick like Lance Muncie.”
“Don’t be flip, Mr. O’Donnell. You have already failed your first test by not admitting it.” Dr. Renoir tapped on her hand computer. “July, 1995, you were arrested for possession of cocaine during a police sweep of a drug neighborhood in East L.A. Your car was confiscated but your case was dismissed on condition that you seek treatment for substance abuse. August, 1995, you checked into a private clinic in Encino, California. You were discharged in February of the following year and continued attending outpatient meetings for six months.”
“That’s when I started riding my motorcycle again.”
Dr. Renoir furrowed her brows so that her ram’s horns almost touched over the bridge of her nose.
“You and someone named Bob Rodriguez formed a chapter of a national motorcycle club for ex-addicts.” Her tone was deprecating.
“You don’t sound as though you approve.”
“I don’t think that a motorcycle club is the proper forum for treating drug abuse.”
“It’s worked for us, including the three physicians who begged to join.”
Dr. Renoir ignored his comment. “You went to work for a Trikon subsidiary in August, 1996.”
“I’ve been clean for three years.”
She stared at him.
“I’ve been clean for three years. Does your report include that?”
Dr. Renoir stuck the hand computer behind a bungee cord. “Mr. O’Donnell.”
“Hugh.”
“Mr. O’Donnell,” she repeated with emphasis. “I don’t know why Trikon sent you here and I don’t care to know. But I have my orders. You will report to me each day at oh-eight-thirty hours. If that time conflicts with your schedule for any reason, we will set a new time. You will be randomly tested for drugs once during each calendar month you are on the station. If any of the results are positive, I will immediately report you to your superiors on Earth. And if, despite negative results, I have reason to suspect that you might be using controlled substances, I will ask the commander to order a thorough search of your compartment and workstation. Do I make myself clear?”