“That’s it.”
Smith looked, squinting. “What’s that dust where the ends meet?”
“Dust?”
“Those shiny specks.” He pointed. “There’s one.”
Light flared and faded from a speck. I turned to Captain Wilkins. “Captain, is there someplace we can get a closer look at the ring?”
“Your office.”
My office, located near the station’s own Gate, looked as bare as the one I left at Standard Engineering. Captain Wilkins touched a plate next to my built-in desk. One wall of the office came alive with screens. I watched, fascinated. Each screen showed a different angle or distance from the ring. I pointed at a close-up screen. A two-man constructor, its hydraulic arms extended, maneuvered for position, preparing to weld a coupling to the incomplete stub of the Gate.
“See that?”
“Yep.”
“That’s your speck of dust.”
Smith’s forehead wrinkled, struggling with the jump in scale. I could appreciate his difficulty. Intellectually I knew the size of the Big Gate, but seeing it was disconcerting. For a fifteen-kilometer projection surface, the ring had to be a hundred and eighty kilometers in diameter. The tantalum alone, cast section by section in space, cost over a billion dollars.
Smith looked from screen to screen, absorbing the sight. “What’s old Horace going to do with that hole?”
Captain Wilkins coughed on the word Horace.
“Hole’s a good description,” I said. “Mine shaft’s a better one.”
“Mr. Collins,” interrupted Captain Wilkins, pronouncing my name with the long-suffering weariness of a man being patient with a child. “Is Mr. Smith cleared for—”
I decided it was time to establish my relationship with Captain Wilkins. If his disapproval gelled into a permanent attitude, condescending and barely tolerant, I would have trouble. He had two choices. We were equals or he got off the merry-go-round.
“Captain, Mr. Smith is cleared for anything. Do you understand?” He sensed something in my tone and looked startled. “You can check it with Hor—I mean, Mr. Merryweather. If Smith says to junk this station, you ask when.”
“Junk my—”
“If he says spit to-windward, you spit!”
“There isn’t any windward on a—”
“There’s a solar wind, isn’t there?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. If Smith says spit, spit! Got it?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll talk to you later, Captain Wilkins.”
Bewildered, Captain Wilkins left, muttering something about Norton and reincarnation. Smith grinned at me.
“What’s your problem?” I snapped.
“No problem.”
“Then get that silly grin off your face.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” He kept grinning.
“Just what is so damned funny, Smith?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“You may fill old Norton’s shoes yet. He was a real son-of-a-bitch.”
The rest of the day, I familiarized myself with the state of construction. Smith wandered off on errands of his own. Rodriguez, the ring construction boss, proved competent and efficient, though irritated at being called away from the job to report. Ring construction would be complete in two weeks.
Burgess, the electronics engineer in charge of the transmitter itself, was less efficient. I read through his daily work reports, hoping to find some sign of progress. Since Norton’s death, Burgess had marked time. I found his number in the company directory and punched it up. A man about forty years old appeared on the screen, staring blankly at me, his wide face, bulbous nose and weak chin close to the camera.
“Mr. Burgess, please.” “Speaking.”
“I’m Collins. I’ve just been going over your reports. What seems to be the problem?”
“Which problem, Dr. Collins?”
“The transmitter. Your reports don’t show any progress for the past three weeks.”
“Sir, we’re doing the best we can.” He paused, uncertain whether to add anything. “Under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“May I see you in your office, Dr. Collins?”
“Sure. Ten minutes, OK?”
“I’ll be there.”
Waiting for him, I digested his reports. The integration equipment, completed before Norton’s accident, floated in space a mile from the focusing ring. The transmitter’s modulator, its most critical and expensive section, lay in pieces separated by twenty million miles, kleistronisters and reconstitution modules spread from Burgess’ assembly rooms on the station to the Merryweather plant in Osaka, Japan. The stabilization computer, incorporating Norton’s phase-shift program, was on order from Master Toole in San Francisco. The order, actually a purchase option, had four days to run. At the end of the four days, Master Toole could pocket the half-million-dollar option price without doing a lick of work. Nice—for them. If we finalized the purchase by picking up the option, an operative computer had to be on board the Merryweather Enterprize within thirty days.
Burgess came into the office, glancing around apprehensively. Tufts of graying hair, disarrayed, sprouted above his ears and collar, accenting his bald head. On the screen, he had appeared heavy. In person, only his face seemed large, supported by a thin body.
“Sit down, Mr. Burgess.”
He sat down, assured himself we were alone, then leaned across the desk, eyes glancing from side to side. His air of conspiracy made me smile.
“Dr. Collins.”
“Yes.”
“Something has to be done.”
“About what?”
“Dr. Norton never would have allowed it.”
“What?”
“Shhh. He’s got spies everywhere.”
“Who?”
“Shhh.”
I whispered. “Who?”
“Duff.”
Duff? I laughed. The idea of Duff with a network of spies, coldly masterminding some nefarious plot, had a genuine comic flavor.
“This is no joke, Dr. Collins.”
I tried to appear sober. “Exactly what is it that isn’t a joke?”
“Duff. He’s out to ruin this project.”
“I hardly think—”
“You—” he began too loud, then lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder. I made a mental note to check Burgess’ psychological profile in personnel. “You have no idea the lengths that man will go to. Dr. Norton knew. Oh, he knew, Dr. Collins. We fought Duff tooth and nail, hand and claw—”
“Hoof and mouth?”
Startled, his eyes narrowed, examining my face. Who was I with? Him? Duff? “Joke if you like, Dr. Collins. Duff is out to get us, you and me. He does not want this Gate finished. He wants a drone fleet instead.” He lowered his voice even further. “I can only speculate about his reasons.”
“Speculate for me.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Please do.”
“It is said—”
“Could you speak up, Mr. Burgess? I’m having trouble hearing you.”
“It is said,” repeated Burgess, only slightly more audibly, “that Duff has invested heavily in”—he broke off, unable to bring the words to his lips—”them.”
“Spieler Interstellar.”
His index finger flew to his lips. “Shhh!”
“Them,” I whispered.
“Yes. When we go under, it if said that Duff will be in charge of picking our bones.”
“It all sounds very sinister.”
“It is, Dr. Collins. Sinister and more. It is treachery of the meaner kind. And treason of the most despicable type!” He pronounced “despicable” with a “z.” “And … and”—his voice faltered, returning to the whisper—“and more.”
“More?”
“Much more.”
“Do you have any evidence of—”
Burgess’ arms spread, ind
icating the space station with an all-encompassing gesture. “It’s all around us!”
“Everywhere?”
“Everywhere!”
“For example.”
He noticed the reports on my desk. He leaned forward and stabbed at them with his scrawny index finger. “There! There is an example!”
“Your reports?”
“No. The computer option! We cannot go one inch further without that computer, yet he refuses to pick up the option!”
Suddenly, I took Burgess seriously. Duff did want a drone fleet instead of the Gate. Almost the first words I heard from him expressed disapproval of Norton’s Gate. He considered the Gate an economic folly. Still, a simple failure to pick up a computer option was inconclusive, no matter how it hindered the project. It could have been an oversight.
“When was the last time you talked to Duff about it?”
Burgess looked incredulous. “Talk to him? If the man were in this room, I would not talk to him.”
“How do you know he stopped the option?”
He looked exasperated. “The day after Norton’s death, a directive over his signature arrived. All options still open on the Gate project would remain open until further notice. We have to do something, Dr. Collins. Renegotiating with Master Toole will take six months or more. The financial impact will be fatal!” His eyes gleamed.
I looked up Duff’s number and punched it into the phone. His secretary, a hawk-faced woman, answered. “Mr. Duff’s office.”
“May I speak to Mr. Duff.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Dr. Collins.” The “doctor” impresses secretaries. She remained unimpressed, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Impossible.”
“Pardon me?”
“Dr. Collins is a much older man. I don’t know what sort of joke this is, but—”
“Tell him,” I said, realizing she was about to hang up. The grapevine had evidently aged me substantially before she got the word. “Tell him it’s about Sharon Norton.”
She looked at me, doubtful. “Very well, sir. Hold, please.” The screen went blank.
Burgess looked at me. “Sharon Norton?”
“First, we have to get his attention.”
Almost immediately, Duff, apprehensive, came on the screen. When he saw me, his expression relaxed. “Ah, it’s you.”
“Yes, it’s me. And would you please tell that old crow you call a secretary who I am?”
“Sorry. What can I do for you?”
I explained about the option, emphasizing the remaining four days. Duff listened, nodding at the camera. Yes, yes, he had heard it all before.
“Mr. Collins,” began Duff, “one does not simply go out and purchase a fifty-million-dollar computer without careful planning and thought. I—”
“I’ve thought about it,” I said. “I want it.”
“Be reasonable, Mr. Collins. These things take time and—”
“Now.”
Duff’s expression hardened. “Norton used to talk to me in that tone of voice.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
It was a threat. He knew it. I knew it. It angered me.
“I don’t give a damn how Norton used to talk to you. If he did, I can see why. Obstruction like this—”
“I would hardly call it obstruction.”
“What would you call it?” I could feel my cheeks reddening.
“Prudence. Have you read the computer contract?”
“No.”
“It calls for transfer of the entire fifty million on the date the option is exercised. Why give them our money, which can be used in other areas, until absolutely necessary? Four days’ interest on that money alone approaches thirty thousand dollars. This is strictly a business matter, Mr. Collins. You will have to leave it to—” I hung up.
“You see, Dr. Collins,” said Burgess. “From his own mouth.”
I found Mr. Merryweather’s secretary in the directory and called. She put me through to Mr. Merryweather.
“Mr. Collins. I was meaning to call you today. Are you getting settled in?”
“Unsettled is more like it.” I explained about the computer, the option, and Duff, omitting only Burgess’ suggestion of ulterior motives. Mr. Merryweather listened quietly, nodded, his face impassive. When I finished, he spoke immediately.
“When do you want it?”
“As soon as possible. It should have been here already.”
“I’ll have Phillip exercise the option today. How’s Scarlyn doing?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Smith.”
“Fine, I suppose. I haven’t seen him since this morning. He’s around here someplace.”
Mr. Merryweather laughed. “You’re sure about that.”
“Reasonably. Why?”
“Scarlyn gets around. If there’s nothing else—”
“Thank you, sir.” He hung up. Burgess left the office beaming, sure of an ally in his hoof-and-mouth struggle with Duff.
I looked for Smith on the way home. The Gatekeeper told me he went through around noon, Los Angeles time. I suited up and stepped through, too tired to worry about Smith or even be anxious about the transmission. I was drained. Most of the day, I felt inefficient. New jobs are always the same. More wheel spinning than traction. I had a document viewer in my coat pocket and the depressing prospect of an evening staring at it ahead of me.
I picked up my suitcases at the Merryweather Building and juggled them home on the monorail, imagining the effect my unexpected appearance would have on Dolores. I envisioned her alone at the kitchen table, crying into a plate of cold beans, unable to eat, in despair at my absence. I would walk in—ta-ta, it is I! She would bounce with joy.
When I got there, she was neither crying nor bouncing. The kitchen table was set for two, candle flames flickering romantically over a small roast—surrounded on its platter by glazed carrots and sprigs of parsley. I dropped the suitcases on the floor. They clattered and toppled.
“What,” I inquired, using my most tactful shout, “the hell is this?”
“Bobby—”
“One day I’m gone”—I held up one finger, shaking it—”one lousy day and you’re having cozy little candlelight dinners!”
“Bobby—”
” ‘Oh, Bobby, don’t leave,’” I mimicked. “And two seconds after old Bobby’s gone, you’re out hustling a tryst!”
“What does that mean?”
“You and the night and the pot roast, that’s what it means! Just the two of you with nasty old Bobby out there in space!”
“Bobby, it’s not what—”
“It isn’t, huh? Then what is it?” She started to tell me. I interrupted. “I’ll tell you what it is! A little action on the side!”
“Please, Bobby, let me—”
“We may not be married, but I do have a few rights, you know!”
Her expression changed. Instead of a plaintive desire to explain, it showed indignation. “Oh?”
“Yes! You eat my food”—I jabbed at my chest with my thumb—“and live in my house,
“So I’m yours, huh? Fee simple absolute!”
“What does that mean?”
She flapped her hand at the food on the table. The puff of air extinguished a candle. “You know where you can put your food and your house! I’m taking my suitcase and getting out!”
She hoisted one of the suitcases and carried it into the bedroom with both hands, listing under its weight. I heard the snaps click and my things crash to the floor.
Getting out? My Dolores? Hasty. Yes. Perhaps I had been a little hasty. I followed her into the bedroom, stepping over a pile of my shirts. Pungent scent rose from a broken bottle of after-depilatory.
“Dolores.”
“What?” she growled, dumping a drawer full of underwear into the suitcase. She discarded the empty drawer, throwing it against the dresser. It banged and clattered. Dolores, though small, gets violent. One of
these days I’ll probably wake up with an enchilada through my heart. I tried to sound humble.
“Maybe I was a little hasty,” I said. “You had some kind of explanation.”
“Who wants to explain anything to you, you hypocrite!”
“Hypocrite?”
She glared at me. “All the time, I thought this was a joint venture, our house, our food, our life! All the time, I thought you agreed! `Dolores, don’t we have a good life together?’ But inside”—she tapped her temple violently; her head recoiled from the blow—you were thinking, Mine! Mine! Mine! You hypocrite!”
“Dolores.”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“Please, Dolores, who was the extra plate for?”
“You,” she muttered.
“Who?”
“You, you hypocrite.”
“Me? How did you know—”
“That old man came around this afternoon.”
“Smith?”
“Yes!”
“What did he want?”
“Don’t talk to me.” She slammed the suitcase shut and snapped one hasp.
I backed into the hall. I heard her coming, bare feet thumping on the floor. Evidently, she planned to leave without her shoes. I blocked her way at the front door, spread-eagled. She stopped, looked at me, forehead severely wrinkled, and hefted the suitcase, securing her grip. I had the distinct impression she intended to butt me in the stomach. She raised her head and looked at me again. I continued my crucified martyr posture. Finally, she got the point. She remembered blocking my way that morning, using the same pose. Her determination broke. She tried to suppress a smile and failed, giggling.
“Did I look like that?”
“Yes.”
She giggled again. I walked to her and put my arms around her. The suitcase banged my shins.
“Bobby.”
“What?”
“I don’t like fighting with you.”
“I don’t either.”
She put the suitcase down and towed me into the bedroom. She pulled me down on the bed.
“Bobby.”
“What?”
“You’re not really a hypocrite, are you?”
“No, dear.”
The doorbell chimed.
“Go ‘way,” I said, warming to my task.
It chimed again. Reluctantly, I got up. I straightened my suit and went to the door, opening it.
Stargate Page 8
