Chapter 5
“Why in the hell is this place so popular all of a sudden?” Theroux asked. “What have we got that the other orbit stations haven’t?” He could have added: apart from you as general manager, but he didn’t.
Lancine shrugged, and said as if answering the unspoken thought, “It was not my idea, believe me.”
Theroux saw no particular reason why he should. “No publicity’s bad publicity, huh?” he said.
“The only sort of publicity that accompanies Lars ’endvorrsen is bad. He is as you say a son of urh…”
“Sonofabitch?”
She nodded vigorously and said, “A scum-sucking son of a bitch, yes. And a problem we do not need at this time.”
Theroux smiled. “A problem you do not need at this time,” he said mildly. “I don’t see that it has too much to do with me.”
“Well, yes, but you are the law, are you not?”
“Yes and no. Mostly no.”
“So you will be concerned by the visit.”
“Now wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute here. You’re not trying to shuck this politician off on to me, are you?”
“You are the resident peace officer.”
“Fine. If he disturbs the resident peace I’ll bust his ass, otherwise he’s yours, Madame Lancine.”
“Please do call me Françoise.”
“Françoise.”
“As a favour to me, Daveed. I would not ask but you ’ave the Star Cop candidates, any ’ow.”
“I do?”
“Surely there is no question about that.”
Theroux took a long pull on the drink she’d had waiting for him when he got to her office. It was good coffee, at just the right temperature. Even the squeeze-pack it came in was tasteful, elegant almost. The woman had class. Pity she was such a devious bitch.
“I’d say there was a question about that,” he said.
“What question?”
“Did you seriously imagine that if you threatened me with this Hendvorrsen guy, I’d accept responsibility for the others without thinking?”
“I do not understand.”
“Yes you do.”
“You are refusing to ’elp with any of these people, Inspector Theroux?”
“Au contraire, Madame la directrice. I’ll help any way I can. But they’re your visitors to your station.” He released himself from the chair. “You could have put them off if you’d wanted.”
“It was not in my power.”
“It was not in your interest.”
“You overestimate my authority.”
“I know what authority station managers have. And the privileges that go with it.” He put the stylish squeeze-pack into the top-of-the-range disposal unit. “Thanks for the coffee, Françoise,” he said, and then, not bothering with the walking strip, propelled himself with lazy expertise towards the door. It was a minor breach of etiquette that gave him a lot more pleasure than was strictly rational.
Nathan – twenty-five micro-sensors stuck onto and into various parts of his person – plodded doggedly on, his pace dictated by the medical computer which controlled the exercise machine. He had been speeding up and slowing down at regular intervals for the best part of an hour, and he was getting bored.
“How much longer have I got to do this?” he asked, and was rewarded with a red light on the control panel.
“This is a silent routine,” said the computer. “Accurate diagnosis depends on absolute adherence to instructions.”
“I need a break,” said Nathan.
“There is no indication of distress,” said the computer.
“I didn’t say I was distressed, I said I needed a break.”
“There is no indicated requirement for physical relief of any kind.”
“I have to talk to someone.”
“This is a silent routine,” the computer repeated.
“Why am I arguing about this?” snapped Nathan, and palmed the abort and reset panel. As the belt stopped and he stepped off, he was irritated to see that ten minutes of the tests were being reset by the machine.
“Ten minutes? We can’t have lost ten minutes.” The machine remained silent. “Explain test reruns.”
“The subject’s non-routine break was not included in the test hypothesis,” said the computer. “Findings are therefore invalidated. Investigation has been re-framed.” The control board flashed up the green lights. “Subject will indicate readiness by resuming position on the exercise belt.”
“Bloody machine logic,” muttered Nathan, as he crossed to the communications console and notified Lincoln’s pager that he wanted him on full screen. “I haven’t got time to waste on this.”
When Lincoln came up on the screen a few moments later, he found Nathan lost in thought. “You wanted a word?” he asked, after waiting a decent interval.
Nathan looked at the screen. “How does a computer cope with the totally unexpected, Brian?”
Lincoln scratched his beard for a moment then said, “I suppose, philosophically speaking, it can’t. If it’s unexpected, then it can’t have been programmed for. And if it isn’t programmed for…”
“It’s fucked,” said Nathan. “And the converse?”
“The converse of fucked?”
Nathan shook his head, too absorbed to acknowledge the joke. “How does it deal with the totally expected?”
“With a smile and a song?”
“Where was Carmodie when he drowned?”
“In the lake.”
“Stop pissing about, Brian.”
“Sorry. I thought it was a trick question.”
“I haven’t got time for trick questions.”
Lincoln smiled. “I heard you were off into the wide blue yonder. I envy you.”
“I wish I shared the general enthusiasm.”
“The Last Great Adventure?”
Nathan grunted. “There’s a little too much stress on ‘last’ for my taste.”
“Be glad to go in your place...”
“You might get overexcited.”
“Me?”
Nathan smiled for the first time since arriving at the Cambridge Centre for Space Medicine. “Over-enthusiastic, then. I don’t intend to take any risks with this situation, Brian.”
“Seems reasonable,” said Lincoln, with the slightly doubtful expression of someone for whom it does not seem reasonable.
“You might just get carried away and get me the damn job.”
Lincoln said, “You mean, you don’t want it?” He looked genuinely surprised. “I heard it was promotion to commander.”
“Whereabouts in the lake was Carmodie when he drowned?” asked Nathan.
“How can you not want promotion to commander?”
“I prefer Sherlock Holmes to Dan Dare. Has Forensic done the calculations yet?”
Lincoln looked lost for a moment.
“For Christ’s sake, Brian,” Nathan said irritably, “I’m standing here with diagnostic probes in places where I didn’t know I had places. Concentrate, will you. If I have a fucking short-circuit and fry something useful, you’ll pay with something equally tender, believe me. Exactly whereabouts in the lake was Carmodie when he drowned?”
Lincoln opened a window in the top corner of the screen and played the forensic computer’s reconstruction in it. The machine had taken the moment when the man had lost consciousness, the timing of which was accurate to within five minutes, and used wind speed, water circulation, drag coefficients, body weight – a whole series of variables – to calculate back from where he was found to where he was drowned.
“They’re pressing for a budget number on this stuff,” said Lincoln.
“Don’t worry about it,” N
athan said, his mood improving rapidly as he watched the concluding computer animation.
Behind him a medical supervisor bustled into the test area. “Is there a problem Chief Superintendent?” she asked.
Nathan turned from the screen. “No. No problem.”
“Only if we are to prescribe flight medication, the computer has five more hours of tests to run.”
“Five hours?”
“That’s assuming it doesn’t have to cope with any further unscheduled hold-ups.”
“Look, isn’t there some way to speed this up?” said Nathan. “I need to get back to work.”
The supervisor looked dubious. “There is a single test which could provide all the data. I don’t recommend it though. It’s our equivalent of one of those whatyacallit… heroic surgical procedures?”
“We’re all heroes in Crime Division,” said Lincoln from the screen at Nathan’s back.
The woman peered round Nathan and smiled. She had, it seemed, a soft spot for men with beards. “In these circumstances,” she said, “‘heroic’ never refers to the patient. Take my word for it.”
“How long is this test?” asked Nathan.
“You could be on your way in an hour. Possibly.”
“Can you set it up for me?”
“If you’re sure.” The medical supervisor left, still smiling, and Nathan turned back to the screen.
“Could have been a mistake,” said Lincoln. “I didn’t like the sound of that.”
“Make sure this forensic data stays live and online, Brian.”
Lincoln shrugged. “If you say so. I don’t see that it helps us much.”
“It proves murder,” said Nathan. “And that it was professional. Two mechanics, at a guess, using scuba gear and probably lifted in and out by chopper.”
“Any offers as to names and social security codes?” Lincoln asked cheerfully.
“Maybe whoever paid for the hit can tell us that, but I doubt it.”
“And you know who that is, of course,” smiled Lincoln.
“Yes?” enquired Nathan.
Lincoln shook his head. “I meant, you, specifically, know who that is,” he said.
“Oh,” said Nathan. “In that case. Yes.”
For once Butler’s sense of the ridiculous seemed inadequate for the situation, and he did not so much as raise a quizzical eyebrow as he said, “Three ambitious cops and an egomaniacal politician?”
“What other sort is there?” Theroux said.
“Cop or politician?” asked Butler – then, without waiting for the obvious reaction, went on, “It would be a recipe for disaster even if they had experience and we had spare cabin space and life-support,” at the same time as checking a target on the long-range radar, confirming the departure of a freighter from lunar orbit en route for the Mars colony and logging the sighting.
On the local scan, Theroux cued computer enhancement of the Earth-Moon shuttle only to find that what he was locked onto was just an aggregation of the drifting junk which cluttered most of the standard orbits. It was a growing problem despite lucrative contracts handed out to private salvage companies. “Godfuckit,” he muttered, “what do those garbage sweeping bastards do for their money?”
“Our money,” said Butler. “And whatever it is wouldn’t seem to feature sweeping, though one assumes they must scoop up the occasional ‘o’ ring or the odd explosive bolt, if only for appearances.”
“You see any sign of it?”
“Perhaps someone should run the numbers. Check the projections.”
“You volunteering?”
Butler said, “I thought you might want to. Checking seems to be your thing these days.” He smirked a little. “Bring your Star Cop training to bear. Impress your new boss when he visits us.”
“Simon. You’re a shithead,” said Theroux, cueing a wider search across the jumble of radar targets, and again failing to find the Earth-Moon shuttle. “Have you logged E-M transit?” he asked.
“Lift-off was down twenty,” Butler said without looking at his screen prompts, “picked up five on initial boost, transit commencement predicted in fourteen.”
“Thanks for warning me.”
Butler shrugged. “I didn’t realize you still couldn’t tell shit from shuttle,” he said.
“Without the computer, nobody can,” Theroux said. “Not even you.”
“Don’t take any bets on that, David old love,” Butler said, and Theroux realized that his friend was probably one of the few people who could tell at a glance what the radars were showing. Jumble wasn’t jumble if you knew what wasn’t jumble, he thought, but he was fucked if he was going to tell the smug bastard that.
“And don’t take any bets on the climbing frog’s school fete and open day being anything other than a fiasco,” Butler went on. “A dangerous fiasco, to boot.”
“Fiasco I’ll go with, but dangerous?” Theroux reached for the half-eaten chocolate bar that was in his console clip. “They’ll have basic training for Chrissakes.” He fumbled the chocolate, and it drifted away from his hand. “Fuckit,” he said flatly, trapping the free-falling bar between finger and thumb. He glanced guiltily across at Butler, but he seemed to be totally absorbed in the screens. He thought he had gotten away with it when Butler said, with such delicate amusement that it was hard to be sure it was there, “No substitute for experience,” adding without change of tone, “and you owe the loose-box a dollar.”
“How did that count?” Theroux said.
“Floating free,” said Butler. “Whatever it was.”
“Whatever it was?”
“You always say ‘fuckit’ like that when you let something go.” Butler took a savorysoupasnackpack from his equipment pouch and twisted the flow-tube. “You know what I miss most?” he said, while he waited for the contents to thicken and warm through.
“Eating with a knife and fork,” said Theroux.
Butler sighed. “Do you ever get the feeling we’ve been out here too long?”
Nathan stepped down into the snug, windowless metal and plastic compartment, and sat in the contoured seat. “Place your arms in the armrests with the palms of your hands facing downwards.” The control computer had been given a soft female voice, presumably because this was felt to be calming. “Place your feet in the footrests and relax. The seat will now adjust to fit you exactly. This is for your own safety. Please do not attempt to move around while adjustment is in progress.”
“And afterwards, you won’t be able to,” said the voice of the medical supervisor cheerfully over the inboard communication circuit. “There was nothing to indicate any history of claustrophobia,” she went on, “so I trust this won’t be a problem for you.”
Padded bracing closed over Nathan’s arms and legs, and the seat inflated slightly around his back, his shoulders, his neck and the back of his head. The sensation was not unpleasant, but he found that he was indeed unable to move at all. “Be a hell of a time to find out,” he said.
“That’s what we’re all here for, Chief Superintendent. To find out what makes you tick, and adjust the clockwork as necessary.”
“Where exactly is the ‘here’ that we’re all for? I don’t see much sign of you. I seem to be the only one who is actually… here.”
“Didn’t the computer say?” The medical supervisor sounded surprised.
“Policemen and liars need good memories,” Nathan said, remembering the smile on her face when he asked for this test. “I don’t usually need the same information twice.”
“Sorry. Our fault entirely. The computer’s on N-A-C. Non-Alarming Calming mode?”
“It isn’t working,” said Nathan irritably.
“I can see that from your readouts. What you’re in is a multi-directional centrifuge.”
The muted whine of the apparatus powering up did nothing to help Nathan’s sudden nausea, as he realized just what his impatience was about to cost him.
“Spins, rolls, pitches, turns: all controlled to a seven-G peak,” said the medical supervisor – or maybe it was the computer reset to an Alarming Non-Calming mode, Nathan’s capacity to distinguish such niceties already deserting him. “There’s no need to panic,” the voice continued, “we haven’t lost a patient yet.”
“I hope this contraption has easy-clean surfaces,” said Nathan.
“That’s the spirit. A sense of humour’ll get you through anything.”
“I wasn’t joking,” Nathan said. Then the first acceleration hit him – and though there was nothing moving in the totally enclosed compartment, he shut his eyes anyway, and began to take deep gulping breaths as he tried not to throw up; he turned his mind to the Carmodie case and concentrated on checking his solution again; he hoped against hope that this might stop him from vomiting. It didn’t.
The woman was sitting behind her husband’s desk when they served the arrest warrant.
“Mrs. Lisa Carmodie,” Brian Lincoln said, though Nathan found himself thinking bizarrely that she ought really to be addressed as Widow Carmodie, “You are arrested and detained for the murder of John Leon Carmodie.”
The plump, dowdy woman looked puzzled, confused, disbelieving. It was a careful performance spoiled only by the eyes which were cool and watchful.
“You are not obliged to answer police questions,” Lincoln continued, “but any refusal will be recorded together with any and all answers and the complete record of interviews, commencing now” – he indicated the linked vision recorders they had set at each side of the room – “will be made available to the examining authority. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“You do not understand what I have said?” asked Lincoln, formally. “Do you wish me to repeat what I have said? Do you wish an interpreter to be activated?”
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