He spoke with a force he didn't quite understand the need for.
'He's done well for an honest man,' observed Druson neutrally. 'But at least he brought you along, so that's a point in his favour, I'd say.'
Dalziel tried to work out the drift of Druson's comments as they came in to dock with Europa, but once aboard he needed all his concentration to keep him from bouncing around like a ball in a bingo jar. On the US lunar shuttle he had been safe in the embrace of his wrap-around couch, so this was his first true experience of untrammelled weightlessness. Pascoe watched with open amusement, but Silvia Rabal showed a deal of concern which Dalziel found flattering till he realized she was more worried about her delicate instruments than his delicate body.
Finally, having discovered that the basic art was to reduce his energy output by ninety per cent, he gained sufficient control to follow Pascoe on a tour of the ship.
The fact that every dimension was usable made it feel surprisingly large. There were three main compartments: the bridge, which was the principal control area in the bow; the deck, which was the large central section housing most of the accommodation facilities; and the hold. This was basically a narrow cylinder walled by storage lockers, seven of which had the crew's names stencilled on them.
Dalziel almost filled the central space.
'You'd need to be a bloody contortionist to muck around with one of them TECs down here,' he said, pulling at the door marked van der Heyde. 'Locker' proved a misnomer. It was held shut only by a magnetic catch and flew open. A framed photo came floating out and he grabbed it.
'These people are highly trained pros,' said Pascoe, behind, or above, or underneath him. 'Also they're very fit and fairly thin. What's that you've got?'
'Family snap,' said Dalziel, passing back a photo of two very plain girls and a scowling woman. 'You can see why he took to space. They're allowed personal stuff, then?'
'Within reason. Weight's not the problem it was.'
'Not for some,' said Dalziel. 'Let's have a shufti.'
He began opening other lockers. This felt more like real police work! But he soon began to feel that these souvenirs of Earth were better material for a psychiatrist than a simple bobby.
Surprisingly, only the Dutchman had brought a family photo. Perhaps he didn't trust his memory and was insuring against the shock of reunion. Marco Albertosi obviously felt he could not live without a set of AC Milan's European Gup Programmes. Silvia Rabal's trust in technology did not extend to nourishment and her talisman was a soft leather bag containing sachets of camomile tea and various other pods, seeds, and dried herbs. Dalziel recalled her spicy breath and inhaled deeply. Marte Schierbeck's memento was more mysterious. An old tinder-box. Perhaps she was worried about being marooned? He opened it and found it contained a small tube of contraceptive pills. Perhaps it was who she was marooned with that bothered her! Kaufmann had brought with him a miniature score of Beethoven's Emperor concerto. Dalziel marvelled that these squidges could echo as music in some men's minds. Or perhaps it was just a spy's code book after all. The only other book he found was in O'Meara's locker, an ornately bound New Testament with a brass catch.
'Didn't strike me as religious,' observed Dalziel.
'What's that?' said Pascoe.
'New Testament in O'Meara's locker.'
'Oh, you know the priest-ridden Irish. Never shake it off. Bring it out anyway.'
'Hang on. Just one to go.'
It was Lemarque's and it was completely empty. Presumably it had contained nothing except the journal and that had been removed as evidence.
He gave a gentle push and floated backwards out of the hold into the deck area.
'So. One New Testament. Not quite the kind of testament I was hoping for,' said Pascoe glumly.
Dalziel undid the catch and opened the book. On the fly leaf, a book-plate had been stuck headed Holy Cross Youth Club: Award for service. Under this was a handwritten inscription To Kevin (K. 0.) O'Meara. Western District featherweight champion, 1993, 1994- Well done! It was signed, Father Powell (i Tim vi, 12).
'All his success since, and this is what still matters to him!' said Pascoe reflectively.
'You reckon?' said Dalziel, turning to the First Epistle to Timothy.
The page containing Chapter 6 verse 12 was folded in half and when he straightened it out he saw that either deliberately or by chance some flakes of white powder had been trapped there. Some, of them floated free. Dalziel licked his finger and stabbed at them, then cautiously put it to his mouth.
'What are you after, Andy? Coke? Forget it. Druggies don't make it on to the space programme, believe me!'
'Why not? They let in spies and killers,' said Dalziel. 'It's not coke anyroad. But I know that taste…'
'Probably dandruff. Sorry. All right, pass it here and I'll take it back for analysis just to keep you quiet.'
Dalziel, who didn't think he'd been making any unusually loud fuss, folded the page back to retain the rest of the powder. As he did so he glanced at Verse 12. Fight the good fight of faith. No wonder young K. O. O'Meara had won his titles; he'd had the referee in his pocket. His eye strayed a few verses up the column. For we brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out. Now there's where Paul had got it wrong. He hadn't given God credit for space travel. Unless, as seemed not improbable, it wasn't a work of God after all.
He fastened the catch and gave Pascoe the book. The taste was still in his mouth, its source both figuratively and literally on the tip of his tongue.
Druson, who was reclining or hanging on the deck, depending how you looked at it, said, 'You guys gonna be much longer?'
'As long as it takes,' said Pascoe with an authoritative snap which made Dalziel smile and Druson look sour.
'What's in here?' asked Dalziel, examining a couple of doors in the bulkheads.
'Galley and the heads,' said Pascoe.
'Heads?'
'Loos.'
'Oh, the karzies. That's right. You said they just went normal here.'
'Not exactly normal,' said Pascoe, opening a door. 'With no gravity, you need a suction system, otherwise you could be in deep trouble.'
Dalziel examined the apparatus.
'Do yourself a nasty injury with that,' he opined.
He floated above the open door in silence for a while.
'Penny for them,' said Pascoe.
'Still charge a penny, do they,' said Dalziel. 'No, I was just thinking. The Frenchie was so chuffed at being the first to land, and he'd got his little speech ready and all; and he'd not been too long gone from Europa where he had summat like a proper bog…'
'So?'
'So how come he got so desperate he had to take a leak on the ladder with the eyes of the universe on him?'
'No one would know,' pointed out Pascoe.
'He'd know,' said Dalziel grimly. 'And the data would register on the monitors up here, so they'd know. And then it would be transmitted back to Control on Earth so everyone there'd know. And you can bet your bottom dollar someone would leak the leak to the tabloids, so every bugger in the universe would know! So why'd he do it?'
'Stage fright? Or perhaps he drank something. Didn't someone mention something about coffee?'
'Aye. The Dane said he'd been moaning on about how bloody awful it was.'
'There you are, then,' said Pascoe dismissively. 'Coffee's supposed to be pretty diuretic, isn't it?'
And the word switched on a light in Dalziel's lingual memory.
'Bugger me!' he said.
'Why?' said Pascoe with unusual facetiousness.
'That powder in the Testament, I know what it is. It's ground-down Thiabon tablets!'
'You what?'
'Thiabon. Trade name for the latest thiazide drug. Quack put me on 'em last year for me blood pressure. They work by releasing sodium from the tissues and stimulating the kidneys to wash it out. In other words, they make you pee!'