"I understand." There was just the barest of pauses. "I'll keep the conversation private."
"Thanks." Climbing to his feet, Tomo squinted at the inside of his bearing sphere half. "Now, how about looking up which locker we keep spare FST-938 bearings in?"
—
Dr. Alexei Ross was already in a foul mood when the station computer told him Director Halian wanted to see him in his office. "In his office?" Ross asked, not sure whether to be angry or astonished at the request. "Is something wrong with the intercom system?"
"The intercom is functioning normally," Iris replied. "Director Halian said to tell you that the sensitivity of the topic required a face-to-face meeting."
"Probably his exact words, too," Ross grunted. For a moment he considered refusing on the truthful grounds that he was too busy to go running all over Maigre Space Station just because Halian felt like being melodramatic. Parallax Industries might own most of the station, but as chief physician Ross was explicitly out of Halian's direct control. But even as he mentally considered sending back a borderline-nasty message, logic prevailed. If Halian wanted to discuss something without the risk of being overheard, he probably had a damn good reason for it. Possibly something new on the G- and H-deck thorascrine leaks that had put forty- five people in Ross's ward in the past twenty hours. "All right," he sighed. "Inform the director I'll be down as soon as I can."
"Yes, Doctor. Also, the bioscan data is in on Marc DeSabia now; my analysis indicates thorascrine concentrations in liver, kidneys, and thyroid gland."
"Okay." Ross spent a few minutes logging orders that weren't part of Iris's standard medical procedure programming and leaving contingency instructions for his staff. Then, still fuming a bit, he stalked to the elevator and rode down to W- deck and Parallax Industries' executive offices.
Director Jer Halian was staring out the oval porthole when Ross stomped in. "This better be important, Jer," the doctor said, stepping over to Halian's desk and sitting down in the plush guest chair. "I've got a wardful of people upstairs who still need all my attention."
Halian turned to face him, and Ross saw for the first time the other's expression. It wasn't an encouraging one. "Anyone died yet?" the director asked, his mind clearly on something else entirely.
"No, and I'd like to keep it that way." Ross rubbed at his forehead, grimaced at the perspiration oils there. "Another ten hours and this last batch should be out of danger."
"Good." Halian took a deep breath. "Because in about ninety-five hours we're going to have an even worse mess on our hands. One of the Goldenrod's mainters apparently wants to visit Maigre during his layover."
Ross felt something prickly dock between his shoulder blades. "Holy drine. You sure?"
Halian picked up a cassette and rolled the slender cylinder across the desk. "The Goldenrod's MX computer sent me this private report a half hour ago. The mainter refused to discuss it in depth, so all the MX could give us was his last general psych profile." He leaned forward a bit. "This is a problem, now, isn't it? I mean, this Tomo character won't be able to stand it for long down there, will he?"
Ross snorted. "It's even worse than that. He shouldn't even want to try mixing with other people, any more than you'd seriously consider spending your life in a starship pod. The very fact he's talking this way means he's already in serious trouble."
"Great," Halian said heavily. "Just what we needed."
A sudden, horrible thought occurred to Ross. "He's not flying the ship, is he?" Visions of the freighter ramming full-tilt into the station—
"Oh, no—no way he can take control away from the computer, either," Halian assured him. "We're not in any immediate danger."
"I'm sure that's a great comfort to the rest of the Goldenrod's crew," Ross said dryly.
"They're not in danger, either, at least not at the moment. In fact, they don't even know anything's wrong."
"Handy. Sounds like one of your ideas."
Halian didn't seem to notice the barb. "It was the computer's, actually. But never mind that. I want you to start getting your people and programs ready right away."
Ross shook his head. "I'm afraid we're not equipped to handle anything like this. We're going to have to bring a psychoses expert up from Maigre. I'll go check the medical directory." He started to get up.
"Hold it—hold it," Halian snapped. "We can't let outsiders in on this—the company'll have our heads if bad publicity gets out. What about that therapy session you put Randoff through when he went all flutey last month?"
Ross sank wearily back into his chair. "Jer, we're talking about a starship mainter here—the most carefully circumscribed personality type that's ever existed. As far as I know, no mainter has ever gone out the sunward lock like this, and I'm not going to trust him to a computer that hasn't even got a decent data base to draw on."
Halian turned back to his porthole, and Ross saw the lines around his mouth tightening. "And there's no one on your staff who can handle it?"
"No." Ross shook his head. "Anyone who developed a problem this severe would be immediately shipped to a dirtside facility."
Halian grunted, and for a long moment the room was silent. Ross found himself staring at the model of a star freighter sitting on the corner of Halian's desk. Six long cylindrical pods, arranged hexagonally about the central drive cylinder, the whole thing tied together by a network of bracing struts... and each of those cargo pods someone's home for years at a time. The very thought of it made Ross's skin crawl.
"All right," Halian said, breaking Ross out of his uncomfortable reverie. "But get someone who can keep his mouth shut. And don't give him any more information than absolutely necessary. That goes for your staff, too."
"I'll do my best," Ross said, annoyed at the other's peremptory tone. Standing up, he snared the cassette with Tomo's psych profile and slid it into his pocket. "And in the meantime, you get your people on top of those thorascrine leaks. I can only handle one crisis at a time, and I want my ward empty when Tomo gets here."
Halian looked up at him with tired eyes. "Believe me, Doctor, no one wants those leaks stopped more than I do."
Ross felt his irritation with the other melting away. Halian was a solid company executive, but in spite of that he really wasn't a bad sort. "I know," he told the director. "I'll talk to you later."
—
A starship's natural environment, Tomo had always felt, was out in interstellar space, hundreds or thousands of kilometers from anything larger than an ice cube. Docking—actually bringing the ship into physical contact with a giant spinning disc—was thoroughly unnatural and therefore the most nerve-racking part of every trip. But Max performed flawlessly as usual, matching motions and gliding smoothly into the docking berth like an off-center axle. The port's spin gave the Goldenrod an effective gravity similar in magnitude but different in direction to what Tomo was used to, and he grimaced slightly as his floating crash chair came to rest against what he usually considered a wall.
"The access tunnel is connected now, Tomo," Max informed him as he unstrapped and climbed a bit gingerly from the chair. "Whenever you're ready..."
The tunnel led from the pod to a short corridor in the port proper, and a door at the far end opened to a spacious five-room suite. Tomo gave himself a quick tour, and then returned to the living room area. "Not bad," he said aloud. "Better than that cubist's nightmare at Burnish, anyway—remember that horrible holosculp?"
There was no response, and Tomo snorted at his forgetfulness. Of course Max had no direct voicelink pickups here. Stepping to the desk, he located the "communications" section of the control ball there and traced the proper curve among the many alternatives. "Max? You there?"