All that blood in the ship, all those little red splatters on the suits—did a cut on the forehead bleed like that?
He had to have it agreed with Bird. They had to keep that guy confined—somehow, someway. They couldn’t sleep in nets for a month, they needed the spinners: and the idea of being blind and tucked in a spinner for six hours wondering what Dekker was doing on Bird’s watch already upset his stomach.
And, damn, he intended to keep every move logged, everything they did, everything this Dekker did, every spate of What time is it?
Dekker would get the time, all right. Logged on and logged off.
He’d get the expenses written down, too, exactly the way he knew how to do it in a record Management would accept—because Benjamin J. Pollard wasn’t letting an old man’s softheadedness rob them of a break like this. Hell. No.
CHAPTER 4
REFINERY Two was only slightly prettier than a rock, but it did come welcome—that k-plus wide sooty ring that you only caught sight of on camera—and most to Bird’s knowledge were eager to see it, and did turn the optics on, long before it was regulation that you had to get visual contact. There she hung, magnified in the long lens, spinning with a manic vengeance, with her masts stuck up like spindles and her stationary mast surfaces bristling with knobby bits that were pushers and tenders, and shuttles from the Shepherds and such. A few, hardly more than ten or so at any one time, counting company rigs waiting crew change, were ships a lot like Trinidad, a whole lot like Trinidad, if you took plan B on your outfitting, and opted for green in the shower.
A lot of the fitting inside Refinery Two was a lot like Trinidad, too, except, one supposed, if you got down to corporate residence levels, and there was about the same chance of freerunners seeing that in person as getting a guided tour of the company bunker on Mimas.
Belters lived and Belters died and Refinery Two just rolled on, this big factory-hearted ring which was the only close to g-1 place miners and tenders in R2 zone ever got back to. She swallowed down what the Shepherds gathered in, she hiccuped methane and she shat ingots and beams and sheet and foam steel. She used her own plastics and textiles or she spat them at Mars, in this year when Jupiter was as convenient to that world as Sol Station was. But nobody knew what went to Mimas. Some said what was down there repaired itself and had more heart than any company exec—but that was rumor and you didn’t want to know. Some said it wasn’t really the ops center it was reputed to be, in case of something major going wrong at the Welclass="underline" some said it was the ultimate bunker for the execs—but you didn’t say war in polite society either and you didn’t think too much about the big frame that sat out there aswarm with tenders and construction craft, a metal-spined monster that took rough shape here at the source of steel and plastics before it moved on to final rigging at Sol. You called what was going on out in the Beyond a job action or you called it a tax strike or you called it damned stupid, but if you were smart you didn’t discuss it or that ship out there and you didn’t even think about it where Mama might hear.
A-men.
“Well,” he sighed, “she’s still here. Kept the porch light on and the door open.”
Ben didn’t say, What’s a porch light? You never could get a rise out of him like that.
“Used to sit outside at night,” Bird said, “look up at the stars—you know what a shooting star is, Ben, lad?”
“No.” Ben’s tone said he was not at the moment interested to know. He was working approach, as close as his second-class license would let him. “I’m about ready to hand off. You got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Dockmaster advises they copy on the request for meds. They’re on their way.”
“Good on that.” He saw Ben furiously ticking away at the comp. “—I got your handoff. Take it easy.”
“Take it easy. We got meds and customs swarming in here, we have to have the records straight.”
“Everything’s in order. I checked it. You checked it.—You’re sure they copy on that mass.”
“Yeah. I made ’em say-again.” Ben was going through readout. No papers. Everything was dataflow. BM wanted forms, and it was all dataflow, not at all like the old days when if you fouled up some damn company form you got a chance to read it over slow and easy and say it right. Now in this paperless society the datalink grabbed stuff and shoved new blanks at you so fast you didn’t have time to be sure all your answers made sense.
“You got all that stuff,” Bird said. “And welcome to it. Damn, I hate forms.”
“No worry.”
Ben had a sure instinct for right answers. Ben swore it was a way of thinking. Ben input something and said, “Shit! Shut him up!”
He only then realized Dekker was talking, mumbling something in that low, constant drone of his. “I can’t half hear him, he’s all right.”
“I can hear him! I can damn well hear him—Where are we? Where are we? What time is it? I tell you—”
“Easy.”
“I’ve been easy. I’m going to kill him before we make dock, I swear I am.”
“No, you’re not. He’s being quiet. Just let him alone.”
“You’re losing your hearing. You can’t hear that?”
“Not that loud.”
“The guy’s crazy. Completely out of it. Only good thing in this business.”
“Ben… just—drop it, Ben. End-of-run nerves, that’s all. Just drop it, you mind?”
There was a cold silence after that, except the click of buttons. And Dekker’s voice, that was loud enough to hear now and again once you thought about it.
Long silence, except for ops, and approach control talking back and forth with them, walking them through special procedures.
“I’m sorry,” Ben said stiffly.
Maybe because they were closer to civilization now. And sanity.
“Where are we?” Dekker asked.
“God!” Ben cried, and leaned far back in his seat. He yelled up at Dekker: “It’s June 26th and we’re coming into Mars Base, don’t you remember? The president of the company’s going to be at the party!”
“Don’t do that,” Bird said. “Just leave the poor guy alone.”
“He’s alone, all right, he’s damn well alone. Another week and we’d be as schitz as he is.”
Another call from Base: “Two Twenty-nine Tango Trinidad, this is ASTEX Approach Controclass="underline" tugs are on intercept. Stand by the secondary decel.”
“Approach Control, this is Two Twenty-nine Tango. We copy that decel. We’re go.” He shut down his mike, yelled: “Dekker! Stand by the decel, hear me?”
“Break his damn neck,” Ben muttered.
There was no time for debate. They had a beam taking aim. Approach Control advised them and fired; pressure hit the sail and bodies hit the restraints—they weren’t in optimum attitude thanks to that ship coupled to them, and it was a hard shove. Dekker yelled aloud—hurt, maybe: they had him padded in and tied down with everything soft they could find, but it was no substitute.
It went on and on. Eventually Dekker got quiet. Hope to hell that persistent nosebleed didn’t break loose again.
“Two Twenty-nine Tango Trinidad, this is ASTEX Approach Controclass="underline" do a simple uncouple with that tow.”
“Approach Control, this is Two Twenty-nine Tango. We copy that uncouple. Fix at 29240 k to final at 1015 mps closing. O-mega.”
Bird uncapped the button, pushed it, the clamps released with a shock through the frame, and One’er Eighty-four Zebra went free—still right up against them, 29240 k to their rendezvous with the oncoming Refinery and they were going to ride with the tow awhile, until the outlying tugs could move in and pick it off their tail.