"That is stoicism."
"Yep, I suppose it is," said Jamie, trying hard to mask his real feelings.
5
I do wish Father DiNardo were here, Antony Reed said to himself for the twentieth time that morning. He’s the only one who can keep that Austrian prig in his place.
Reed was at his desk in the small room that served as the base dispensary. The snow had been shoveled away from the room’s only window; pale sunlight drifted in and a milky pearl-gray sky showed through its triple panes. In place of the bookshelves and equipment racks that crammed most of the offices in the half-buried base, the dispensary contained an examination table and medical equipment.
Reed shared the office with the "in-house" physician, a surgeon who looked after the routine medical needs of the base’s regular staff as well as the Mars trainees. Reed’s work was more concerned with the computer on the desktop than with pills and bandages. He was serving in the role of psychologist for the trainees more than medical officer.
The computer screen showed that his next appointment was with Franz Hoffman. Reed loathed the Austrian geologist, loathed everything about him — especially his reputed successes among the women trainees. He kept wondering how any decent, self-respecting female could let herself be touched by that neo-Nazi.
Yet the tales were undoubtedly true. Hoffman had a way with women. A way that Reed found himself envying.
He hunched forward in the creaking swivel chair and flicked his fingers across the computer keyboard. All the details of each trainee’s medical and psychological records were available to him. Perhaps there was something in Hoffman’s background that could be used to disqualify him for the mission.
Reed searched Hoffman’s dossier avidly, the thought of spending nine months in a cramped spacecraft with the Austrian depressing him beyond measure.
Nothing. His record was immaculate. Impressive, even. Doctorates in physics and geology. Excellent health. No psychological history at all; as far as the records showed his only contact with psychologists had been when he had taken standard tests as part of the Mars Project requirements. The test results were dismally normal. Either he’s just as dull as he seems or he’s a mastermind at hiding his true personality, Reed thought.
No mention of his amours, of course. That kind of information seldom got into the record. Unless there was an incident too awful to be hushed up.
"Ahhh!" Reed said aloud. Softly, but aloud. An incident too awful to be hushed up. Perhaps one could be manufactured.
He needed a victim. A woman who would not only be offended by Hoffman’s advances, but who would make a stink about it. And he thought he knew who it should be.
Flicking rapidly through the files he found the woman. Her background and her personality profile were well-nigh perfect. From what Reed knew of her through personal contact she would be frightened and enraged by the Austrian’s boorishness.
"It’s worth a try," Reed murmured, a crooked little smile spreading across his handsome face. "I could even stand by to console the poor wench afterward."
He cleared the computer screen and looked expectantly toward the door. Precisely at the hour set for his appointment, Franz Hoffman knocked once, then opened the door and stepped into the dispensary. He looked as if he were ready to receive a knighthood. Round face shaved and scrubbed pink, hair slicked back, crisp fresh shirt and trousers with a crease that could slice bread. Even his shoes were polished.
"Come in, come in," said Reed happily.
Throughout the perfunctory physical examination Reed had difficulty keeping a straight face. He kept thinking of Browning’s wonderful "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister," with its perfect final line: "G-r-r-you swine!"
Reed chatted affably with the Austrian, using his best bedside manner. Hoffman had only two modes of discourse, as far as Reed could telclass="underline" either scowling suspicion or smug superiority. Taking Reed’s affable manner at face value, the Austrian responded with infuriating haughtiness. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, Reed thought. Which merely damned him further.
As he took Hoffman’s blood pressure and laid him on the table for an EKG and tapped him here and there, Reed slowly, subtly moved their conversation to the subject of women.
"I don’t know how you do it," Reed said smoothly. "I seem to be all thumbs around a pretty girl."
"It is the fault of your schooling, I think," said Hoffman. "You Englishmen are sent to boys’ schools. You never see women until you are graduated from college, except for your mothers and nurses. That is why there are so many homosexuals among you."
Reed broke into a sunny smile. G-r-r-you swine! he said to himself.
"Most young women are looking for father figures," Hoffman expounded. "It is not necessary to wine and dine them; merely show them a mixture of authority and kindness and they will fall into your bed."
"Is that so?"
"It has never failed for me. The only difficulty is that sometimes they don’t know when the affair is over. You must be very expert at getting rid of them. That takes more skill than screwing them in the first place."
"Hmm, I never thought of that."
"On this mission, of course, one will have to be very careful, very discreet. And pick the women carefully. There are those who know how to behave and those who don’t."
"Yes, I see." Reed hesitated only long enough to prevent himself from bursting out in laughter. "How can you tell which is which?"
Hoffman smiled an oily, scheming smile, and beckoned Reed to lean closer.
"You test your subjects before the flight begins, naturally," he whispered. "What else would a good scientist do?"
"Test your subjects? Oh, of course. Are you doing that now?"
Something flickered in Hoffman’s eyes. An awareness of danger, perhaps. A realization that he was talking too much.
"A gentleman does not kiss and tell," he replied, somewhat stiffly.
Reed arched an eyebrow. "Yes, I can see where it might get sticky, dabbling among the women here. And the project managers are very concerned about sex during the mission. They don’t want to disrupt the efficient functioning of the team, you know."
Hoffman matched Reed’s raised brow. "Perhaps the team would function more efficiently if a certain amount of lubrication was included in the operation."
"Lubrication! That’s a good one!"
Hoffman looked pleased with himself, but said no more.
"You know," Reed said, lowering his voice to a conspirator’s whisper, "there’s one woman among the group here who’s been watching you very closely."
"Oh?"
"She hasn’t said anything to me, you realize, but I can see that she’s fascinated by you. And if ever a young lady looked up to a father figure, it’s her."
"Who?"
"Why, Joanna Brumado, of course. Didn’t you know?"
6
Jamie delayed going to the dining room until he was certain most of the others had eaten and returned to their individual quarters. Most of the regular McMurdo staff and visiting researchers shared dormitory rooms, but the Mars Project’s one luxury was to afford each of its members a private room. Jamie had spent the day talking with the new arrivals, embarrassing them and himself. He had no desire to speak with any of them further. Not this evening.
Sure enough, the dining room was almost empty. It had been a long day for the newcomers, he realized. The flight in from Christchurch took ten hours even when the weather was good. Unpacking, getting settled in this spartan godforsaken base — the new arrivals were already in their bunks, for the most part. Only a couple of them still sat at one of the long galley tables, tiredly huddled over the remains of their dinners, talking in whispers. Half a dozen of the base’s regular technicians and maintenance personnel sat near the battered old coffee urn, playing cards.