“We’re in what’s commonly referred to as a sellers’ market,” Renard said, his lips twitching in amusement.
Nicklin smiled to let Renard see that he too had enjoyed the bit of fun. “All the same, Rick,” he said, “don’t you think it’s going just a teensy-weensy bit far to try selling old decks for three times the price of new ones?”
“Their value has escalated. Most of the new decks disappeared when the exterior stockyards vanished, and my associates have bought up any that were left sitting around the land-docks.”
“In that case I’ll use older ones,” Montane said doggedly, staring down at his desk.
“We’ve got most of those, too.” Renard slowly shook his head, as though in commiseration. “Interportal trade must be restored as quickly as possible, you see, for the good of society. We have to get those ships out there as soon as we can, even if it means taking short-cuts in the manufacture.”
“In that case,” Montane said, riging to his feet, “I’ll use the old decks you rejected or missed. I’ll dig them out of the ground in scrapyards, if necessary, and I’ll glue them together with spit.” His voice had developed a kind of magisterial power. “No human agency will stand in the way of the Tara being completed—and I promise you that in the name of God.”
“You’ll need all the help He can give you to get flight certification,” Renard murmured.
Montane stared at him in loathing. “Why don’t you—? Why don’t you—?”
“Allow me,” Nicklin came in, turning to give Renard a contented smile. “Corey is a man of the cloth and that makes it difficult for him to express certain sentiments—but it’s my guess that he wants you to fuck off.”
The mocking gleam in Renard’s eyes abruptly faded and he turned back to Montane. “You should choose your colleagues with a bit more discretion.”
“My colleague’s language has grown increasingly vile ever since I met him,” Montane said. “It’s something I usually deplore—but not on this occasion.”
“I’ve wasted too much time here as it is,” Renard said, getting up from his seat. He beckoned to Silvia, who had already set her teacup down, and they walked in silence to the exit.
Nicklin continued gazing wistfully after Silvia until the door had slid shut behind her. “It’s the wife I always feel sorry for.”
“I noticed you feeling sorry for her,” Hepworth said in jovial reproof. “You were trying it on, weren’t you?”
“That woman deserves something better out of life than Rick Renard.”
Hepworth chuckled. “And obviously you didn’t measure up.”
“Do we have to put up with this kind of talk?” Voorsanger said to Montane, his elongated face registering disgust. “It seems to me that things have taken a bad enough turn without our having to listen to smut.”
“Ropp is quite right.” Montane directed a sombre stare at Nicklin and Hepworth.
“I thought we dealt with Mr Renard rather well,” Nicklin said. “You in particular, chief. I was quite proud of you at the end.” He was still speaking in a flippant manner, and it was only after the words were out that he realised he actually meant them. Montane, crazy or not, had stood up for his principles and beliefs against a rich and powerful opponent.
“The fact is,” Montane replied quietly, “that completing the Tara is going to take a lot longer than we expected—and I have a feeling there may not be enough time.”
Chapter 15
Obtaining a new job had proved much easier than Nicklin had expected.
Yip & Wrigley was a new company which had been formed to enter the booming market in medium-sized interportal freighters, and—unusually—had decided to locate its manufacturing facility in Beachhead. Traditionally, Orbitsville had relied on Earth for spaceship production. It had only a few yards with manufacturing capability, and they were sited in Dalton, the great industrial conurbation at P12. Beachhead had always been a spaceport, with limited repair and maintenance facilities, and as a consequence had no pool of the kind of expertise Yip & Wrigley needed.
Tommy Yip, the company’s president, had at first been concerned over Nicklin’s lack of formal engineering qualifications, and then—as a fellow machine-lover—had been impressed by his practical skills and computer-like ability to carry hundreds of component specifications in his memory. As a consequence, Nicklin had been offered a senior position in engineering management—title and responsibilities yet to be defined—and was expected to take it up as soon as he had disengaged from Corey Montane.
He had mixed feelings as he entered the portal complex on foot and saw the massive triple hull of the Tara. It was a fresh, breezy morning in early spring and the ship’s skin, now immaculate, was gleaming with the coppery lustre which was peculiar to electron-sated metals. The rakish, crimson-and-white shape of the pinnace was in place underneath the nose section, and the Tara gave the impression of being ready to go among the stars.
It was difficult for Nicklin to accept that more than two years had passed since the ship, moribund and begrimed, had been hauled into place at the rim of the portal. He had laboured unceasingly during that time, refusing even the shortest vacations, surrendering much that made up normal existence to his private obsession. In many respects he had been like a general waging a bitter campaign against enemies who continually changed their positions and tactics.
Major structural elements—such as diaphragm decks and bulkheads—had been only part of his remit. There had been the thousands of minor components, ranging from stair treads and handrails to storage racks; and the multitudinous systems relating to everything from ventilation to waste disposal. A starship was a machine for keeping hundreds of human beings alive in a hostile environment, and the complexities of that machine were almost endless.
At every stage of procuration the work had been hampered by the unseen forces of Renard’s consortium. At the blackest times Nicklin had felt a paranoid certainty that Renard was personally and vindictively blocking his progress, but on the whole he had accepted that the Tara was an incidental casualty of the consortium’s activities. The real opponent was the immutable law of supply and demand, with some backing from an ancient foe which had been known to engineers since the dawn of technology, and which they had dubbed Murphy’s Law.
Nicklin had often been obliged to accept parts intended for a slightly different mark of vessel, and which should have been very easily adapted. But in many cases, as though malign and leering gremlins were responsible, the chance shaping of a flange or the placing of a single stud had been all that was required to trigger vast series of time-consuming modifications. The mission’s little army of workers had at times been required to operate a three-shift system, and under Nicklin’s close supervision had developed an impressive range of manual skills.
Scott Hepworth had faced parallel difficulties with the Tara’s drive machinery, on occasion having to employ specialists from outside, but in the end—after more than two years of dedicated effort—the work had been completed.
The bird is ready to fly, Nicklin thought as he walked in the prism of shade cast by his sun-hat. The only trouble is that nobody is going to open the cage.
Reaching the main ramp leading up to the ship’s passenger cylinder, he paused as he saw Lan Huertas descending to ground level. Huertas, the mission’s solitary black man, had been the first person to speak to Nicklin on the fateful day of his induction in Orangefield. He was also the one, making no bones about his personal dislike, who now spoke to him least.