“Space’s no different.”
“Sure it is. These Ortho—these people know they’re really the same as us.”
Jeffers said triumphantly, “But they aren’t.”
Carl smiled humorlessly. “Now who’s being prejudiced?”
“Hell, you know we’re not the same as them.” Jeffers leaned forward, speaking earnestly. “Our bodies are better, that’s for sure. And we’re smarter, too. The tests show that.”
“Hell they do.”
“Can’t argue with statistics!”
Carl grunted with irritation. “Look, we were boy wonders back when we were growing up—before people started turning against us. All Percells were. Remember the scholarships? The special attention?”
“We earned that. We were smart.”
Carl shook his head. “We turned out smart—because of the VIP treatment.”
“Naw. I’ve always been quicker than your typical Ortho, even if I don’t bother to talk real well.”
“And you are. But you’re no better than people like Captain Cruz or Dr. Oakes.” Carl got to his feet too rapidly and his velcro grips tore free of the fiberthread. He shot across the tunnel and banged his head against the ceiling.
“Damn!”
Jeffers snickered but said nothing. Carl rubbed his head as he drifted back, but refused to let his irritation show any further. Jeffers was like too many Percells—wrapped up in their own sense of persecution, picking at every imagined slight like a festering sore. Arguing with them just encouraged it.
“Open your eyes:” his friend persisted. “Who’ve they got in the dangerous jobs like ours? Percells!”
“Because a lot of us are trained for zero G. We had the scholarships to get into it.”
“Then why not put a Percell in charge of all Manual Operations?”
“Well…we’re not old enough yet. No Percell is as experienced as Cruz or Ould-Harrad or—”
“Come on! Look at who’s doing the outgassing experiments. And developing long term sleep slotting. All Orthos.”
“So?”
“That’s where the real money’ll be! Learn how to steer comets with their own boiloff, show you can sleep and work in decade shifts—and you can sell your talent anywhere in the system.”
Carl couldn’t help laughing. Jeffers sure did take the long view. “Come on, that’s—”
“And what about Chem Section? If we turn up anything half as valuable as Enkon here, you know who’ll make out. And they’re all Orthos, too, except Peters.”
“We all signed patent agreements. Any techniques discovered, we all get a cut, after recouping basic expenses.”
Jeffers’s face contorted into a sour, sardonic mask. “The Orthos’ll find a way around that.”
Carl felt his own conviction wavering. What if he’s right? But then he blotted out the thought. “Look, get off that line. We can’t continue those stupid Earthside fights out here.”
“We’re not—it’s them.”
Exasperated, Carl stuffed the remains of his lunch into his carry pouch. “Let’s go—I’d rather work than argue.”
Still, that evening he entered the rec-lounge bar troubled, looking for Virginia. She was a reasonable Percell and might understand what he only slowly admitted to himself this afternoon—that he halfway agreed with some of Jeffers’s accusations. It was the man’s tone, his black-and-white way of putting everything, that got Carl’s back up.
He collected a drink, turned to go, and saw the sign DUCK OR GROUSE just in time to remind him. He stooped and entered the lounge. The first week aboard, he and other Percells had slammed their foreheads into the doorjamb a dozen times; the Edmund’s designers had apparently believed only Orthos socialized.
Lani Nguyen intercepted him near the smiling tungsten bust of Edmond Halley himself. “Ah, at last you appear.”
She gave an immediate impression of slim, efficient design, every inch a spacer. Lean muscles bunched in her bare almond-colored arms, but otherwise she was covered in a draping, cool blue dress that moved in light pseudo-gravity with a graceful, modest independence. Carl liked the effect of shimmering cloth lagging behind her precise, delicate movements.
“Uh, yeah, we had some trouble with the tunnel articulation.” He smiled cordially but tried to scan the lounge without seeming to do so.
Dr. Akio Matsudo was talking earnestly to Lieutenant Colonel Ould-Harrad, the head of Manual Ops. Through the viewport Halley Core glimmered and swam as the G-wheel turned. Captain Cruz stood ramrod-straight against the starry background, easily dominating the room, surrounded by the usual mesmerized pack of ladies.
Where was Virginia ?
“Oh?” Lani asked with a distant smile, similar to the Buddha-grin of the sculpture over her shoulder. “That should be automatic.”
Carl blinked. “Uh… we ran into a patch of boulders.”
“I usually send a forward mech ahead to slice those off with a cutter. Then—”
Jeffers appeared out of nowhere and Carl snagged him. “Better tell this guy, he’s the point man in our team. I’ll just run a little errand…” And he was away, free, before Lani’s pert surprise could turn to protest. Let Jeffers have an opening, Carl thought. He deserves it. A bit unfair to Lani, maybe, but first things first. Let’s see, her shift should be up by stow…
He passed the group surrounding Captain Cruz and on impulse slowed. He insinuated himself into the cluster. Cruz always spoke to the whole group, never leaving anyone out, and he smiled at Carl. “How’s it going down there, Osborn?”
Carl was startled at being addressed personally. He had in tended simply to listen in. “Uh, pretty tough, sir, but we can handle it.”
“I saw that neat trick at Shaft Three.” Cruz raised his eyebrows slightly and his gaze swept over the circle. Although an Ortho—a natural human being—he was as tall as most Percells.
Carl felt his face getting hot. He had to say something, but what? “Well, I guess I kinda—”
“Marvelous! A bull’s-eye! I felt like applauding.” The commander chuckled.
Carl was dumbfounded. “Well… I…”
“It’s good to see a little audacity,” Cruz said warmly.
Carl grinned self-consciously. Does he know it was a mistake? “Well, we got a schedule to keep.”
“So we do. I only wish other sub-sections were moving as crisply as yours.”
Carl wondered if that was a veiled joke. But Cruz raised his bulb of bourbon in salute and, to Carl’s surprise, the crowd did, too. Carl covered his confusion by taking a sip, watching the crowd for signs of mirth. No, they meant it. He felt a sudden delight. He had bobbled the maneuver, sure, but recovered well. That was what mattered to the captain.
Cruz caught Carl’s eye and there passed between them the barest moment of understanding. He knows I screwed up. But he’s rewarding initiative over timidity. Why? Carl had tried to perform well all during the Edmund’s flight out, but until this moment Cruz had never paid him more than polite, distant attention.
That’s It—-Kato and Umolanda. He doesn’t want people getting spooked. He knows it was faulty equipment and plain bad luck that killed them, much more than carelessness.
“We’ll make our deadlines, sir,” Carl said firmly.
Cruz nodded. “Good.” With practiced smoothness, the captain turned his attention to a woman communications officer standing nearby. “The new microwave antennas are up on schedule, aren’t they? Having trouble getting signals through the plasma tail?” Cruz asked.