[Computer]: Why does that bother you so?
Why? Why? Because Rockledge’ll try to steal the profits of this mission out from under me, that’s why! It’s just like those sleazy bastards—let the little guy do all the work and then they come in and snatch the money. Rape and pillage, that’s the way they work.
[Computer]: I assume those are metaphors again.
Listen, you stupid hunk of germanium, I want you to get me a Dunn & Bradstreet on each one of my partners. One of them’s a—
[Computer]: You will have to call up the financial program.
Okay! Gimme the financial program!
[Computer]: Financial.
I want a complete rundown on each one of my partners.
[Computer]: Displaying.
No, no, no! Not the data already in your memory! That’s months old, for chrissakes. I want the up-to-the-minute stuff. And check the banks in Liechtenstein.
[Computer]: That will take several hours. Transmission time to Earth is currently—
Just do it! Fast as you can. Do it.
Jeez, I feel like a kid in a confessional booth. It’s been three months since my last entry in this log. A pretty quiet three months.
Things have gone along okay, really smoother than I expected. One of the plasma thrusters crapped out last week, but Will Bassinio and I went EVA and replaced it with a spare. Will’s my electronics specialist; a real whiz at chips and circuits and stuff like that. Lonz—Alonzo Ali, my first mate—monitored us from the command center while Erik did what he does best: charmed the passengers.
Erik’s a good kid. Not a deep thinker, but he smiles pretty and the passengers seem to like him, especially the female passengers. On the official manifest he’s my logistics specialist. Not much of a technician, but he does his job okay.
I think of them as passengers now, rather than partners. In this phase of the flight we’re running sorta like a cruise liner. There won’t be any real work to do until we get past the orbit of Mars and start actively prospecting for an asteroid to mine. In the meantime it’s six meals a day and all the entertainment I can dream up for my magnificent seven.
They’re not as much trouble right now as I thought they’d be. Darling’s happy as a mugger in an old lady’s home. He’s always in the galley or the dining salon, stuffing himself on all the gourmet food I stored aboard. He’s gaining weight fast; his clothes look like they’re gonna start popping seams any minute.
Sheena has calmed down a lot. Maybe what I told her about being a celebrity when she comes back to Earth has helped. But I think it’s Lowell Hubble who’s made the real difference. He’s the oldest man on board, lean gray-haired fatherly type. Neat little mustache that’s still almost dark. Dresses in rumpled slacks and baggy cardigan sweaters. Even smokes a pipe. Sheena’s taken up with him and they both seem delighted about it. He’s even teaching her astronomy.
Is Hubble the Rockledge agent? I’ve been wondering about that. He’s an astronomer, for chrissake. They don’t make much money. There’s no Dunn & Bradstreet report on him, although he comes from a pretty wealthy family. But was the ten million he ponied up his own money, or Rockledge’s?
I asked Grace Harcourt to snoop around for me and see what she could find out.
“Me? Spy for you?” She laughed out loud.
I had invited her up to the command center, what would be called the bridge on a ship at sea, I guess. I like Grace. She’s tough and feisty; has to be, to make it as an entertainment industry gossip columnist. There’s a lot of competition in that business. And a lot of lawsuits.
I had met her years ago, when I was a NASA astronaut-in-training and she was still a local TV news reporter in Houston. We had gotten along really well right from the start, but my so-called career took me to Florida and she aimed for Hollywood. And hit it big.
Grace is tiny, a good two inches shorter than me. But she’s smart, sharp. Not bad looking, either. A little more on her hips than there ought to be, but otherwise she’s got a nicely curved figure that looks good in frilly blouses and pleated skirts. She also has a pleasant, heart-shaped face that knows how to smile.
But now she was laughing. “I’m a gossip columnist, Sam,” she said, “not a secret agent.”
“Snooping is snooping,” I told her. “Just keep your pretty eyes and ears open for me, will you?”
She gave me a funny look. “How do you know I’m not working for Rockledge?”
That made me grin. “You’re a gossip columnist, right? You never kept a secret in your life.”
She laughed and admitted I was right. I’ve got no worries about Grace. She records her column every day and we transmit it to Earth. She bases her stuff on the same reports from her spies and finks that she’d be getting if she was at home in Beverly Hills. She also throws in a couple tidbits about our voyage now and then and shows her viewers some of the ship. No other daily column has ever been recorded from deep space before.
Then I had the run-in with Marjorie Dupray. She had been my zerogee companion, along with Sheena, that first night. A very successful fashion designer, Marj had started out as a model and she’s kept that lean, long-legged, model’s figure. But she’s got a mean look to her, if you ask me. Maybe it’s that buzz cut of hers, with her hair dyed like a neon flamingo. Or the biker’s leathers she likes to wear. She doesn’t give off much of a female aura.
Why would a fashion designer agree to come on this voyage? And put up ten mil, to boot? I decided to question her, subtly, so she wouldn’t know I was suspicious.
I invited her up to the command center one evening when I had the watch alone. She seemed moderately bored as I showed her the navigational computer and the Christmas Tree lights of the life support systems monitor board. But she perked up a bit when we got to the comm console.
“How long does it take a message to get back to Earth now?” she asked.
“Nearly half an hour,” I said. “And longer every day. We are going where no man has gone before, you know.”
“And no woman.”
I made a little bow to acknowledge her feminist point of view, which surprised me. Then I asked:
“Are you getting any work done? Is our voyage into deep space inspiring you to create new clothing designs?”
She shook her head. It was a finely sculptured head, with a haughty nose and strong chin, high cheekbones that threw shifting shadows across her face. Marj is damned near a foot taller than me. I have nothing against tall women; in fact, I consider them a challenge. But that butch haircut of hers bothered me. And now the color was burnt orange.
But I was after information, not challenges.
“Don’t you have contracts to fulfill? I thought this voyage was going to be a working session for you. How can you afford to take two years off?”
She gave me a pitying look. “I don’t have to push it, Sam. When I get back from this trip I’ll be the first and only designer to have been in deep space. I’ll be able to throw rags together and the fashion industry will gobble them up and call them works of inspired genius.”
“Oh.” Maybe she was telling the truth. The fashion industry has always seemed kind of weird to me. “I thought maybe you were independently wealthy. Or you had another source of income.”
“I have a few investments here and there,” she said, with a slight smile.
“Like in Liechtenstein?” I blurted.
Her sculptured face turned cold as ice. “Is that what this is all about, Sam? You think I’m spying on you?”
I gave her my innocent-little-boy look. “What makes you think…”
“Sheena told me how upset you got. How you think one of us is working for Rockledge Industries.”
“Well, yeah, I am upset about that. Wouldn’t you be?”
“Me? Upset about something Sheena thinks she might have heard while she was guzzling booze and frying what little brains she’s got on Rick’s junk?” Marj smirked at me.