One day we would have mirrors and a laser output window of pure diamond, once we had learned how to fabricate large sheets of the stuff in zero gravity. That day had not yet come. It seemed that ground control was more interested in growing gem-quality diamonds than large sheets.
I had calculated Sam’s approach trajectory back at the control center and pecked the numbers into my hand computer. Now, as the technicians labored and grumbled over their big laser I fed those coordinates into the laser aiming system. As far as the technicians knew, they were firing their multi-megawatt beam into empty space, as usual. Only I knew that when they fired the laser its beam would destroy the approaching Yankee spacecraft and kill Sam Gunn.
The moments ticked by as I sweated coldly, miserable with apprehension and—yes, I admit it freely—with guilt. I had set the target for the laser’s aiming mirror. The big slab of polished copper hanging outside the station’s hull was already tracking Sam’s trajectory, turning ever so slightly each second. The relays directing its motion clicked inside the laboratory like the clicks of a quartz clock, like the tapping of a Chinese water torture.
Then I heard the sighing sound that happens when an airtight hatch between two modules of the station is opened. Turning, I saw the hatch swinging open, its heavy hinges groaning slightly. Zworkin pushed through and floated over the bulky master control console to my side.
“You show an unusual interest in this test,” he said softly.
My insides blazed as if I had stuck my hand into the power outlet. “There is the crisis in Geneva,” I replied. “Ground control wants this test to proceed flawlessly.”
“Will it?”
I did not trust myself to say anything more. I merely nodded.
Zworkin watched the muttering technicians for a few endless moments, then asked, “Do you find it odd that the American is approaching us exactly at the time our test is scheduled?”
I nodded once again, keeping my eyes fixed on the empty point in space where I imagined the beam and Sam’s spacecraft would meet.
“I received an interesting message from Moscow, less than an hour ago,” Zworkin said. I dared not look into his face, but his voice sounded tense, brittle. “The rumor is that the Geneva conference has struck a reef made of pure diamond.”
“What?” That spun me around. He was not gloating. In fact he looked just as worried as I felt. No, not even worried. Frightened. The tone of voice that I had assumed was sarcasm was actually the tight dry voice of fear.
“This is unconfirmed rumor, mind you,” Zworkin said, “but what they are saying is that the NATO intelligence service has learned we are manufacturing pure diamond crystals in zero gravity, diamond crystals that can be made large enough to be used as mirrors and windows for extremely high-power lasers. They are concerned that we have moved far ahead of them in this key area of technology.”
Just at that instant Sam’s cocky voice chirped over the station’s intercom speakers. “Hey there friends and neighbors, here’s your Hollywood delivery service comin’ atcha.”
The laser mirror clicked again. And again. One of the technicians floated back to the console at my side and pressed the three big red rocker switches that turn on the electrical power, one after the other. The action made his body rise up to the low ceiling of the laboratory each time. He rose and descended slowly, up and down, like a bubble trapped in a sealed glass.
A low whine came from the massive power generators. Even though they were off in a separate module of the station I felt their vibration.
In my mind’s eye I could see a thin yellow line that represented Sam’s trajectory approaching us. And a heavier red line, the fierce beam of our laser, reaching out to meet it.
“Got something more than videos, this trip,” Sam was chattering. “Managed to lay my hands on some really neat electronic toys, interactive games. You’ll love ’em. Got the latest sports videos, too, and a bucketful of real-beef hamburgers. All you do is pop ’em in your microwave. Brought mustard and ketchup too. Better’n that soy stuff you guys been eating….”
He was talking his usual blue streak. I was glad that the communications technicians knew to scrub his transmissions from the tapes that ground control monitored. Dealing with Zworkin was bad enough.
Through his inane gabbling I could hear the mirror relays clicking like the rifles of a firing squad being cocked, one by one. Sam approached us blithely unaware of what awaited him. I pictured his spacecraft being hit by the laser beam, exploding, Sam and his videos and hamburgers all transformed instantly into an expanding red-hot ball of bloody vapor.
I reached over and pounded the master switch on the console. Just like the technician I bounded toward the ceiling. The power generators wound down and went silent.
Zworkin stared up at me open mouthed as I cracked my head painfully and floated down toward him again.
I could not kill Sam. I could not murder him in cold blood, no matter what the consequences might be.
“What are you doing?” Zworkin demanded.
Putting out a hand to grasp the console and steady myself, I said, “We should not run this test while the Yankee spy is close enough to watch.”
He eyed me shrewdly, then called to the two dumbfounded technicians. “Out! Both of you! Until your commander calls for you again.”
Shrugging and exchanging confused looks, the two young men left the laboratory module. Zworkin pushed the hatch shut behind them, leaning against it as he gave me a long quizzical stare.
“Grigori Aleksandrovich,” he said at last, “we must do something about this American. If ground control ever finds out about him—if Moscow ever finds out…”
“What was it you said about the diamond crystals?” I asked. “Do you think the imperialists know about our experiments here?”
“Of course they know! And this Yankee spy is at the heart of the matter.”
“What should we do?”
Zworkin rubbed his chin but said nothing. I could not helping thinking, absurdly, that his acne had almost totally disappeared.
So we allowed Sam aboard the station once again and I brought him immediately to my private cubicle.
“Cripes!” he chirped. “I’ve seen bigger coffins. Is this the best that the workers’ paradise can do for you?”
“No propaganda now,” I whispered sternly. “And no more blackmail. You will not return to this station again and you will not get any more diamonds from me.”
“And no more ice cream?” He seemed entirely unconcerned with the seriousness of the situation.
“No more anything!” I said, straining to make it as strong as I could while still whispering. “Your visits here are finished. Over and done with.”
Sam made a rueful grin and wormed his right hand into the hip pocket of his coveralls. “Read this,” he said, handing me a slip of paper.
It had two numbers on it, both of them in six digits.
“The first is your private bank account number at the Bank of Zurich, in Switzerland.”
“Russian citizens are not allowed to …”
“The second number,” Sam went on, “is the amount of money deposited in your account, in Swiss francs.”
“I told you, I am not—” I stopped and looked at the second number again. I was not certain of the exchange ratio between Swiss francs and rubles, but six digits are six digits.
Sam laughed softly. “Listen. My friends in New York have friends in Switzerland. That’s how I set up the account for you. It’s your half of the profit from those little stones you gave me.”