Chan trod softly, almost tiptoeing as he came to the next corridor of residential suites. He was in an area that would qualify as high-class dwelling space anywhere in the solar system. Deb, whatever she was doing, was not living in poverty.
He came to a wide, solid door. The small plate attached to it read D. Bisson in discreet cursive script. A communication grille sat in the wall at the left-hand side. Chan hesitated. The logical — and polite — thing to do was to signal, identify himself, and request permission to enter.
But suppose that she told him to go to hell, turned off the communicator, and would not let him in? He had come a long way to leave without an audience. And he had been the one, back on Mars, who told Danny Casement that team recruiting must be done face-to-face. It was more true for Deb Bisson than for anyone.
He gently tried the door. As expected, it was locked. But this was a normal domestic lock, not one of the infinitely variable smart ciphers. For a man who had spent the past two decades in Earth’s Gallimaufries, that was almost an invitation.
Chan had not seen a living soul since he landed on Europa, but he walked carefully up and down the corridor before returning to Deb Bisson’s door. Everything seemed peaceful. He bent down to study the lock.
It took longer than expected, but within five minutes he was delicately turning the final cylinder and easing the door open. The inside of the apartment was even darker than the corridor. He stood on the threshold for a few moments to study his surroundings. He was in a big rectangular room, at least ten meters long. Judging from the equipment, with its beams and pulleys and weights, this was some kind of exercise area. The surface gravity of Europa was even less than on the Moon, and if you stayed here for a long time it was essential to work out regularly. Otherwise you lost muscle tone and bone mass. The higher gravity worlds like Earth and Venus would close to you permanently.
The far end of the room held three doors. The left-most two were open, and by the faint light within them he could make out a hint of comfortable furniture in one and wall cabinets in the other. He guessed at living room and kitchen, or possibly living room and workroom. The third door was open just a crack. It was presumably the bedroom, and it was totally dark.
Chan tiptoed toward it. He didn’t want to wake Deb up suddenly. In the old days, even at the best of times, that guaranteed a bad mood. The best way would be to stand at her bedside and speak in a soft voice, so that she would wake slowly and naturally.
He pushed the door wide and stood staring into the room. He thought he could make out the shape of a big bed, with what might be a sleeping body lying toward the right side of it.
He took another step forward. As he did so he was grabbed from behind and flipped end over end. He was caught in midair and both arms were twisted behind his back. Something that felt like a band of steel whipped across his throat, choking him.
A voice hissed in his ear, “All right, smart boy. Struggle and you’re dead.” The steel band tightened. “Don’t even try.”
It was an easy command to obey. It took Chan’s best efforts just to breathe. He felt himself being frisked for weapons and heard a grunt of surprise. Suddenly he was thrown across the room and landed on the bed. He hit on top of something that yelped, and as he rolled over and tried to sit up a light went on.
Chan saw everything in one quick flash. He had been thrown onto a bed covered with a mess of tangled sheets. Deb Bisson crouched about three meters away. She was naked, her body damp with sweat and her dark hair in a wild cloud about her intent face. Her white limbs were deceptively smooth and feminine. In one hand she held a steel chain, and the tendons in that forearm flexed and stood out like cables. Next to Chan was the man whom he had landed on. He was big, blond, muscle-bound, also nude, and his mouth gaped open.
Chan saw the expression on Deb’s face change from murderous intent to question to total shock.
“You!” she said. “I don’t believe it. What are you doing here — in my apartment — in my bedroom — in the middle of the night — when I was — you bastard, what the devil are you doing here at all ?”
“I need to talk to you.” Chan held his hands up in self-defense, because Deb’s face had darkened and she was raising the steel chain.
“I don’t need to talk to you. Ever.” The chain whipped from one hand to the other so fast that Chan heard it but didn’t see it. “You get out of here before I slash your guts out and stuff them down your lying throat.”
Chan had no doubt that she could do it, with her bare hands if she had to. He eased off the bed and stood up, very slowly and carefully. He knew better than to smile.
“Deb, I know you hate me. I understand why, and I can explain what happened.”
“I’m not interested in your explanations.”
“I know. And that’s not why I came here. For years, I haven’t called you or tried to contact you—”
“Do you think I don’t know that?”
“ — and I wouldn’t be here now, if I didn’t think you would want to hear what I have to say. All I’m asking is ten minutes.”
“In the middle of the night? After breaking into my home, disturbing my privacy, without even a call to tell me you’re coming.”
“If I had called ahead, would you have agreed to see me?”
She did not answer. The chain whistled through the air. One end passed close to Chan’s neck. Three inches more, and it would have severed his windpipe.
Call that encouraging. She could have killed him, and she’d decided not to.
“You wouldn’t have spoken to me, Deb. I think you would have regretted it later when you learned what you missed, but you’d have hung up on me. What I need to tell you isn’t personal. But it is private.”
The flicker of his eyes toward Deb’s naked companion would have been imperceptible to most people. Deb shrugged and tossed the chain casually to one side. She knew, and she knew Chan knew, that she could take him apart without any more weapons than her hands.
“Olaf, if you don’t mind.” She nodded to the man on the bed, who had wriggled back under a sheet. “I need to talk to this scumbag.”
Olaf stood up, turned his back to Chan, and pulled on his pants with as much dignity as he could manage. “Are you sure you’ll be safe?” he said over his shoulder. “I realize you know him, but if you would like me to stay and make sure you are all right …”
Deb’s smile was at Chan, and it was not friendly. “Thanks, Olaf, but I can manage. I wish he would start something, just to give me an excuse to snap his rotten neck.”
“Should I come back later, then?”
“We’ll see. I’ll call you.”
As Olaf left, Chan began, “If I had known that you had a regular partner these days, I wouldn’t—”
“Stuff it, Chan Dalton. You’ll have to lie better than that to fool me.”
“Was I lying?”
“You certainly were. Partner!” She spat the word at Chan like a curse. “I don’t have partners any more. How well do you think Olaf knows me, if he doesn’t realize I’m a weapons master who can look after herself better than anyone on Europa? He’s not my partner, he’s a pick-up — and a lot better lover than you ever were. So cut the crap. Tell me what you want.” She was reaching down to lift a white robe from the floor, and she saw Chan’s look. “And you can stop staring at my ass. You had your chance, and you blew it.”
“I was just marveling at how little you’ve changed. Your body doesn’t look a day older.”