Titus chuckled. “I doubt that. At least not twice!” The others laughed, and agreed that none of them could cook either. As they entered their residence corridor, Titus moved up beside the young physician. “What’s your name?”
“Philips. Morrisey Philips. Yours?”
Tucking the name firmly into his memory, Titus gave his current alias. He’d been Shiddehara since his wakening, with only short times under other names to build identities he might need. “How big is the medical department?”
“Big enough. Why? Feeling bad? You’ll have another round of checks soon to adjust your gravity medication.”
“I’m fine,” said Titus. “But perhaps I’ll drop over to check out the place tomorrow. Will you be on duty?”
“Most likely. Always am. Here you are, number forty-three.” He presented Titus a key. “This way, folks.”
Eagerly, Titus opened the door and went in. Instantly, he was relieved to see his luggage piled in the middle of the floor, looking untouched. Locking the door behind him, he turned on the overhead light and squinted against the intrusive brilliance. He attacked the cases, dumping the contents in a frantic search for the packets of dark powder.
“Ah!” Untouched.
The relief made him sag onto the bed clutching two bags to his chest. Then he was acutely embarrassed at the mess he’d made. He forced himself to unpack meticulously and stow his belongings properly. He collected the little bags, boxes and bottles of precious nutrients, and the vials of tablet supplements with all their different, false, labels on the counter that served as a kitchen.
He noted that he would have to refill his prescription for blood pressure medication, and dumped today’s tablet down the disposer. The drug rendered humans sensitive to ultraviolet, and the false prescription was his excuse not to use the solarium.
There was a sink, wet bar-sized Frigidaire, and a Sears microwave. Over this was a cabinet with dishes, cooking implements, and basic supplies including the ubiquitous Nescafe, Earl Grey tea, and a package of Osem crackers with Fortnum & Mason marmalade which bore, on an attached card, the compliments of the King of England. Titus found a quart pitcher and managed to fill it with water. Then he warmed the water in the microwave and dissolved his powder.
His hand shook as he poured some of the solution into a disposable cup. He made himself carry the pitcher and cup to the small table and sit down before even tasting the divine liquid.
Only then did he give himself up to the shivering ecstasy of it. He’d drunk three cups before he came to awareness of the room he must call home for the duration.
It was cheerfully decorated in yellow and brown with a short pile carpet and heavy drapes across the wall beside the door. Peeking, Titus discovered he had a round window, a porthole actually, with a view of the corridor.
The room was large. With the bed folded up into the wall, there was enough space to throw a party. One closet held an extra Samsonite table and several ultralight chairs. Another door led to a bathroom which was plastered with bright signs prescribing dire penalties for wasting water.
An alcove harbored a desk and computer terminal. There was a lounge and some easy chairs. On one wall, a viewscreen displayed a moonscape at Earthrise, but Titus saw the bank of controls below it and realized this was his vidcom as well as his outside window. Playing with it, he discovered the Project Station cable channels and found the news and two entertainment selections. Then he read the instructions.
There was a slot for videotapes. Surely tapes would be traded briskly at the shopping mall.
He found the channels that showed angles from cameras set all around Project Station, and even one of the alien craft.
Arrested in mid-motion, he feasted on the sight. He had no more idea what he was looking at than any human on Earth.
Except he was certain now-certain down deep in his bones– that it was a luren ship.
It was a space vehicle, only vaguely streamlined. Tiny suited figures moving about the area attested to its size. It had housed and fed fifty luren. By the humans’ count, there had been two hundred orl aboard. The one-to-four ratio was standard in space, or so legend held.
This had been a cargo carrier, and its holds were filled with intriguing artifacts. The investigation had been going on now for two years, and a cloak of governmental secrecy still shrouded every detail. Some of it was classified above even Titus’s rating. “Weapons,” they whispered, but Titus doubted that. Weapons would be shipped on an armed vessel. This seemed like nothing but a trader.
I have to go out there-get a look at the corpses.
He laughed at himself, amazed at what a meal could do for his ambition. Finishing the artificial blood, he told himself the station was so big he might complete his job here and still avoid Abbot, avoid defying him again. Things might not turn out too badly at all.
He was washing up when the vidcom chimed and an unfamiliar face appeared in one corner of the huge screen. “Dr. Shiddehara? This is Shimon Ben Zvi. I’m sorry to wake you after your trip, but something very odd is happening to your computer, and we think you ought to know about it. Dr. Shiddehara?” Clearly the man, who spoke with a distinct Israeli accent, couldn’t see or hear Titus.
Abbot! Abbot’s done something! With quick, grim strokes, Titus opened channel and answered, “This is Dr. Shiddehara. What’s this about my computer?”
“Oh, Doctor! I’m Shimon-in charge of operations for you. Carol, uh, Dr. Colby told us you were counting on the computer being up and ready to meet the new deadline. And it was but about an hour ago it began throwing strange error messages– that aren’t even in this unit! I know they aren’t in this unit-”
“I trust you,” Titus assured him. “Your degree is from the Technion, right? They told me you were the best.”
“I am, but Doctor, I think you should come look at this. I don’t think it’s salvageable with less than three weeks of work. And Carol said-”
“Three weeks! All right, I’ll be right there.” He started to switch off. “Wait! Shimon. Where is there? I mean, how do I get there from here?”
“They should have given you a map.” Shimon gave him a room number in another dome, on an upper floor. “Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to get here from almost anywhere else.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
Fifteen minutes and five wrong turns later, Titus swung through the door to Lab 290, paused at the top of the three shallow steps that led down to the floor, and stared into chaos. Ten or fifteen people in white overalls were shouting and gesticulating as if working to patch an air leak. A large one.
Some of them had access panels off the walls exposing circuit boards. One wheeled an oscilloscope cart over to a pair who were gutting one of the many consoles. Another pair argued in Japanese. Someone swore in Russian and was answered luridly in a thick, incomprehensible Aussie dialect.
Far in the back of the room, glass walls set off the observatory area. It was tied to the antenna mast he had seen on the way in, and to the antenna arrays, thus to all the observatories in orbit around Earth and around the sun. His observatory could direct or debrief most of the instruments in the solar system, even some of the farthest probes, and cross-correlate any new data with all archived data from the last several decades. A slender, somewhat feminine figure shrouded in white bent intensely over a screen in that glassed-in area, ignoring everything going on outside.
Titus drew a deep breath, and bellowed, “Silence!”
In the ensuing breathless quiet, something crackled and suddenly sparks jumped and smoke rose from several different locations. Agonized comments popped along with the sparks. “Oh, shit!” “Ditto.” “Randall!”