Farside (31 page)

The ground around the landing pad was strewn with wreckage. Three of the accident investigators were spread out across the area, gathering pieces. The fourth was inside, reviewing the flight monitor’s records of the lobber’s liftoff.

The lobber that had brought in the investigating team sat on the pad now, a squat dark cone, like some ancient monument. Archeology, Grant thought again. We’ve gone from astronomy to archeology.

Walking slowly along the sandy, pockmarked ground, Grant realized that he would have to tell the investigators about his nanomachines. Cardenas says they’ve got nothing to do with the accident, but I can’t keep quiet about it, not if there’s one chance in a million that I caused the blowup. One chance in a billion.

He did not look forward to making his confession.

*   *   *

After an hour’s session with the quartet of investigators in Uhlrich’s office, Carter McClintock made it his business to have dinner with their chief. Just the two of them, in McClintock’s quarters.

Latisha Luongo was a couple of centimeters taller than McClintock, lean and long-legged with shiny black skin, big deeply brown eyes, and hair cropped down to a fuzzy skullcap. Not a raving beauty, McClintock thought, but her face was remarkably striking, like some sullen fashion model. And she appeared to be somewhat intelligent and rather shapely beneath her open-necked blouse and snug slacks.

She also seemed quite wary once she realized that this dinner would be for just the two of them.

McClintock offered her a glass of fruit juice as he invited her to sit on the sofa. She accepted the drink and perched on the armchair instead.

“I thought you had invited the others of my team,” she said, her voice a rich low contralto.

“Perhaps I should have,” McClintock answered easily. “But I thought it would be easier to discuss your work one-on-one.”

“I see.” She sipped minimally at the juice.

“I’m afraid alcoholic beverages are practically nonexistent here at Farside,” he said as he sat on the sofa alone. No sense wasting decent wine on a woman who’s here to investigate us, he thought.

“Professor Uhlrich disapproves?”

McClintock made a vague gesture. “Let’s say he doesn’t encourage it.”

Luongo almost smiled.

Getting businesslike, McClintock asked, “How does the nanomachine factor affect your investigation?”

“It’s too early to tell,” she answered.

“If … somehow … nanomachines caused the explosion, could your team discover it?”

“You don’t have the necessary equipment here. We will have to take the wreckage back to Selene for examination.”

“The chief of our technical staff believes that nanomachines might have penetrated the ship’s oxygen line.”

That sparked her interest. “Does he?”

“It’s just a wild idea of his.”

“I would like to speak to him about it.”

“I could arrange that.”

“Now,” Luongo said. “I would like to speak with him now.”

“But dinner—”

“Dinner can wait,” she said. “Please order him to come here at once.”

SUMMONED

Grant had just placed his dinner tray on the cafeteria table and sat down between Harvey Henderson and Trudy Yost when the cafeteria’s overhead speakers blared, “GRANT SIMPSON, PLEASE COME TO MR. McCLINTOCK’S QUARTERS AT ONCE.”

Henderson grinned at him. “You’re being summoned to the principal’s office, buddy.”

Grant glanced at Trudy as he got up from the bench. She looked concerned. “There goes dinner,” he complained.

“I can reheat it for you,” Trudy said.

Grant realized that she meant she would take his dinner to her quarters. We have can dinner there. And then go to bed.

He made a smile for her. “I’d appreciate that, Trudy.”

But as he hurried out of the cafeteria he wondered if it was right to carry on his relationship with her. If I’m the reason why these accidents have happened, if I’m responsible … Yet he countered his own fears with the memory of making love with Trudy. I didn’t hurt her. My nanomachines didn’t have any effect on her. We had a great time together.

Conflicted, he made his way to McClintock’s quarters and rapped on his door.

McClintock slid it open and ushered him inside. Grant saw a long-legged black woman in bluish gray coveralls sitting on the armchair next to the sofa, eyeing him curiously.

“Grant, this is Dr. Latisha Luongo, head of the investigating team,” said McClintock. “Dr. Luongo, this is Grant Simpson, chief of our technical crew.”

Luongo got to her feet. She was taller than Grant by several centimeters. Her face was long and serious, but she made a polite smile and held out her hand to Grant.

“Dr. Simpson,” she murmured.

“
Mr.
Simpson,” McClintock corrected, before Grant could speak. He felt irked by it.

Luongo resumed her seat, and Grant sat on the recliner, facing her. McClintock went to the sofa, between them. Grant noticed that there were two glasses on the coffee table, but McClintock didn’t offer Grant anything to drink.

“Mr. McClintock tells me that you suspect nanomachines have been involved in both accidents,” Luongo said, with a slight but discernible stress on the
Mister.

“Three accidents,” Grant said. “We had a superconductor coil fail when it lost its coolant due to a pinhole leak in the dewar. A leak caused by nanomachines.”

Luongo’s brows rose. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Dr. Cardenas has confirmed that the dewar failure and the failure of Winston’s suit were both caused by nanomachines,” said Grant.

Luongo glanced at McClintock.

“Dr. Cardenas is here,” he said, “if you’d like to talk with her.”

“Later,” said Luongo. Turning back to Grant, she asked, “How did the nanomachines get into these devices?”

“Now wait,” McClintock objected. “There’s no evidence that the lobber’s failure was caused by nanomachines.”

“There will be,” Grant said.

“The question remains,” Luongo insisted, “how did the nanomachines get there? Are they the same type as you have used to construct your telescope mirror?”

“No,” said Grant. “But—”

McClintock interrupted, “We really should have Dr. Cardenas in this discussion.”

Luongo nodded solemnly. “I suppose so. Can you call her, please?”

“Before you do,” Grant said, surprised at how strong and steady his voice was, “I have something to tell you. I have nanomachines in my body. Dr. Cardenas—”

“You
what
?” McClintock yowled.

Almost enjoying the man’s consternation, Grant told them, “Dr. Cardenas gave me a dose of therapeutic nanos several weeks ago. They’re helping me to work out on the surface without suffering a lot of radiation damage.”

“That’s illegal!” McClintock barked.

Luongo made a faint smile. “Not on the Moon, sir. Not in the nation of Selene.”

Before McClintock could think of anything to say, Grant went on, “Dr. Cardenas has assured me that the nanos in my body are not responsible for the accidents. She says it’s impossible.”

“But you come back here from Selene filled with nanobugs and we start having accidents,” McClintock said darkly.

“There is that,” Grant conceded.

Luongo turned to McClintock again. “Please call Dr. Cardenas for me. Now.”

McClintock called out, “Phone: get Dr. Cardenas.”

For a few tense moments the room was absolutely silent. Then Kris Cardenas’s youthful blond face appeared on the wall screen.

“Hello, Carter.”

“Could you come over to my quarters, Kris? Right away? The head of the accident investigating team wants to speak with you.”

Cardenas’s face tightened. “Yes, I imagine she does.”

“Could you—”

“I’ll be right there,” Cardenas said. Then she cut the phone link.

Luongo reached down to the capacious handbag that rested at her feet and pulled out a palm-sized computer.

“If you’ll excuse me for a few moments,” she murmured.

“Of course,” said McClintock.

Grant watched as she tapped on the computer’s minuscule keyboard with her long, graceful fingers.

*   *   *

Trudy finished her dinner, left the cafeteria, and headed to Professor Uhlrich’s quarters instead of her own.

The poor man must be feeling besieged, she thought. The facility’s locked down and even the work out at the telescope sites has been stopped.

But when Uhlrich admitted her to his room, the professor seemed to be in good spirits. He greeted Trudy with a pleasant smile and showed her to the sofa. As Trudy sat she saw that the display screen on the opposite wall was scrolling through messages almost faster than her eye could follow.

“Comments on our note to
IAL
,” he said happily. “Our little paper has attracted quite a bit of attention.”

“That’s good,” Trudy said, a trifle uncertainly, as she sat on the sofa.

Uhlrich sat beside her and she noticed that he had a tiny microphone wormed into his ear. He’s listening to the comments, she realized. He can’t see them, but he’s programmed his computer to make them audible for him.

“Have you drafted the full paper yet?” he asked eagerly. “About our spectroscopic results from Sirius C’s atmosphere?”

“I’m … working on it,” Trudy replied.

“Good. Good. We must get it to the journal as quickly as possible. They’ll send it out to be refereed, of course, but we can still put it out digitally and get comments from as wide an audience as possible.”

Nodding, Trudy said, “Um … we can work on it right now, Professor. If you feel up to it.”

“Of course!” Uhlrich beamed at her. “By all means!”

So Trudy called up her notes and data and the two of them plunged into writing a full-fledged research report about her work on the atmosphere of Sirius C. Within a few minutes Trudy was caught up in the professor’s excitement. It felt good to be working, to be dealing with data and rigorous logic, to forget the accidents and the investigation and personal relationships. Just the work, she thought. That’s what really counts. The work. The rest will be forgotten sooner or later, but the work will remain forever.

MÉNAGE À QUATRE

Kris Cardenas looked wary, almost suspicious, as McClintock introduced her to Latisha Luongo.

Perching rigidly on the sofa beside McClintock, she glanced at Grant, still on the recliner, then said, “I don’t have to ask why you want to talk to me, do I?”

Luongo reached into her handbag for a pair of stylish dark-framed eyeglasses as she said, “Nanomachines have caused accidents, and Mr. Simpson has just revealed to us that you have put nanomachines into his body.”

“Mr. Simpson also drinks water,” Cardenas said. “Do you suspect water may have caused the accidents?”

McClintock said, “Come on, now, Kris. Be reasonable.”

“I don’t like being a suspect.”

“Me neither,” said Grant, “but we’ve got to cover all the possibilities, Kris.”

“Your nanos didn’t cause the accidents,” Cardenas insisted, her voice low but firm as concrete. “I’ve already proved that.”

“Have you?” Luongo asked. “I wasn’t aware—”

“I can demonstrate it for you again, if you need to see it for yourselves.”

“What was your proof?”

“It’s very simple,” said Cardenas. “I took a sample of Grant’s blood. Once outside his body, his nanomachines deactivated themselves in less than five minutes. Without the energy they get from Grant’s body heat, they go inert.”

“Truly?” Luongo murmured. Her eyeglasses made her look like an accountant or an office worker, Grant thought, not an investigator.

“Moreover,” Cardenas went on, “Grant’s nanos aren’t capable of gnawing through metal alloys. They’re programmed to attack organic molecules that don’t bear his own personal genetic markers.”

Very gently, McClintock said, “Kris, we all would like to believe you, but all we’ve got is your word on this.”

“I can accept Dr. Cardenas’s word,” said Luongo. “I see no reason to doubt it.”

Looking surprised, Cardenas said, “Why … thank you.”

“But if the devices in Mr. Simpson’s body did not cause the accidents, what did?”

McClintock pointed out, “There’s no evidence that nanomachines caused the lobber’s crash.”

“Not yet,” Grant muttered.

“It is a possibility that we must explore,” said Luongo.

Turning toward Cardenas, Grant said, “One way or another, the nanos must have come from your lab, Kris.”

“No!” she snapped.

Trying to sound reasonable, McClintock said, “But Kris, your lab at Selene is the only place in the solar system that manufactures nanomachines.”

For a moment Grant thought that Cardenas was going to erupt in fury. Her face went white, her jaws clenched so hard he could see the muscles in her face tighten. But then she seemed to relax a little. Taking a breath, she said calmly, “My laboratory did not produce lethal nanomachines.”

“How can you be certain?” Luongo asked, trying not to be accusative. “After all, you have a staff, don’t you? Can you be absolutely certain that none of them produced the gobblers?”

Cardenas flinched visibly at the term, but she responded, “Yes, I am absolutely certain. I have only a dozen people on my staff. I’ve known most of them for many years. I can vouch for each and every one of them, without hesitation.”

“That’s carrying loyalty a bit far, don’t you think?” McClintock said. “After all, Kris, we’re talking about murder here, sabotage and outright murder.”

“No one on my staff would produce destructive nanos,” Cardenas insisted. “I’d stake my life on that.”

Luongo smiled, but asked again, “Then where did the gobblers come from?”

Grant spoke up. “There are rumors of secret nanolabs on Earth. Wealthy people use them for therapeutic reasons.”

“And cosmetic,” Luongo added. “I’ve heard such rumors also.”

“From Earth?” McClintock sounded totally incredulous. “You mean someone from Earth obtained destructive nanomachines from a secret laboratory and brought them here to Farside to cause these accidents?”

Grant said, “Sherlock Holmes.”

“What?”

“In one of the Sherlock Holmes stories, he says that once you’ve eliminated all the obvious possibilities, then whatever remains—no matter how unlikely it seems—has got to be the answer.”