Lunar Descent (21 page)

“So what about the beacon?” he replied with what he knew was maddening calmness. “You used 103.5 kilohertz. That's not an uncommon frequency. It could have been cross-feed from just about anything this tug normally uses in its telemetry with TRAFCO. Hell, it could have even been a stray signal from one of our own satellites, or even from an Earth comsat.”

Get off it, Riddell
, she shot back.
You know what's going on here
.

“No,” he replied evenly, “I don't. Want to tell me about it? I mean, you've been so open about everything else so far, so why stop now?”

McGraw stepped closer, as if by reducing the distance between them she could make her voice more clearly heard over the comlink.
I'm going to swat these guys
, she hissed.
Are you going to help me, or are you going to get in the way
?

Holy shit
, Tycho muttered,
it's Quick-Draw McGraw
.

Lester suddenly remembered that they were on a common channel; all the moondogs in close range had been able to eavesdrop on their exchange. Scattered chuckles, only barely subdued, came over the comlink. Everyone recognized the reference to the old Hanna-Barbera talking-horse sheriff whose visage—as Lester's childhood memory suddenly reminded him—bore a vague yet uncanny, ludicrous resemblance to the face of his new security chief.
Tycho
, he said to himself,
you've got a rare sense of humor
.

The comment hit home with McGraw; the scowl on her face deepened and she looked ready to throw a punch at Abraham T. Samuels. Lester was barely able to restrain his own instinctive smirk. Better defuse this quick; he pointed to his helmet and held up three fingers, signaling McGraw to switch to another comlink channel for privacy. She complied; when she had switched to Channel Three and there was silence in his helmet again, Lester went on.

“Look, Tina, you better face facts,” he said. “You've got nothing on these guys, even if they did pull a number here. This stuff about ripped nylon webbing and an intercepted radio signal doesn't make a foundation for a solid case. Nothing you can take to the bank, at least.”

She hesitated, apparently mulling it over.
And what about you
? she asked at last.
What do you think
?

“Me?” Lester paused to assess his own situation. It was not a good one: between a rock and hard place. On one hand, he could take a hard line and side with McGraw; like it or not, even circumstantial evidence could be made to stick if Skycorp and NASA wanted culprits. As GM, he could make the facts stick if he wanted them to stick. But somehow that gnawed at his guts.
Eight years ago
, he considered,
you might have tried to pull the same heist yourself … but this time, it's your call
.

“Maybe they did, maybe they didn't,” he replied. He slowly let out his breath. “Look, Tina, I don't know if I even give a damn. There's a lot worse things I have to worry about right now.…”

NASA wants to know who's behind the hijackings
, McGraw demanded.
Circumstantial or not, we've got the evidence to put a stop to this. We can
…

“What?” he asked. “Try to nail some guys for petty horse-shit like diverting Spam-cans? I mean it, there's more important matters for us to deal with right now. Neither of us are doing any good for ourselves or for the job we're supposed to be doing if you pursue this any further.”

She didn't say anything, but she looked away at the empty fire-extinguisher rack, apparently chewing over his words. “Look,” he continued, “I've got to run this base and I'm going to need your help if I'm going to handle these guys. We're not going to win any respect if we both spend our first day here playing tough cops on the block. Like it or not, we've got to win their respect first. We have to get them to …”

Okay, okay
, McGraw said impatiently. She shut her eyes and shook her head.
What do you suggest? Let it go
?

“Yeah,” Lester said. “Let it go. Drop the whole matter. We could do worse. I don't know who's been stealing Skycorp's Spam-cans, but if it was these guys, you can't prove it.”

He paused. “And I don't like the way NASA and Skycorp tried to nail whoever's been doing it. Slipping an explosive device, even if it's just a dye-bomb, into a Spam-can is the most lunatic notion I've ever heard of. Somebody down there wasn't thinking straight.”

It was intended to go off when it was opened on the ground
, she countered.
We assumed that the can would be brought into the base for
…

“Sure,” Lester said. “Great idea, but nobody knew that for certain. Sounds like someone made one assumption too many. For all we know, that might have been what started the fire in the first place … and, yeah, I think they did have a real fire in here. In any case, I'd like to find the joker who came up with this silly-ass idea and punch his clock.”

Then
…

“We're going to drop it,” he said flatly. “
Finis
. Case closed. I don't want to hear about it anymore.” Without waiting for a response, Lester turned and started to climb back up the ladder. Then another thought, overlooked until now, occurred to him; he stopped and stepped off the ladder.

“One more thing,” he added, addressing McGraw. “I'm the GM around here, not you. I need your help, but I'm not going to put up with any more of your secret-police bullshit, and I don't have to, either. If you don't believe me, re-read the operations manual and your contract. My authority supersedes yours … and I can even fire you if I feel like it. Now, have we got that straight?”

Tina's eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed into a straight line. For a moment she said nothing … then she nodded, so stiffly that her spine might have been replaced with an oak board.
Yes, Mr. Riddell, I understand you
, she replied tersely.

“Good. And I told you to call me Lester.” He paused. “One more thing. The next time I see you on-duty, you better be wearing a uniform. I want everyone to know who you are and what you do here. No more Gestapo stuff out of you. You're going to play a straight game with my people from here on out. Got that?”

Her mouth twitched, but she nodded again. Without another word, Lester turned back toward the ladder. As he grabbed the rungs, he noticed Tycho motioning to him. He remembered that he was still on restricted frequency and switched over again to the common band. “Yeah, Tycho?” he asked.

How much longer you want us to keep up with this
? the moondog asked. He held up his camera.
I mean, I got a whole disk of film here. Is that enough for you and … uh, Quick-Draw
?

Through the corner of his helmet, the GM saw McGraw quickly turn away. She must have switched over in time to catch Tycho's remark. Lester knew that in a place like this nicknames once conferred tended to stick, and Tycho had just pegged her with a great one. Good, he decided. Maybe getting an embarrassing moniker might help to keep her in line.

“That's okay,” he replied, trying to keep a straight face. “Just relieve the team and call in the cranes to get this tub broken down. For the time being, I'm putting you in charge of the salvage operation. Okay?”

Tycho grinned back at him.
You got it, man
, he said. He moved away from the service panel; as he did, Riddell noticed something in the spot where he'd been standing.

Lester peered closer. In the oval of light cast by his helmet lamp, he saw an irregular streak of bright blue dye, like a blotch of Day-Glo paint that had dribbled off the edge of a Ciccotelli canvas. But it was a safe bet that the great abstract artist had never been near this spacecraft.

He glanced in McGraw's direction, but the security chief hadn't noticed his interest. Tycho, though, was watching him. After a moment, the moondog stepped over and stood on top of the spot again. The general manager looked up at him; Tycho's face was absolutely impassive. Lester hesitated, then began to climb up the ladder.

It had taken a lot of smooth-talking and bartering of favors-including three hours of Moon-to-Earth phone-time to two guys and a week's worth of mess-hall desserts to another—before Mighty Joe had finally managed to get thirty minutes of hot-water ration allocated to him from several moondogs, enough for the pilot to take a long shower. It was no mean feat; the once-a-week hot showers were a valuable commodity to the crew, who normally had to make do with cold-water sponge baths. But it was worth every fruit salad and bowl of Jell-O he sacrificed if it helped to keep him out of shit creek.

But even after fifteen minutes of scrubbing under scalding water, the bright blue splotches left from the dye-bomb had yet to completely disappear except from his beard. Though he had scoured his face, forearms, and hands to the bone, each time he looked in the hand mirror propped up under the showerhead, he could still see faint traces of blue on his skin, like birthmarks.

He cussed and reached for the soap again. Damn, what did they put in that stuff, anyway? A little old-fashioned turpentine might have done the trick, but there was none to be found on the base. It didn't help his sour mood to know that Annie Noonan was probably doing the same thing over in the women's locker room next door. Their opaque helmets and quick exit from the
Dreamer
had kept the new GM from spotting the marks … but he couldn't get out of here until that stuff was gone for good. He quickly soaped his arms and face again, and was idly entertaining the horny notion of seeing if Annie needed help with
her
scrubbing—shouldn't be a total loss, after all, and it wouldn't be the first time a guy had invaded the ladies' showers—when he heard a voice behind him.

“‘Out, damned spot …'”

“Huh?” Mighty Joe glanced over his shoulder. The new general manager was standing at the entrance to the shower room, leaning against the tiled wall.

Oh, fucking
shit—
! Joe quickly turned his back to Riddell, ducking his head beneath the hot rush of water. “Uh … Hi, Mr. Riddell. What's that you said?”

“Hm?” he replied. “Oh, that. Just a line from Shakespeare.
Macbeth
, if I remember correctly.” There was a pause, and then Mighty Joe could hear the whisper of cloth moving across skin. “Hey, that shower looks good. Mind if I join you?”

Joe's mouth dropped open. Hell, yeah, he minded! But before he could think of an excuse—if a decent excuse even existed for refusing to let the station general manager into the shower—Riddell had dropped his clothes on the bench next to the showers and had sauntered into the long stall.

“Nothing like a shower to finish the day, right?” Lester went to the showerhead next to Mighty Joe, shoved his keycard into the slot, and pushed the buttons on the waterproof pad to give him five minutes of cold water. He pulled the sponge and soap out of the bin beneath the showerhead. “Ahhh …” he said as the frigid water hit his face and shoulders. “That's the way I like a shower. Nice and icy, right?”

“I guess. If you say so.” Carefully keeping his back turned to Riddell, Joe peeked over his shoulder at the new boss. The GM's eyes were closed as he ducked his head under the water.
Maybe I can ease out of here without him noticing
.…

“So where did you dump the Spam-can?” Riddell asked as casually as if he had asked about Mighty Joe's home town. “It must have been as soon as you crossed the terminator again.” He pulled his head out from under the cascade. “You were running out of time, so my guess is that you blew the cargo bay hatch as soon as you crossed the D'Alembert Mountains. Or maybe you made it as far as Lenz Crater.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Joe said. Suddenly the hot water seemed to have turned as cold as a tray of ice cubes.

“Sure you do.” Riddell shrugged nonchalantly. He could have been talking about a baseball game from last week. He started to soap his chest and armpits. “Well, it doesn't matter where it went down. We can always find the wreckage.”

“It's Greek to me, Mr. Riddell.”

“Naah, don't bullshit me. 'Course you do. And call me Lester.” He cast a knowing grin at Mighty Joe. “Must have been a helluva kick when you blew the hatch, though. My bet is that you got lucky with the electrical fire. See, I know about the dye-bomb in that thing. Somehow it caused the main buses to short out and it gave you a good excuse for blowing out the hatch and ditching the tug the way you did. By the way, thanks for missing the base and landing out there. That was good flying, pal. I mean it. My compliments.”

Mighty Joe felt his face getting hot. “Sure thing, Lester,” he muttered.
Screw the shower. Let's get out of here
. “'Scuse me …”

He reached out to turn off the water—and Riddell's hand shot out to grab his wrist. Before Mighty Joe could resist, Riddell had turned it over, exposing his blue-dyed forearm. He then looked up into Mighty Joe's face and studied it closely. “Wooeee!” he exclaimed. “That dye-bomb did a hell of a job. If you work a little harder, you might be able to get the rest off before Quick-Draw McGraw finds you.”

Mighty Joe felt awe seeping through into his anger. This guy wasn't hustling him; from hard facts or guesswork, he
knew
what had happened aboard the
Dreamer
. In any case, there was no point in dicking around now. Riddell had him cold. “Who the fuck is Quick-Draw McGraw?” he asked sullenly, jerking his arm out of Lester's grasp.

“That's our new security chief,” Riddell replied. “NASA enforcement division. She came in on the
Collins
, same as I did. Take my word for it, she's a real pain in the ass. She'd just love to start her new job by busting you and your crew.”

“Uh-huh. I see.” The shower timer
pinged
and the water stopped running, but Joe barely paid attention, ignoring his towel and the cool breeze from the air vent on his wet skin. “So why aren't you helping her?”