Lunar Descent (25 page)

“Listen, asshole, you want music, you listen to the fucking radio—!”

“Fuck you, buddy! We were here first, so get the fuck outta—”

“Fuck
you
too! We're here to watch this every fucking … hey hey hey, put down that—!”

There was a loud
spang
! as a spit-can was hurled across the room. “Don't mess with me, you spic muthafucker, or I'll—!”

“Who're you calling a spic?”
Crash
! “Huh? You calling me a spic?”

“Yeah, I'm calling you a spic!”

“You watch your mouth, man, or I'll tear off your dick! Now you get the fuck outta here before I—!”

Lester didn't have to ask what was going on. He stopped next to Quick-Draw, careful to put his back to the corridor wall to keep out of the line of fire. “What shows are they trying to watch?” he asked quietly.

Quick-Draw contemplated Lester's question. “I don't see how that matters,” she murmured, not looking away from the door. “If they go on like this, they'll …”

“Just tell me what they're fighting over,” he demanded. He glanced at the Taser in her hand and shook his head. “I want to see if we can arbitrate this thing before you go in shooting.”

Quick-Draw let out her breath. “Ummm … Jesus and his friends want to watch
Ouch, That Hurts
! And I think Bee-Pee and his buddies want to see
The Drunk Brothers Rock 'n' Roll Keg Party.
” She shook her head before he could ask the obvious next question. “And don't ask me who got there first. I arrived only after they started throwing chairs at each other.”

Lester sighed. No point in trying to settle the dispute on the grounds of artistic merit; both shows appealed to the lowest common denominator of human intelligence.
Ouch, That Hurts
! was allegedly a sitcom, but if there was any situation in the show or any comedy, it escaped Lester's detection. Essentially it involved a roomful of loud, stupid people screaming at each other and beating one another over the heads with frying pans, fire extinguishers, ashtrays, toaster ovens, or whatever else the show's writer had dreamed up for the current episode. It made old Three Stooges flicks look like high Shakespearean drama.
The Drunk Brothers Rock 'n' Roll Keg Party
was a variety show; its hosts were two alcoholic motorheads who sat around in a beer-splattered studio introducing one insipid rock video after another, guzzling quarts of warm beer and cheap fortified wine between videos, and conducting slurred interviews with musical acts like 101 Virgins or Wazted Minds. The most intriguing part of the program was seeing which of the Drunk Brothers would barf first, Guido or Ramrod.

In any case, neither show had sufficient socially redeeming qualities to make Lester feel comfortable about settling the dispute on the basis of aesthetics: both shows were fit only for morons. Another spitton ricocheted off the wall near the door; Quick-Draw ducked as brown saliva sprayed past the doorway.

“Why don't I just zap them all and get it over with?” she hissed.

Lester was tempted—but he reminded himself that he was still trying to get the respect of the crew. Quick-Draw's Taser would settle the argument quickly, but he didn't want these guys to wake up with horrendous headaches, claiming that the new GM had used storm-trooper tactics on them. Getting tough in a situation like this was a no-win solution; like it or not, it called for diplomacy.

He shook his head. “Uh-uh,” he muttered. “Just cover me … and use that thing only if you think I'm about to get clobbered in there.”

McGraw looked apprehensive, but she nodded her head; she knew who was in charge here. “Your funeral,” she whispered, and added, “Good luck.”

That took him by surprise. It was the closest she had come to making a gesture of good will toward him. He was about to say something, but noticed that she was watching the room again, the Taser held upward between her hands, ready for fire. Wondering if she was right, Lester took a deep breath and walked into the rec room.

The place had been thoroughly trashed, as if a pack of speed-crazed baboons had been set loose. Tables were overturned, chairs had been thrown around, spittoons seeped their vile contents on the mooncrete floor. The combatants faced off from opposite sides of the big-screen TV (on which Guido was slumped into a chair guzzling a bottle of Irish Wild Rose, mumbling “Stay tuned for more rock 'n' roll!” as his wild-eyed brother pawed at the plastic dress of some hysterically giggling bleached-blond ingenue). On one side were Jesus Cinque and his friends; the thin, pock-faced Latino held a chair in his hands as if preparing to hurl it at the opposite group, led by a Mississippi cracker named B.P. Carruthurs, known as Bee-Pee for short. The shouting died down as the general manager sauntered into the gap between the two groups.

“Hey! Lester!” Jesus said innocently. He self-consciously lowered the chair a little, as if to say
Me? Throw this chair? Aw, c'mon
—! “Listen. Les, this son of a bitch tried to …”

“Shaddup,” Riddell said calmly.

“Mister Riddell, sir,” Bee-Pee drawled, “the real cause of this is because Jesus over here …”

“I said
shaddup,
” Lester snapped. Not a word from either side. Okay, you've got their attention. Now you've got to do something with it.…

He paused to take a breath. “Gentlemen … and I use the term reluctantly … in the short time I've been here, I've seen a lot of stupid shit from you people, but this really takes the prize. If I had any sense, I would just as soon have Officer McGraw lock the door and let you kill each other.” He shrugged and rested his hands on the back of the only remaining upright chair in the room. “But since we're desperate and we need you guys to do your job, I can't really do that.”

There were a few chuckles from both sides of the room—except for Jesus and Bee-Pee, both of whom had murder in their eyes. “So why don't you decide who gets to watch the show?” Jesus rumbled. “I mean, I can live with that, right?”

Riddell glanced at Bee-Pee. Carruthers was still glaring at Jesus, but he shook his head with the committed expression of someone who still wanted to watch his cultural icons, Guido and Ramrod. Lester pretended to think it over, then shook his head.

“No … no, I'm afraid that won't work,” he mused, rubbing his chin between his fingers. “It's a no-win situation for me, because if I choose one way or another, somebody goes away a sore loser and I get the blame.” He sighed and shook his head. “There's only one way to handle this.…”

Riddell suddenly grabbed the chair he had been leaning on and swung it up over his head. Everyone immediately backed away, certain that he was about to hurl it at them, but instead Lester turned toward the TV itself. “If you don't make up your minds in one minute,” he said, “I'm going to throw it right through the screen.”

Everyone stared at him in utter disbelief. “Hey, man, you wouldn't dare …” Jesus began.

“I wouldn't?” Still holding the chair above his head, Lester twitched his arms a little, as if practicing for his throw. “I don't watch TV, so I don't care one way or another if the thing's wrecked. Sixty seconds … fifty-nine … fifty-eight …”

Bee-Pee grinned. “Yeah, but if you try that, what's to stop us from taking you down first?”

Good point. Lester hadn't thought of that. Yet before he could muster a reply, he heard Quick-Draw stride across the room to stand behind him. She didn't say anything, but when he glanced over his shoulder he saw her holding her Taser in firing position, swiveling her hips to point the weapon first one way, then another.

“Need I say more?” he murmured. “Fifty … forty-nine … forty-eight … forty-seven …”

“You're crazy as shit,” someone behind Jesus murmured.

“Yeah, I'm crazy,” Riddell said. “You guys are driving me out of my fucking mind. Don't you think this is a good way of getting back? Thirty … twenty-nine … twenty-eight …”

Everyone shouted at once. “Hey!” Jesus protested. “You jumped the count!”

“My arms are getting tired,” Lester said. “So what? They're my rules, anyway. Twenty-six … twenty-five … Better make up your minds, boys, I got work to do … twenty-four … twenty-three …”

Now both sides were staring anxiously at each other. Lester could easily imagine what was going through everyone's minds:
He won't do it, he won't do it, he won't do it
…
but what if he does? I don't want to back down, but if we don't and if they don't, oh Christ the TV gets smashed and then what happens?… how do you explain this to everyone else, like the guys on third-shift when they get back from work?… maybe we should back down … but wait, they're beginning to sweat, maybe they'll say something first
.…

“Twenty,” Lester counted. “Nineteen … eighteen … Gee, my arms are sure getting tired. Maybe I ought to just chuck this thing and get it over with.…”

“
No
!” everyone screamed at once.

On the screen, some heavy-metal band was leaping around on a blue-lighted, fogged stage, cavorting around nude teenage girls bound with leather straps, lip-synching imbecilic lyrics having something to do with Satan screwing all the dogs in the pound and, oh baby, don'cha wanna be my bitch. Lester was tempted to pitch the chair through the screen right there. The music industry had been pandering this sort of adolescent crap for a couple of generations now.

“Fifteen … fourteen … thirteen …” Lester yelled above the noise. “Think about it, guys. The company won't send us another set if I kill this one. No more sitcoms, no more mini-series, no more cop shows or doctor shows or lawyer shows. You'll miss the World Series. You'll never find out who killed what's-her-name. Ten … nine … eight …”

You won't throw it, he thought to himself. The TV's worth its weight in water. Yet, at the same time, he knew he
had
to throw the chair. He couldn't wimp out, not now. If he did, no one here would ever take him seriously again.

“Six!” he shouted.

“You won't do it!” Jesus yelled. His hands were bunched into fists; he took a step forward, and stopped dead as Quick-Draw's Taser swung around in his direction. “You're not going to throw it, man!”

“Yes I will!” Lester shouted back. “I'm not waiting! Five … four …”

“
Ouch, That Hurts
!” Bee-Pee howled.

“Turn off
The Drunk Brothers
!” Jesus shouted simultaneously.

“I can't hear you!” Lester yelled. “I'm going to throw it. Three … two …” He swung the chair back, getting ready to chuck it straight across the room. In his mind's eye, he could already see the chair hitting the screen, punching through Ramrod's smirking face, shredding the image … “I swear to God, I'm going to throw it—!”

“
Ouch, That Hurts
!” everyone screamed at once, a single voice of pure fear and desperation.

Lester stopped. The chair was still raised high above his head. Time seemed to have stopped dead. He looked one way, then another. Every eye in the room was fixed on him.

Then, very slowly, he lowered the chair to the floor and let go of it, then walked to the TV set and apathetically stabbed the channel selector with his finger. The scene instantly switched to a roomful of actors pummeling each other with rubber chickens to the beat of canned laughter. Funny as someone snoring during a eulogy.

Riddell didn't look at anyone as he turned and walked away from the TV. “You guys are pathetic,” he mumbled as he strode past Quick-Draw and headed for the open door. “Ready to kill each other for a damn TV show.”

He got to the door, then turned around and looked back at the silent crowd. “The next time I hear about this happening,” he added, “there won't be a countdown.”

The men in the rec room stared back at him. “Hey, Lester …” Jesus called out.

Lester stopped and looked around. “Were you really going to throw that chair?” Bee-Pee asked.

Riddell didn't say anything. Instead, he turned again and walked out of the room. It was time for him to make an important phone call.

He was halfway down the corridor, almost to the sanctuary of his office, when he heard something he couldn't believe. Actually, it was something he didn't hear. There was a sudden absence of noise: The TV had been switched off; there was dead silence from the rec room.

Lester turned around to see Quick-Draw standing in the corridor not far behind him. She smiled and nodded her head toward him.

He thought for a moment about going back to say something to her. The impulse passed, though, and instead he continued walking to his office.

Honest, Les … I don't know what to say
. Arnie Moss, seated at his office desk, shrugged with irritating nonchalance.
I mean, you know I would say yes if I could, but you know I don't have that kind of clout around here
.

Lester faced his fingers together on his desktop as he stared back at the phone screen. “Oh, of course not.” he said bitterly. “You're only the vice-president in charge of lunar operations. No authority whatsoever.” He tapped a finger on a thick binder stuffed with computer printout. “Have you even looked at my weekly production reports? Or did you toss them out while you were emptying the trash cans and vacuuming the floors?”

There was a two-second delay before Riddell's words reached Huntsville from the Moon. When they did, Moss's face changed visibly. He glared at Lester.
No reason to get nasty about this
, he replied evenly, obviously forcing himself to maintain a bland manner.
I've seen all your reports. Your people have done very well. You yourself should be proud of the job you've done. Those reports represent a lot of hard work
.

“Damn straight it's been hard work,” Lester retorted. He picked up the binder and shook it in front of the phone lens so that it filled Moss's screen. “Lunar oxygen, aluminum rolls, solar cells … we've met the six-week production quota in all areas. These guys have been busting their humps for the last month and a half because of the carrot-and-stick treatment you've given 'em.” He dropped the binder back on the desk. “Okay, today's the deadline. We've done our part. Now how about keeping your end of the deal?”