Ben Bova - The Trikon Deception

“I still can’t believe it,” said Ed Yablon. “I mean, I know it’s true—but in my gut I expect to see him come waltzing through that door and pull up a stool beside us.”

“Yeah,” muttered Zeke Tucker.

Yablon picked up his beer and drained it. Smacking the empty glass on the bar’s gleaming surface, he motioned for the bartender to fill it up again.

“I ought to be glad, in a way,” Yablon said. “The sonofabitch was nothing but trouble.”

“Yeah.”

“The biggest pain in the ass I ever had to work with.”

“Yeah.”

“You remember the time he snuck into the Kennedy compound in Hyannisport and… well, hell, Zeke—you were there with him, weren’t you?”

Tucker did not answer. Yablon saw that the photographer was softly, quietly sobbing as if his own father had just died.

After removing his space suit Freddy went directly to the command module to report on the transfer of O’Donnell to the observatory.

“How would you describe his behavior?” asked Dan.

“Din’ give me no trouble.”

“Lance?”

“Not so good with the flying armchair. I found him spinning aroun’ when I left the observatory.”

“Lance’s EVA skills are the least of our worries,” Dan said. “Better get some rest.”

Freddy shoved off, but not for the relative comfort of his sleep compartment. The commander’s suggestion did not countermand the direct order he had received from Welch. Safeguarding O’Donnell’s work was of paramount importance. O’Donnell himself could be replaced, or even neutralized, if the situation dictated. But if his work fell into the wrong hands, the result could be disastrous. According to Welch, Fabio Bianco had a general awareness of O’Donnell’s purpose on the station. His authority could be useful in preventing the other scientists from scavenging O’Donnell’s lab. Freddy had permission to use all available avenues to ensure Bianco’s cooperation.

Freddy found Bianco in ELM. Bianco floated with his arms folded and his eyes narrowed in concentration while a fellow Italian chattered about data displayed on a computer monitor. Freddy wanted to avoid entering ELM itself. Chakra Ramsanjawi had a history of complaining to Tighe about intruding crewmen, and Freddy could see the Indian lurking in his office at the far end of the module. Fortunately, Bianco’s attention wandered toward the hatch.

At first, Bianco ignored Freddy’s hand signals. When Freddy became more insistent, he broke away from the conversation. Freddy could read the reluctance in the old scientist’s eyes. Nothing a crewman said could possibly be of any interest to Bianco. Freddy decided on a direct approach.

“Mr. Welch says hello,” he whispered when Bianco was within hearing range.

“Who?”

“Mr. Welch. Hugh O’Donnell’s friend. You spoke to him before comin’ up here.” Freddy paused until recognition sharpened Bianco’s features. “We gotta talk.”

“Yes, we must. Excuse me.” Bianco sailed back to the Italian and spoke with emphatic hand gestures that obviously were instructions. Then he joined Bianco in the connecting tunnel. “Where shall we talk?”

“My compartment,” said Freddy.

Freddy’s compartment was completely bare of decoration except for a crucifix that floated at the end of a heavy gold chain clipped to the wall over his sleep restraint. Freddy motioned for Bianco to be silent, then turned up the volume of the stereo. The music had a Latin beat. Bianco winced.

“Mr. Welch very interested in O’Donnell’s lab,” said Freddy. He spoke directly into Bianco’s ear and carefully kept his voice below the music.

“I imagine he would be,” said Bianco.

“I was at your meetin’ this morning. You didn’ sound like you knew what to do with the lab.”

“That is correct. I still do not.”

“Is no one’s business what’s in there.”

“Perhaps not,” Bianco said. “It is difficult to tell without knowing exactly what it is.”

“Can’ say. Is very important. Sensitive,” said Freddy, placing equal stress on each syllable.

“Sensitive enough to commit murder over it?” Bianco’s eyes bored into Freddy.

Surprised at the meaning of the old man’s words, Freddy answered, “Hey, I din’ do it! I wanna find out who did.”

“Yes,” said Bianco. “Of course.”

The man was angry, Freddy saw. As if the murder had taken one of his own family.

Bianco said, “Mr. Welch told me he had a watchdog up here with O’Donnell. Are you the only one?”

Freddy nodded with a slight tilt of his head as if to say, At your service.

Bianco eyed him carefully—the stump, the well-muscled torso, the gold canine embedded in a grin that was tired, almost bored. Freddy certainly was capable of strong-arming him, but he had not made any threatening moves. He was polite, even deferential. It was obvious he sought cooperation rather than confrontation. And why not? With O’Donnell exiled to the station’s astronomical observatory, Freddy was alone in his mission.

“The toxic-waste project that my people are working on is very important,” said Bianco. “It does not qualify as a state secret; in fact, much of the world does not seem to care. In my official capacity, I can prevent the American team, or anyone else, from taking over that lab. But it would be at the expense of my project. I would like to know exactly why I am being so compliant with your Mr. Welch.”

Freddy considered the offer for a long moment.

“Hokay, Senor Bianco,” he finally said. “I tell you. You familiar with the work of a Professor Rothstein on tobacco plants?”

Bianco furrowed his brow as if sifting through his memory.

“About ten years ago,” prodded Freddy.

“Was that the antisense RNA treatment to prevent the production of nicotine in tobacco leaves?”

“You say that good,” said Freddy. “What O’Donnell doing is jus’ like that, only different.”

Kurt Jaeckle remained in his office for a long time after reading Carla Sue’s reply to his apology. He slipped out of the Mars module and peered into the wardroom. Only a few stragglers remained from lunch, but it was still too crowded for his present state of mind. Deciding to kill some time in his compartment, he made his way down the connecting tunnel.

As he passed the logistics module, he heard a hissing sound from within. Thinking it might be a gas leak, Jaeckle decided to investigate. It took a moment of peering down aisles formed by canisters and cylinders to find the source of the noise. It was not a gas leak. Lance Muncie floated in the fetal position, his hands cradling something that resembled a bouquet of yellow paper flowers. All around him, smaller bits of yellow tatters danced in eddies of air.

“She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not.” Lance was whispering harshly, a sibilant, strangling murmur hissing from between his teeth.

Jaeckle edged backwards. The sight of Muncie was terrifying. The man was totally insane. He wanted to get away as quickly and as quietly as possible.

Lance suddenly paused in his counting.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” he whispered to himself. Then he attacked another paper flower. “He lives, he dies. He lives, he dies. He lives, he dies.”

Jaeckle’s knee banged against an empty cylinder; the clang echoed like a church bell. Muncie jerked upright. His eyes lit on Jaeckle and his face broke out in a maniacal grin.

“Speak of the devil,” he said.

The words turned Jaeckle’s bones to ice. His heart froze in his chest. Jaeckle spun and dove into the tunnel. He reached his compartment before he realized that his heart was thumping so hard he feared it would burst his rib cage.