Murder in Orbit Page 5

  “I was sorry about that after I’d done it,” I said, trying to be diplomatic without being dishonest. And I was sorry—at least, sorry that I had gotten her so riled up. Anyone would be. I mean, who in their right mind would want to have someone that good-looking upset with them?

  The apology seemed to smooth things out a little. I don’t mean we suddenly became best friends, or anything like that. But at least I didn’t feel like I was walking beside a human icicle anymore.

  We got in an elevator and headed for the Rim. We didn’t talk much—there were too many people around for us to discuss the mystery, and even though Cassie wasn’t actively hostile anymore, we still hadn’t worked our way up to casual conversation. So I had to content myself with the view, which is pretty spectacular when the elevator first enters the Rim. Unlike the ride through the Spoke, where there’s not much to see since it’s enclosed to protect us from radiation, when you break through into the Rim, the glass sides of the elevators let you look out over the colony. It’s an entirely different viewpoint than I get from my rock, because you’re still a couple of hundred meters from ground level when it happens. Unfortunately, the elevator is moving so fast you don’t really have time to enjoy it. In fact, some people never see it at all; anyone with a weak stomach usually faces inward, so they won’t have to watch the ground rushing up at them.

  “What next, Sherlock?” asked Cassie as we stepped out of the elevator.

  Ignoring her sarcasm, I consulted Dr. Puckett’s list. “The nearest suspect is about three buildings over,” I said after a few minutes.

  “I can hardly wait,” muttered Cassie.

  When you’re doing something like this, the first time is always the worst. At least, that’s the way it is for me. The attack of nerves I suffered as we approached the first address on our list was enough to make me want to take the next ship back to Earth.

  We paused outside the door and I located the name, Dr. Debra Doyle, on the directory mounted beside the frame.

  “What should we say to her?” I asked, gripped by a sudden surge of panic.

  “How should I know? This whole thing was your idea; I’m only here because Elmo made me come. You do the talking. I’ll watch her eyes.”

  Thanks for nothing, I thought. What made Cassie’s reaction really annoying was that she was right. There was no reason I should expect her to carry the ball for me.

  Straightening my shoulders, I knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” said a warm, feminine voice.

  I touched the button at the side of the door and it slid open. Cassie and I stepped through.

  “Can I help you?” asked the smiling brunette sitting behind the desk. She seemed very nice. Unfortunately, she was the secretary, not Dr. Doyle herself.

  “We’d like …” I stopped. My voice wasn’t working. I swallowed and tried again. “We’d like to see Dr. Doyle.”

  “Can I tell her what it’s about?” asked the secretary, still smiling.

  “A school project,” I replied.

  The secretary gave me a funny look, but she buzzed her boss and repeated the message. I watched as she nodded her head. I couldn’t hear the actual answer, because it came through a small plug she wore in her ear.

  “You can go in,” she said at last. “You’re in luck. She’s in a good mood today.”

  Wondering what the doctor’s bad moods were like, I led Cassie through the door the secretary indicated, into a room that was almost buried in books and papers. What is it about these scholars that makes so many of them insist on real books—which cost a small fortune to ship up here—instead of microfilms and computer storage, which are cheap and easy?

  Dr. Doyle looked up from the book she was examining. She had a stern appearance, yet I could see a hint of humor in her eyes that made me feel at ease.

  “How can I help you?” she asked.

  To my astonishment, this wonderful thing happened: I opened my mouth—and words came out. That may not seem like much, until you consider that until that moment my mouth had felt like it was full of cotton balls. Suddenly I was not only talking, I was making sense. I was on a roll!

  My grandfather had always told me that, being a McPhee, sooner or later I would find that I had the Irish “gift of gab.” I had pretty much given up waiting for it. And now here it was! (And not a moment too soon.)

  “We’re doing a kind of experiment for this scientist we work with,” I said, skating as close to the truth as I could. “It’s a long story, and I can see you’re pretty busy, so I won’t take up a lot of time going into details. Basically it has to do with identification techniques and information chains. All we really want you to do is take a look at this picture and see if you can identify it for us.”

  Cassie handed me the picture, and I passed it to Dr. Doyle. She glanced at it, then shook her head. “Sorry, can’t help you.”

  “That’s all right,” I answered cheerfully. “In this study a negative response is as useful, statistically speaking, as a positive one. Thanks for your time.”

  And with that I was heading for the door, before the good doctor had a chance to use the eight-letter word for baloney that I could tell I had brought to mind.

  “For someone who didn’t know what you were going to say, you did all right,” said Cassie, once we were back out in the hallway.

  “Unexpected inspiration. Let’s just hope it holds out. Do you think she was telling the truth?”

  “Absolutely. I don’t think that woman could lie if she tried.”

  Merton Thorpe settled his feet onto his desk and loosened the flap of his collar. “So, whaddaya kids want from me?”

  I handed him a copy of the composite drawing. “We’re looking for this man. Someone told me they thought he used to work for you.” This was absolutely true; I had asked Cassie to say it to me just before we entered Thorpe’s office. The weird thing was that having her do so somehow made it easier for me to say this to Thorpe with a straight face.

  He glanced at the picture, then handed it back to me. “Never saw the guy.” Then he kind of squinted a little and added, “What are you kids up to, anyway?”

  Cassie surprised me by chiming in. “It’s a contest,” she said primly.

  Thorpe looked at her, letting his eyes linger longer than I thought was appropriate. “More modern education, I suppose,” he said with a snort. “Well, sorry I can’t help you. Better luck next time.”

  He swung his feet off the desk and stood, indicating it was time for us to leave. That was fine with me. Something about him rubbed me the wrong way.

  “What do you think?” asked Cassie, once we were outside his office.

  “He’s a skeeze, but he’s telling the truth,” I said.

  “I agree. He didn’t even bat an eye when he looked at the picture.”

  To my surprise, I was beginning to feel confident with this technique of watching people’s facial expressions when they looked at the picture. It was hardly what you’d call a scientific method. But it seemed to work.

  Besides, it was all we had at the moment.

  “Well, that’s ten,” said Cassie as she crossed Thorpe’s name off the list. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some lunch.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” I replied. “After all, we’ve got only sixty-three left to go.”

  Cassie groaned.

  We stopped at the corner outside Thorpe’s building, and I punched a couple of buttons on the pedestal that stood next to the walkway. A map and some written information appeared almost instantly. “Closest fast-food joint is this way,” I said, heading off to our left. “McBunny Burgers, here we come!”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Cassie. “I never eat the things.”

  “Why not?” I asked, not realizing what I was walking into.

  She made a face. “I don’t like hares in my food.”

  I collapsed against a wall and stared at her in shock.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, all sweetness and
innocence.

  I shrugged. “I was going to say I didn’t know you had a sense of humor. Then I realized that after that pun, I still don’t have any proof. I think maybe I liked it better when you were hardly speaking to me.”

  She ignored me and kept walking.

  When we reached the restaurant, I went to find a table while Cassie placed our orders and paid for the food. (We have a custom out here that whoever mentions eating first pays; it’s not a bad way to deal with things, except when two stubborn people get in a contest and go hungry for hours at a time.)

  We sat across from each other and spread the list out between us so we could plan our strategy while we ate. I thought about trying to play footsies with her, but decided not to press my luck. I mean, what we had so far was a slight thaw in the cold war, not a declaration of affection. Besides, I wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved with a girl who was willing to make jokes like that “hares in my food” crack—no matter how good-looking she was!

  “There are only two people left to see in this sector,” said Cassie. “Then we’ll have to move on to New Ithaca. Either that, or start figuring out what we’re going to do about the people we have to contact in the substations.”

  Substations!

  “What time is it?” I yelped.

  Without waiting for her to answer, I leaned over the table and glanced at the small watch she wore around her wrist.

  I groaned.

  I was late again!

  Chapter 9

  Back in the BS Factory

  I was still mentally kicking myself in the rear when I started docking maneuvers at the BS Factory. Not only was I late again, but I had also reinforced Cassie’s impression of me as a jerk—both by losing track of time and then by rushing off the way I did.

  I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself. You’d think anyone with an IQ higher than a geranium ought to be able to keep track of time. But I can’t even keep track of a watch for more than a week. I finally decided it was simpler (not to mention cheaper) just to ask other people.

  I want to tell you, it’s not easy being a scatterbrain.

  I took some consolation in the fact that this time I docked the scooter without a glitch.

  Millie applauded as I climbed out. “Definite step in the right direction, Rusty.”

  “Thanks, Millie.”

  “And that’s important,” she continued, “since a journey of a thousand miles …”

  “… begins with a single step,” I finished with a groan. “Have I really got that far to go?”

  “Nah, I just like to bust your chops. Which I imagine Dr. Twining is also going to do, considering what time it is.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I said, rolling my eyes. Suddenly I had an inspiration. Millie wasn’t on my list of people who had used the bulk-drop facility. But if my living/dead man had been here, she might have seen him anyway. “Do you recognize this guy?” I asked, digging the picture out of my pack.

  She studied it for a minute. “Looks kinda like Hank Smollin,” she said finally. “That is, if you make room for a lot of artistic license.”

  I couldn’t believe it. A score!

  “Who’s Hank Smollin?” I asked, trying to keep from sounding too excited.

  Millie shrugged. “Just some guy who used to work here. Hasn’t been around for six months or so.”

  “Who did he work for?”

  “One of the Mad Scientists, I think. Why so curious?”

  “It’s part of a game some friends and I are playing,” I said, feeling almost truthful.

  I was trying to act calm. But inside I was shouting with delight. If I had dared, I probably would have hugged her. Finally we were getting somewhere.

  “I’ll ask around for you, if you want,” said Millie. “I won’t be seeing the whole gang today. But I’ll check with those I do.”

  “I’d really appreciate it, Millie. Might make my life a lot easier.”

  “No problem, bud. And your chariot will be waiting when you get back.”

  I was humming as I headed for Dr. Twining’s office.

  Dr. Twining wasn’t. “I know I’ve made light of your tardiness in the past, Rusty,” he said as I came through the door. “But I have to tell you that it is getting extremely tiresome. I want you either to begin to respect my time, or else find another mentor.” He wasn’t just snapping at me out of momentary annoyance. His voice was very controlled. It was a cold anger, if you know what I mean.

  The worst part was, I couldn’t really argue with him; he had every right to be upset with me. On the other hand, I didn’t think it was fair to go from treating my tardiness as lightly as he had in the past to suddenly being so serious about it. I thought about saying so, but decided that would only make things worse. I muttered a hasty apology instead, got out my notes and equipment, and buried myself in my work.

  This certainly wasn’t the time to ask about Hank Smollin.

  But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep my mind on those frog brains. Millie’s information that my disappearing corpse had once worked in the BS Lab had me much too excited to settle down and concentrate.

  After a while Dr. Twining left the lab. I waited for a few minutes, then put away what I was working on. I went to the computer terminal at the back of the office, logged on, and dragged up the personnel file.

  I found records for everyone who had worked for Dr. Twining during the last two years. There was no Smollin listed. I wasn’t surprised; I didn’t really think Dr. Twining had anything to do with whatever was going on. But I also knew what kind of reaction I would get from Dr. Puckett if I failed to follow up on an angle for sentimental reasons.

  I was just logging off when Dr. Magon came into the room. A short, enormously cheerful man, Dr. Magon was my favorite of the seven “Mad Scientists” who ran the BS Factory. He had a flair for practical jokes that kept everyone hopping. (It hadn’t amused everyone, but I still have fond memories of the time he slipped a new compound he had been working on into the staff coffeepot and turned everyone’s skin green for a week.)

  “Ah, it’s the Timemaster! Good to see you, Rusty. Is Antoine around?”

  I shook my head. “He left about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Curses, foiled again,” said Dr. Magon, shrugging philosophically. “Oh, well. If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.” He started to leave.

  “Wait!” I said.

  He turned back.

  “There was something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you ever hear of a guy named Hank Smollin?”

  Dr. Magon paused. “Sounds familiar,” he said. “Smollin. Smollin. Didn’t he used to work here?”

  It was so quick that if I hadn’t been watching like a hawk, I would have missed it. Just a slight lifting of the eyelids, a minuscule flaring of the nostrils. But it was a perfect demonstration of what Dr. Puckett had told us.

  No matter how casual Jymn Magon was trying to act, I was convinced he knew very well who Hank Smollin was.

  It was an interesting afternoon. Now that I had new evidence that my dead man really did exist (which meant, among other things, that I wasn’t just losing my mind), I began to feel more confident about what I was doing. And more justified in my actions. This investigation meant annoying people, intruding on them, stretching the truth. I had found all that hard to do when somewhere in the back of my head there was still a nagging doubt that maybe I really had been hallucinating, that nothing had really happened after all.

  But I couldn’t have created Hank Smollin’s face out of thin air. And now that Millie had named him for me, and I had gotten that strange reaction from Dr. Magon, I was convinced I truly was on the trail of something important. I wasn’t just trying to satisfy my curiosity now, or deal with an unpleasant personal experience. We were talking about a man’s life.

  All of which explains why I became quite a bit bolder after my conversation with Dr. Magon.

  The next person I s
poke to was Dr. Jefferson. Virginia Jefferson was considerably taller than me, a slender, elegant black woman with a ferocious intelligence and a cool reserve that I had never seen anyone shake. Her research involved the effect of null-gravity situations on the nervous system.

  “Dr. Jefferson!” I called when I spotted her in the hall on the way to her lab. “I was just looking for you. I’ve got a message for Hank Smollin, and I was wondering if you could tell me where to find him.”

  She paused. Was that a flicker in her face? I couldn’t tell—both because I wasn’t close enough, and because she was so cool she probably wouldn’t have batted an eye if I had told her I had just found evidence that I was her long-lost son.

  “Smollin,” she said, in much the same way Dr. Magon had. “Smollin. Seems as though there used to be a man by that name working here. Not for me, though. And I don’t think he’s around any longer.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks anyway. I’ll just ask one of the others.”

  I pushed myself down the hallway, feeling stymied. I had seen rocks with more expressive faces. I had to remind myself that Dr. Puckett had never claimed that watching people’s eyes would be foolproof.

  Dr. Durkin’s lab was next in line. He wasn’t there when I knocked, but I went in anyway. This wasn’t totally out of line. Dr. Durkin and Dr. Twining worked together so often that I had gotten to know him fairly well. On a number of occasions I had helped him with some piece of research, or carried something over from our lab. Whenever I did he encouraged me to just come right in.

  I looked around, wondering how long it would be before Dr. Durkin returned. I was tempted to use his computer to check his staff records, as I had in Dr. Twining’s office. But that really would have been past the bounds of acceptable behavior. I hadn’t gotten quite that bold.

  Yet.

  A sound from the far side of the lab caught my attention.

  It was my old friend, Ron.

  “Hey, fella,” I said. “How ya doing? Where’s Nancy?”