Outland Page 12

  At the moment the heavy imitation wood desk was nearly bare. Even the computer terminals that were built in were sheathed in warm wood tones.

  Sheppard stood in the middle of the office, putting the golf ball into an automatic return. With each successful putt the machine, announced his score, the distance traveled by the ball, and the speed of the putt. Then it gently blew the ball back to him.

  When Sheppard missed, one of two long arms would swing out in a wide arc until it contacted the errant ball. With a hook and twist, it would guide the ball back into the returner which would then plonk it back to its owner.

  The twin arms didn't have to work very hard. Sheppard was quite good. The result of much practice.

  He studied the undulating carpet as a voice issued from inside his desk. "He's here, Mr. Sheppard."

  The General Manager lined up another putt from a fresh angle. "Let him in."

  There was a soft hiss from the far end of the room as the door slid aside, admitting O'Niel. If he was impressed by the luxurious surroundings he didn't show it.

  Sheppard didn't look up to greet him. He stroked the putter, watching as the ball hooked into the waiting cup: The machine hummed and announced the result.

  "Quiet," Sheppard ordered it. Obediently it turned off its audio system. The Manager moved to his right, tapped the ball gently.

  "You know," he said conversationally, "I can hit a seven iron five hundred yards on this place. An atmosphere suit doesn't give you much mobility, though. Your swing suffers." He gestured toward the gleaming, well-stocked bar, alive with crystal decanters and glasses. "Fix yourself a drink. The booze is real."

  "No thanks." O'Niel stood quietly the diffuse light, waiting.

  Sheppard used the end of the putter to move the ball around on the carpet, trying to decide which angle to try next. "You've been busy."

  "So have you."

  The Manager tapped the ball again, moving it close to a chair leg. His voice didn't change as he asked, "How much do you want?"

  O'Niel didn't reply.

  "How much?"

  The Marshal lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply. The pungent smoke whirled lazily roofward until the cleaning equipment plucked it out of the air.

  "That's what we need here," Sheppard murmured disgustedly, "a goddamn hero." He sounded tired. He missed the putt, strolled around to a new position.

  "This floor was originally set level. I had parts of it raised and the carpet reset, just a little, just enough to make things interesting. Golf and life are always more interesting when they're tilted just a little, don't you think?" He bent over, squinting.

  "I think this piece of rug has a slight break to the left. Listen, O'Niel. Let me tell you what you're dealing with here. I run a franchise. The Company pays me to dig as much ore out of this hell-hole as possible. There's one of me on every mining operation in the system.

  "My hookers are clean and good-looking and don't cheat their tricks. My booze isn't watered, my dancers are the most attractive and enthusiastic, and I see to it that the tapes and music for the locker room players are changed every damn shuttle flight.

  "The workers are happy. Don't take my word for it, ask them. Ask any multiple tour man or woman who's worked here. Io stinks, but the mine doesn't.

  "When the workers are happy, they dig more ore, and get paid more bonus money. I don't take a slice of that. Anything they earn they keep. I get my own bonus checks. When they dig more ore, the Company is happy. When the Company is happy, I'm happy."

  "Sounds wonderful," was O'Niel's laconic comment.

  "Nothing here is wonderful," Sheppard countered. "It works, and that's enough. Every year we have shift changes. Every year a new Marshal comes in to do his tour. They all know the score. You know the score. You're no different. If this hero routine is to get your price higher . . . I'll think about it."

  O'Niel said nothing, spent several minutes strolling around the sumptuous office. Sheppard finally looked up from his putter and eyed him with genuine curiosity.

  "What are you after?"

  O'Niel concluded his inspection. It had cost more to furnish the office than he made in a year. He stared evenly at the General Manager.

  "You."

  Sheppard sighed and displayed a sad smile as he returned to his putting.

  "What is it with guys like you? If you were such a goddamn super cop, what the hell are you doing on a Company mining operation like Io? They didn't send you here as a reward for your sterling service. You know that and I know that." He stroked the ball.

  "I read your record. I read everybody's records before they're assigned here. You want to know why the hell you're here instead of being a Captain somewhere on some nice Earth-side beat like Singapore or New Perth? I'll tell you why. It's right there in your record, if not in so many words. But there are lots of little hints and clues. I'm good at reading that kind of stuff.

  "You've got a big mouth. That's why you're sent from one toilet to the next. But you've made your choice about what you want to do with your life. That's your business. Just don't step on mine because I don't plan on spending the rest of my life doing what I'm doing now."

  "Good for you."

  Sheppard's cajoling tone turned to one of exasperation. "I could understand if this were going to get you somewhere, but it can't. This charade of yours is silly, pointless. Also inconvenient for me or I wouldn't give a damn. You try and meddle, you better know what you're meddling with. You got something to prove, prove it to yourself."

  O'Niel turned to leave. "See you around."

  Sheppard's voice rose slightly. "If you're looking for more money, you're smarter than you look. If not, you're dumber than you look."

  O'Niel smiled backward him. "I'm probably a lot dumber."

  "That can get very dangerous."

  O'Niel was still smiling as he left the office.

  It was night but O'Niel couldn't sleep. He rolled over and flipped on the reading light. The apartment was dark, quiet. He sat up in bed. The sheet next to him was unmussed, the section of mattress untouched. He'd spent too many years on his own side of the bed to roll over onto the undented part. The empty part.

  He climbed out of bed, methodically dressed himself. The apartment remained vacant, the emptiness of it shouting, screaming at him. If he couldn't sleep he'd work.

  The bustle in the corridors helped to wake him, but it vanished as he neared the security section. Only the mine worked double shifts. Administration was asleep.

  There was no one inside the squad room to admit him. The night shift deputies were all out on patrol. It wasn't necessary to waste manpower by having someone simply sit inside. The machinery would greet visitors, answer questions, refer problems via remote units to the scattered deputies.

  He stuck his Ident card into the gaping slot. There was a brief delay while the computer checked it. Then the door beeped politely and slid aside.

  The lights were dimmed. Everything was clean and neat, awaiting the return of human workers. He started toward his office, thinking to check the evening's reports to the hour. His feet shifted and took him instead toward the cell area. Maybe Spota would feel more like talking now.

  As he made his way down the narrow access corridor he routinely checked each cell. The corridor itself was dark, lit only by the pin lights glowing above receiver units and air controls. The two fighters had been discharged, a different cell was occupied. O'Niel checked the card gripping the wall. Another drunk. He moved on.

  The cells themselves were brightly lit. All of the prisoners were sleeping, their biological clocks unaffected by the artificial illumination. The lighting was for the benefit of the jailors, not the prisoners. Anyone who wanted to sleep could darken his helmet faceplate.

  In the dim corridor you had the sensation of walking through an aquarium. O'Niel would far rather have been looking at fish. Inhabitants of the type that usually frequented such cells had long ago ceased to have much interest for him.

  Except one,
the speciman in cell thirty seven.

  Some of the prisoners floated sideways while others lay curled in fetal positions. The experienced lawbreakers favored spread-eagle posture because it kept you from spinning too much in your sleep.

  O'Niel halted at the last cell and lifted the receiver.

  "Okay, Spota. You've slept on it long enough. It's time to talk."

  As stubborn as ever, he thought, when there was no reply from the other end of the line. Spota drifted with his backside toward the glass.

  "Hey, tough guy."

  Still no answer.

  "Hey . . ." O'Niel's voice trailed away as he pressed his face to the glass and stared into the cell.

  The oxygen tether leading to Spota's suit had been severed, both neatly parted ends floating freely in the zero-gee cell. A trickle of pulpy blood leaked from the section of tether still attached to Spota's helmet. Tiny red globules bounced lazily against the cell ceiling, the floor, and gathered in corners.

  O'Niel's face twisted and he made an ugly sound as he slammed a fist against the glass. Then he was running down the corridor, out through the empty squad room, out into the main corridor and back toward Admin living quarters, a single thought in his mind, laughing at him.

  Montone.

  The door did not respond to O'Niel's repeated requests for entry. There was a chance the sergeant was somewhere else, but there was no need for him to hurry. He probably thought O'Niel was still in his own apartment, asleep.

  He used a card pick to fool the door seal, exploded into the room, his face flushed, his breathing hard.

  A quick scan showed no one in the apartment. The simple furnishings appeared undisturbed.

  "Montone!"

  There was no answer. He moved to the sergeant's bunk and saw that it hadn't been slept in. There was one other place before he headed for Sheppard's rooms. He walked angrily across the room and pounded on the bathroom door.

  "Montone . . . are you in there? It's O'Niel. By God, if you're in there it'll go better on you if I don't have to drag you out!"

  Still only silence.

  He started checking out the room, pulling open desk drawers and dresser compartments. Clothes and personal effects were still neatly stowed in their respective compartments. That he hadn't expected. Unless Montone was in such a hurry to find a hiding place while awaiting the next shuttle that he hadn't bothered with them. So where the hell had he gone?

  O'Niel had a new thought crossed the room and jerked aside the closet door . . . and found Montone.

  The dead man's eyes protruded from his head. His tongue hung limply from a corner of his mouth, swollen and black. A wire garrote was imbedded in his neck. One end was fastened to the closet. The sergeant's hands were tied behind his back, the same grade of wire cutting deeply into the skin.

  O'Niel stared a moment longer, then took a deep breath and reached into the closet. Eventually he unwound the wires and wrestled Montone's limp form to the floor. Terrified eyes looked past him toward the ceiling.

  He looked around the room and found the bunk. Pulling off a sheet, he used it to cover the corpse, and then moved to the intercom to call the hospital.

  When he finally returned to his own apartment he was more numb than tired. Above the computer console the green message light was winking.

  Turning, he walked over to the station and slumped into the chair and wearily fingered the keys.

  O'NIEL, W.T. MESSAGES?

  The machine hummed brightly. O'NIEL, W.T. AFFIRMATIVE.

  He touched additional keys.

  PLAYBACK

  MESSAGE FOR O'NIEL, W.T. YOUR EYES ONLY/CODED. ENTER CLEARANCE CODE

  A little of the depression lifted from his brain as it was replaced with curiosity. Now what the devil was so important it had to come in coded at this time of night? He struggled to remember any code-relevant instructions he'd programmed into the console.

  The machine accepted his code, replied quickly. SBVD DTKKHRCY. JBTFWPA.

  "Fascinating," he muttered to himself, then typed in: DECODE. MY EYES ONLY.

  The machine's reply was brief, but said a lot: FOOD SHIPMENT—ARRIVAL. MONTONE.

  That dissolved the last vestiges of sleepiness. ELABORATE, he ordered the console.

  It only repeated, FOOD SHIPMENT ARRIVAL—MONTONE.

  The hell with elaboration, he thought determinedly. The short message might be eloquent enough. He turned off the console and started for the door. Out in the corridor he found himself slowing, thinking.

  Montone didn't want to know, didn't want to think, he reminded himself. It got him dead. He increased his pace to a trot once more, but changed his direction. It wouldn't hurt to make the detour.

  The entrance to the loading dock was unwatched. He touched the hatchway control, watched it slide aside for him. As he entered the dock he switched on the tiny flashlight. It thew a thin shaft of white illumination out into the dark jungle of equipment and containers.

  He moved in, closing the hatch behind him. The light led him down the ramp between a pair of motionless lifters. There were no shifts on duty at the moment and his own heartbeat thundered in his ears. Places that are normally noisy take on a nervous quiet when they're unoccupied. The larger the place, the louder the silence.

  It took him a few minutes to locate the containers which had arrived on the recent shuttle. Patiently he inspected the markings on each crate and cylinder. The light hopped from one seal to another, finally settling on several massive containers with ribbed surfaces. They had cold-seal markings stamped on their sides.

  Another console had supplied him with names and numbers. He checked his hastily scribbled list as he moved from one container to the next. There weren't many and he soon located the one he was after stamped with the Company logo, the cold-seal warning, and the words REFRIGERATED/PERISHABLES.

  The locking latches were tougher to break than most because the container was temperature as well a pressure sealed. Eventually they gave in to his insistent pressure and snapped open.

  A gust of frigid air rushed out. O'Niel waited for the imprisoned breeze to subside; then he bent over and entered the container.

  There was enough room inside for him to stand erect. His exhalations created small clouds in the freezing air. His shirt cuffs were pulled down to his fingers and his collar was turned up and buttoned in place for extra protection from the deep cold.

  Sides of beef hung from large hooks, shiny red beneath the pale layer of frozen fat. It reminded O'Niel of hospital morgues. The rigid rank of beef sides ran the length of the container. Most of them would find their way to the Administration kitchen, then to the plates of managers and assistants. The workers would see little of it.

  He started to work his way down the line of gutted carcasses. We've something in common, he mused, studying the beef. We're both a long way from home.

  His light danced off protruding ribs. He wasn't sure what he was searching for, but knew that he'd recognize it when he saw it. So far there was nothing.

  Until the wire slid over his head with a faint whitt of passing air to lock around his throat before he knew what was happening. The wire tightened immediately, beating O'Niel's hands to his neck.

  He clawed at the wire, but it was locked tight around his throat and almost cut through the tough nylon of his shirt. There was no room, not room enough to get fingers or even a fingernail between it and his neck to stop the pressure, the cutting, choking pressure. He fought for breath.

  Yario was no rabbit, like Spota. He was a big, solid bastard and he'd done this kind of work before. His knee pressed firmly into O'Niel's back, lifting the Marshal off the floor and arching him backward. O'Niel's feet kicked helplessly in the air.

  His eyes were bulging wide and he was making harsh, rasping noises as he fought to break Yario's grip. He swung a few futile blows with his elbows. They bounced hard off Yario's massive sides, as did the feeble kicks he attempted with his feet. Yario's face was red with the effort and the garrote d
ug into his own hands, but he didn't let up on the pressure for so much as a second.

  Slowly, gradually, O'Niel's movements grew weaker. The muscles in his neck ceased to stand out. His arms, then his legs stopped moving. So did his chest.

  Yario took no chances, though he knew from experience the Marshal couldn't be faking. Not with the kind of pressure being placed on his esophagus. When he was sure O'Niel was dead he let go of the garrote. The weight against his knee went completely limp, crumpling against him.

  He let the body drop to the floor of the container. So much for the Marshal. He wouldn't interfere any more. There wouldn't be many questions. Lots of people held grudges against lawmen. A place like Io would be alive with potential killers. The fact that Marshal and sergeant had died so close together would be explained away as an awkward coincidence. Or something.

  That wasn't his problem. He'd leave the explaining to Sheppard and the Company. Yario was no deep thinker—he just did his job. Did it well, as O'Niel and Montone could both attest. Or rather, couldn't.

  He grinned at the thought, stepped over the crumpled shape and headed for the far end of the container. The individual sides of beef were stamped with their destination. A few read CAFETERIA. Most read WARD ROOM MESS. A very few were directed toward individuals.

  At the back was one stamped GENERAL MANAGER. Yario grunted satisfaction and started to turn it around on its supporting hook. He was getting chilly and in a hurry to be on his way.

  O'Niel's leap sent him slamming into Yario's rib cage. The startled larger man was thrown off-balance into the container wall, the force of the impact momentarily knocking the wind out of him. O'Niel brought up the heel of one palm and drove it into the bridge of Yario's nose. There was a cracking sound and blood flew, congealing rapidly in the chill air of the refrigeration container.

  Yario staggered forward like a wounded bear, thick arms outstretched to gather in and crush his assailant. O'Niel gave him credit for overcoming his pain and surprise. He wasn't about to give the massive machine operator a chance to recover any further.

  Bending low, he drove forward and put his head into Yario's solar plexus. The air went out of the huge body with a whoosh and it doubled over. As it did so, O'Niel put all his weight behind the knee he swung up to catch the man's descending chin. The impact echoed dully through the container and spilled out into the shuttle dock.