Outland Page 16

  The corridor O'Niel had chosen was empty when he entered it. He'd checked out the previous one and hadn't encountered a soul.

  Now he made his way casually down the little-used accessway. No one came up from behind to pass him and the hatch at the far end stayed shut.

  Moving quickly he turned and unlatched the security panel hidden in the west wall, slipped the gun inside and locked the compartment. Then he continued on his way, taking a different path back to the office.

  A in the shuttle loading bay increased. The landing crew was completing pressure tests on the lock, to ensure that no precious atmosphere would leak out while loading was in progress. Seals were triple-checked. The arrival of the shuttle was an ordinary occur that was always handled with extraordinary care.

  It was crowded in the Admin Ward Room. Breakfast was still being served. Huge plates of fried, scrambled, and soft boiled eggs were interspersed the tables with bowls of biscuits, gravy, grits, cereal, bacon, and muffins. There were cold flagons of several kinds of fruit juice, pitchers of milk, self-warming tanks of coffee and tea. The napkins were false linen instead of just paper.

  As opposed to the frenetic blare of conversation in the workers' cafeteria the talk in the ward room was subdued. Its occupants preferred to affect a genteel air they had not been born to. It gave the Sunday brunch the feel of a gathering at some Earthside Country Club.

  Soft lighting made the imported food look even better than it was. The women sometimes moved to form their own bubbly, animated groups while the men would sit swapping jokes or production figures or, in a more serious vein, this or that problem at the mine.

  They managed the admirable task of ignoring the one problem that was on everyone's mind.

  Above the tables and conversation the room readout flashed: SHUTTLE—IN TRANSIT. ARRIVAL—0 HOURS 43 MINUTES. No one paid it any attention. It was only a clock. Shuttles arrived every week, on schedule.

  O'Niel strode through the front entrance and looked around. Sheppard was not present. The General Manager often preferred to eat in the privacy of his own office and this morning was no exception.

  It was several seconds before the Marshal's presence was noticed. As soon as it was the conversation faded faster than a liter of oxygen exposed on Io's surface. Everyone turned to look at him.

  He stood in the doorway and smiled pleasantly back at them.

  Within the shuttle bay a pulsating horn began to wail. Lights flashed and startled attendants rushed to man their positions. There were a number of muffled curses as coffee was hastily downed or abandoned. The readout overhead flashed: SHUTTLE—OUTER MARKER. ARRIVAL—EARLY.

  O'Niel studied the silent group of diners, said conversationally, "Good morning."

  A few subdued "good mornings" drifted up to him. Hands fumbled with glasses and utensils but no one resumed eating. O'Niel started toward the nearest table, mentally noting who was present and who was not.

  He recognized one face, shifting toward her. She tried to smile back at him.

  "How are you, Ms. Spector?"

  The woman who'd greeted him so warmly his first official day at the mine looked flustered. "Uh, fine, thank you, Marshal." She almost started to ask reflexively, "How are you," but caught herself in time.

  O'Niel turned his attention to her breakfast companion. "Mr. Rudolph? You doing okay this morning?"

  "Morning, Marshal. I'm fine, yes." Rudolph stirred his hot cereal nervously.

  O'Niel's gaze rose: He scanned the room, locking eyes with those not looking elsewhere. "I hope everyone's fine this morning. I hope you're all having a pleasant time." He walked past one of the serving tables. "Looks good." He selected an apple from one plate, began gnawing on it. The sound was loud in the suddenly silent room.

  In the shuttle bay access hatches slammed shut. There was a tremendous, steady hiss as the main airlock was readied for pressurization. The ground crews strained with their heavy equipment. Loaders stood by, idling smoothly as they waited to stuff the incoming ship's cargo hold with containers of dark ore.

  High above, the station landing tower operators monitored their consoles and ignored distant volcanic upheavals. Jupiter glowered overhead, a claustrophobic orange presence. Readouts gave constant readings of fluctuations in the giant planet's powerful magnetic field, radiation belts and outer atmosphere. Others changed steadily as a graphic outline grew larger on the main screen.

  High above a pair of intensely bright white lights appeared. As the shuttle came nearer the white spots became brilliant shafts of illumination directed downward. They lit up the yellowed surface of Io and flashed on the outer framework of the mine.

  The shuttle was a boxy, massive gray construct, spotted here and there with official markings and unofficial dents and bruises. It was not streamlined and would never enter any atmosphere denser than Io's.

  Great pylons joined cylindrical compartments the size of buildings: the ship's cargo holds. Near the front of the vessel were interlocked geometric shapes that held crew and passengers.

  Engines fired silently in the near-emptiness above the mine as the vast, mobile transport shifted slightly to its left and continued to descend. Instructions traveled from the tower workers to the human pilots, then to the shuttle's computers. It adjusted speed and attitude accordingly, slowing as it neared the bay. The great clamshell doors were open to receive it.

  O'Niel finished the apple, considered an English muffin, but decided against it. He stood in the middle of the room and regarded his colleagues.

  "I don't mean to disturb you and I don't want anyone to get upset, but I could use a little help."

  No one was rude enough to continue eating. The Administrative staff, the aristocracy of Io, was nothing if not polite. The variety of gestures and glances they individually employed to avoid looking back at the Marshal was impressive in its diversity.

  O'Niel's expression never changed. "I thought so."

  There was no comment, no response. A little more fidgiting, perhaps.

  A breakfaster seated near the front of the room, a balding middle-aged computer specialist named Rudd, at least had the guts to stand up and say what most of them were thinking.

  "You're supposed to protect us Marshal. Not the other way around. It's your job, not ours. We do ours and you're supposed to do yours." Mutters of support for this stance rose from indeterminate locations, emboldening the diminutive Rudd to continue.

  "You're the police. I don't ask you to do my work. Why should I be expected to help you with yours? I have my own assistants. Where are your people?"

  "My people?" O'Niel smiled pleasantly "My people stink." He looked past Rudd as though the man wasn't there, at the others. "What about you good people?"

  Nobody moved. Nobody replied.

  O'Niel nodded once, dismissing them. "Enjoy your breakfast." He turned and walked out . . .

  XI

  Forward engines fired, slowing the giant shuttle craft further. The crews waiting inside the loading bay could feel the nearness of the ship as its engines' downblast sent a steady vibration through the entire complex.

  Within the control tower orders were given in quiet, businesslike tones. Hydraulic access landing arms folded back, opening like a monstrous metal flower to receive the slowly descending vessel. Four maintenance gantries swung aside as blast deflector plates rose to shield the delicate framework of the tower and the rest of the mine.

  Landing struts unfolded from the shuttle's belly as it hovered a few yards above the landing circle. It hung there on its repellers as the internal guidance computer matched readings with those in the tower and lined up with the sensors built into the structure of the landing platform.

  Like the legs of a clumsy gray beetle the landing struts touched down against the receiving platform. Squinting against blinding landing lights the crews inside could now make out the ship through thick ports. The roar of the engine-induced internal vibrations was deafening inside the loading bay.

  As the shuttle r
elaxed the landing struts collapsed into its underside. Recoil hydraulics and springs absorbed its weight which even in Io's light gravity was still considerable.

  Tower operators acknowledged the successful touchdown. Within the shuttle cockpit its human pilots shut down engines and all other landing functions preparatory to commencing disembarkation procedures.

  Landing lights dimmed. The maintenance gantries whirred back into position. Blast shields were withdrawn. Although the shuttle had barely touched down busy crews were already readying her for liftoff.

  Vibration faded as the engines were shut down and conversation took its place inside the loading dock. Men and machines surged forward toward the ship. Huge metal arms hung ready to grasp off-loading cargo while lifters manipulating massive ore containers lined up to stuff the empty cargo holds full of preprocessed Ilmenite.

  The readout above the dock had ceased blinking. SHUTTLE—DOCKED it shone steadily. OFF LOADING IN PROGRESS.

  O'Niel arrived at the squad room on the run. The readout on the far wall confirmed what he'd been told. Why the shuttle had arrived an unannounced half hour early was a question he dearly wished the answer to, but there was no time for casual inquiries now. It was doubtful the shuttle pilots themselves could give him a reasonable explanation. The origin of their orders would probably have been effectively obscured.

  He grabbed the other riot gun from its rack and stuffed extra clips into his pockets glance showed him what he had expected: Security was deserted.

  Throwing himself into the seaf before the computer console in his office he hurriedly keyed in a request, marked it urgent.

  O'NIEL, W.T. REQUEST LIKENESS OF PERSONNEL ON PASSENGER MANIFEST ON PRESENT SHUTTLE WHO WERE TICKETED WITHIN THREE DAYS OF DEPARTURE. CROSS REFERENCE WITH PERSONNEL ON MANIFEST WITH PRIOR ARREST RECORD.

  The machine hummed, responded with its usual speed. The response, however, was not what he expected.

  NEGATIVE DATA AVAILABLE.

  The past several days had given O'Niel plenty of time to think. Sometimes he'd felt sorry for himself. Now and then he wondered if perhaps he hadn't made the wrong decision. Often he'd been worried. He'd invented any number of possible scenarios for what might happen subsequent to the shuttle's arrival. Some of them had bordered on the bizarre, others on the fanciful. Not a few had been awash in wish fulfillment.

  But this was the first time he'd been confused.

  Computers did not confuse, they elucidated. The intricate and efficient advanced security machinery was the one thing he'd always been able to depend upon, no matter where he'd been stationed. It couldn't run out on him like his deputies or beg off with rationalizations like those faceless, gutless citizens whose breakfast he'd interrupted.

  The one ally he hadn't expected to betray him was his computer.

  For several minutes he simply sat and stared at it. Unlike Ballard, it didn't turn away from him. But Ballard's reaction he could understand. The computer's baffled him.

  Try again, he told himself. You can afford to give up anything but time.

  His fingers moved with deliberate precision over the keyboard. O'NIEL, W.T. PREVIOUS REQUEST MADE WITH SECURITY PRIORITY—REPLY.

  NEGATIVE DATA AVAILABLE, the machine silently insisted.

  Take it easy, he ordered himself. Think it through. The machine wasn't lying to him, therefore its demoralizing response must be grounded in fact. Question the question, not the reply.

  He forced himself to remain calm as he inquired again. O'NIEL, W.T. EMERGENCY SECURITY REQUEST FOR DATA. WHY NEGATIVE RESPONSE?

  Letters flashed promptly on the screen. NO MANIFEST TRANSMITTED FROM STATION—SHUTTLE DEPARTURE POINT.

  Now that he could understand, if not enjoy. O'NIEL, W.T. he typed in. URGENT REQUEST FROM IO SECURITY TO STATION GREEN TO TRANSMIT REQUESTED DATA IMMEDIATELY.

  NEGATIVE ABILITY, came the maddening response. VOICE AND PICTURE TRANSMISSIONS WITH STATION GREEN—SHUTTLE DEPARTURE POINT TEMPORARILY TERMINATED.

  REASON FOR TERMINATION? he asked.

  NEGATIVE DATA AVAILABLE.

  He sat back in the chair and stared dazedly at the bank of monitors. Without positive replies to his questions, without the computer's assistance, he at one stroke lost the aid of a hundred fifty years of law enforcement advances. A single well thought-out countermove had thrown him back to purely primitive methods.

  No, that wasn't entirely true. He wasn't down to sticks and stones yet. Ignoring the ineffective trans-spatial monitor he turned his attention to the local cluster of surveillance screens.

  The shuttle loading dock appeared on one. He touched additional controls. At least he wasn't completely blind. Another screen revealed the glowing corridor of the main passenger access tube, other screens the passage-ways and tunnels spreading outward from the bay.

  The passenger elevator had already started down its service gantry, carrying the new arrivals. Inside the bay the landing crews busied themselves at various tasks. A rich hiss issued from the dock monitor.

  A lighted display above the main access corridor announced ACCESSWAY—ZERO ATMOSPHERE. Seconds passed and it changed to ACCESSWAY—PRESSURIZING and at last to ACCESSWAY—FULL ATMOSPHERE AND GRAVITY.

  The hissing faded and the hatchway sealing the bayside end of the tube was opened. The passengers were still out of sight, having just left the transporting elevator at the far end of the corridor. Members of the landing crew stood lazily around the open hatch, occasionally checking readouts but mostly looking bored.

  O'Niel sat in the empty office and watched the open end of the tube attentively. He was anything but bored. Soon shadows appeared, lit by the lights at the far end the tube. Then men and women appeared.

  Some chatted animatedly, others were silent, still others looked curiously about with attitudes varying from those approaching purgatory to travelers simply returning to a familiar place. All carried nylon duffle bags of varying colors. Most of the talking ceased when they reached the end of the corridor and stepped out into the dust-filled loading bay.

  O'Niel stared at the screen showing the arrivals. He scrutinized each debarking man and woman closely, trying to pick out the assassins among them. But whoever they were they remained unidentifiable. As the transmission he'd intercepted had indicated, they were professionals. It would take more than appearance to separate them from their non-lethal brethren.

  There were twenty passengers altogether. Processing was brief and casual. Ticket records were checked against faces, destinations within the mine noted, directions provided by the landing crew and that was all. The newcomers were sent on their way. There was no reason for more elaborate rituals. No one had any reason to want to smuggle themself onto Io.

  The twenty crossed the open landing bay and entered a white corridor, the main accessway to the rest of the mine. At its terminus was a hexagonal junction from which five sub-corridors led to the five major sections of the complex. O'Niel touched controls, switched screens to jump ahead of the arrivals. The new picture gave him a clear view of the multiple junction.

  As the passengers entered the terminus they split into smaller groups, a few taking each sub-corridor. Some said good-byes to friends made on shipboard while others resumed former conversations.

  Eventually the last two men arrived at the junction. They were chatting easily and in appearance were no different from any of the other passengers. If anything, they were excessively ordinary-looking.

  After another minute or two of discussion they suddenly lapsed into silence and executed a thoroughly un-ordinary inspection of the six corridors. Apparently satisfied they set their duffle bags down on the junction floor and unsealed them.

  Buried among clothing; personal effects, and toiletries were bits of metal which were extricated one at a time, each piece fitting into the one that had preceded it. The men alternated assembling, one snapping a folding stock into a barrel while his companion maintained a watch on the corridors. Then he would affix sight and barrel while the other k
ept watch.

  They worked smoothly and in tandem, building and watching, trigger mechanisms and guards, lastly straps and loaded magazines.

  Weapons completed, each man hefted his duffle bag and started off down a different corridor. Not a word had been spoken since they'd commenced assembling the guns, not a word was offered in departure.

  O'Niel studied them intently as they split, recording the directions they took. They both walked at the same pace: steadily, deliberately but without wasting time. He shifted cameras to keep ahead of them.

  It was hard to say for certain but the first man seemed to be taking the more direct path to Administration. When they finished there they would likely continue on their separate ways before linking up outside Security. Waiting to confront both of them together would be worse than foolish. The Marshal made a quick decision, hefted the riot gun, and hurried out of the office.

  The Club was packed, the dancers in the midst of changing shifts. The transparent cylinders had been drawn up into the roof, where the change could be made in privacy. Professionals, the dancers were particular about their privacy. They didn't mind being looked at: that was what they were paid for. But there was nothing artistic about being groped. To the on-lookers in the Club the difference seemed small, to the dancers it defined the parameters of their profession.

  The music raged in their absence, as did conversation and drinking. Much of the conversation was forced and the usual spontaneity was lacking. The same could have been said of the drinking.

  Damned paperwork, Sheppard was thinking as he studied the figures glowing on his desk console. Fit duty for an administrative clerk, not a General Manager. Besides, it was taking time away from practising his chip shots.

  He touched controls and figures on the screens shifted, changed. He was in a rush to finish off the morning's work. Behind him, cool greenery and a dimpled ball awaited.

  The first gunman reached the men's locker room. He did not carry a map, having memorized the entire complex layout of the mine prior to setting foot on the shuttle. He glanced down at his wrist chronometer. As planned, the locker room was deserted, it being close to shift change-over. Night workers would just be making their way toward the elevators, the day shift filling their tanks prior to going Outside.