Outland

by Alan Dean Foster

  "I don't know how to analyze a new molecule, O'Niel. My sights never ranged that high and my abilities don't range that deep."

  Unexpectedly, the fourth monitor came alive in rebuttal. A diagram appeared grew slowly as an invisible electronic hand traced the three-dimensional graphic. Lines and colored orbs formed a geometric abstract, though the computer's intention had nothing to do with art.

  "Hello again," she said, a bit more cheerfully.

  O'Niel was straining to see past her, his brain trying to make some sense of the little colored globes and bonding lines. He suspected what the diagram represented, but he couldn't be sure. His dealings with volatile organic compounds were usually on a less microscopic level.

  "Is it a drug?"

  She looked over at him approvingly, nodding affirmatively. "You just won a prize."

  "What kind?"

  She inspected the fourth screen, noting the information spelling out beneath the slowly revolving graphic. Various atomic combinations lit up in sequence within the molecular model, corresponding words and figures below the diagram grew in size and brightness.

  "Some kind of narcotic for sure. Nothing I've ever seen before, and I've seen some cuties. You'd be surprised what gets smuggled in to a place like this past the Takeoff security . . . no, come to think of it, I guess you wouldn't be surprised.

  Synthetic, this one. Hate those things. You never know what they stand for." A last knot of multihued globes and bonds materialized, completing the molecular chain. The computer beeped, signifying that it was through. Simultaneously, the numbers and words beneath the diagram froze and two new words appeared, pulsing softly.

  "Bingo," she said quietly. "Polydychloric Euthimal." She shook her head in wonder at the extremes of mortal man. "Those stupid bastards are taking Polydychloric Euthimal."

  "That tells me nothing."

  She swiveled around to face him. "It should tell you a helluva lot. Polydyeuth's an amphetamine. Strongest damn thing you ever saw." Her face flashed a falsely broad smile. "It makes you feel wonderful."

  "Wonderful enough to override the effects of the Company tranquilizers he'd been taking?"

  Sagan's name hadn't been mentioned, and it didn't seem necessary. "Strong enough to override anything," she snorted. "You do fourteen hours work in six hours, that kind of nonsense. Especially manual labor. It makes you want to work like a horse.

  "The Army tested it a few years ago. I remember reading about it in a journal. It made everybody work, alright. Then it made them psychotic. It takes a while. Ten, eleven months, maybe more. Then the body starts paying for it.

  "It fries your brain. They always told us in chemistry that you never get something for nothing."

  "You said it was a synthetic." She nodded. "Can it be made here?"

  "No. Impossible." She gestured at the quiescent analyzer. "The hospital staff's the only equipment on this rock sophisticated enough to deal with complex organics. You want physical or geologic analyses, there's half a dozen departments that can help you out.

  "But organics? Uh-uh, no way. And we're only equipped for analysis here, not manufacture. We import even the most basic drugs.

  "Besides which, even if it were possible, I'd know. This isn't your everyday garden-variety narcotic. It takes real chemical know-how and a big, expensive lab setup equipped to deal with unstable organic compounds. There's no such animal on Io."

  O'Niel's brain did not move nearly as fast as the computer's, but just then it was churning ahead at a pretty respectable clip.

  "No autopsies, so nobody knows anything," he murmured. "The workers are producing more on the same amount of work time, so the mine is more productive. They get fatter bonus checks and the work seems easier, so they're happy. Nobody mentions anything about awkward little side effects."

  "Like scrambled heads," she said quietly.

  "Exactly. By the time their brains pop, their tour is up. Usually . . . except for the embarrassing early-bird blowouts like Sagan and the rest, and they're chucked out toward the asteroids in a hurry.

  "The Company is making a bigger profit, so they're not about to ask any questions. They can claim ignorance by not trying to peek under the covers, and make it stand up under a truth serum." He was nodding slowly to him self. "That's not a bad setup."

  He stood, headed for the door. "Listen, don't say anything about this to anyone. Not the analysis, not even that I was here tonight. Understand? Anyone. Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble to keep this real quiet. If it comes down to a question of keeping it quiet, I doubt whoever it is would show much respect for the medical profession."

  "Like I said, I'm not stupid." She watched him open the door, and added rapidly, "I did good, didn't I?" The hardness was gone from her voice. "For a wreck."

  "Yes, you did good. Real good. And a wreck couldn't have done it."

  He smiled, a rare occurrence lately. It was warm, and genuine. Then he was gone, the Hospital doors closing tightly behind him.

  Lazarus stared at the silence, then turned tiredly back to the still glowing screens. The molecular chain still turned slowly on the fourth monitor, pivoting patiently an its invisible axis, its makeup and composition laid out neatly in rows beneath the graphic. She had neither the experience nor equipment for identifying such a complex protein, yet there it floated, complete and exposed.

  She hadn't thought to smile back at O'Niel, but with no one in the room to see, she allowed the long-dormant grin of satisfaction to slowly spread across her face . . .

  It was the same imitation coffee, perked with the same imitation caffeine, but for some reason the black goo tasted remarkably good this morning.

  O'Niel sipped on his third cup and watched the computer begin to untangle the night. He hesitated before entering, looking down into his cup. It was blacker than space outside.

  I'm getting addicted to this stuff, he mused. Maybe the rumors are right and it really is a petroleum distillate. I wonder what else the Company sticks in it?

  That was a disquieting thought. He turned his attention back to the waiting computer. At least it wasn't imitation. If not the coffee, he knew he could always depend on his regulation electronics.

  O'NIEL, he entered instinctively. W.T. CONFIDENTIAL. QUERY FORTHCOMING. SCRAMBLE. SECURITY PRIORITY, MY EYES ONLY.

  The machine responded promptly. O'NIEL, W.T. PROCEED.

  He typed in: DEPARTMENT HEADS WHO HAVE WORKED ON IO FOR MORE THAN A ONE YEAR TERM?

  That question produced four names. A nice, low number. One that shouldn't require much checking.

  COOPER, FREDERICK—ADMINISTRATION

  MONTONE KENNETH R.—SECURITY

  LAZARUS MARIAN L.—MEDICAL

  SELWAY, MARY—FOOD SERVICES

  Then the follow-up: DEPARTMENT HEADS WITH MOST ACCESS TO MOST AREAS AND PERSONNEL?

  Again a quick reply.

  ORME CHARLES—TRANSPORTATION

  TRINGHAM DAVID—PAYROLL

  MONTONE KENNETH R.—SECURITY

  LAZARUS, MARIAN L.—MEDICAL

  SHEPPARD, MARK B.—LEISURE AND ADMINISTRATION

  O'NIEL, W.T.—SECURITY

  He smiled at the appearance of the last name on the screen and lit a cigarette. For several minutes he did nothing except study the screen and indulge the habit. Then it was time to punch in the un-nice questions.

  NUMBER OF EMPLOYEES WITH CRIMINAL RECORDS?

  The computer took its time. O'Niel found himself nodding. It was only to be expected, on Io.

  SEVENTEEN, was the response. O'Niel typed more.

  NAMES, ALPHABETICALLY

  The computer instantly printed out the list.

  ALABIN. THOMAS R.

  ANDERSON. WILLIAM G.

  BANDO, DOMINIC R.

  DE PAUL RAYMOND F.

  DUMAR ROBERT E.

  FOSTER PETER F.

  FREYMAN, MARIN E.

  HALPERN, GEORGE R.

  HOOPER MARK G.

  KUNARD, FREDERICK C.

  LOOMIS. C
HARLES E.

  MONTINEZ ELVIRA T.

  SPOTA. NICHOLAS P.

  STEVENSON, JOAN A.

  THOMPSON, VIRGIL

  WOTTON, MICHELE G.

  YARIO, RUSSELL B.

  He studied the list intently. The names remained only names, did not match up with faces. That could be quickly remedied. Of course, if the next question happened to generate a blank, he would have to go back to square one.

  BREAKDOWN OF OFFENSES, he entered. HOW MANY FOR DRUG RELATED CRIMES?

  The computer went quiet and he found him self holding his breath. The pause was no longer than normal. It only seemed that way.

  The console hummed.

  SPOTA, NICHOLAS P.

  YARIO, RUSSELL B.

  WHO DO THEY WORK FOR? he asked, rushing the entry so fast he had to clear the screen and do it a second time.

  SPOTA, NICHOLAS P.—LEISURE

  YARIO, RUSSELL B.—SHIPPING

  Oh, now that was interesting. He allowed himself a slight smile and his fingers flicked the keys.

  WHO APPROVED THEIR EMPLOYMENT?

  Machine, delightfully: SHEPPARD, MARK B.

  O'Niel's fingers tapped rhythmically on the side of the keyboard, then moved once again across the keys.

  TRANSMIT LIKENESS SPOTA, NICHOLAS P. AND YARIO, RUSSELL B. QUIET SEARCH. The last was so that some curious personnel clerk would not notice that his records had been scanned.

  The screen blanked for a moment, still humming as it sent commands through the interlocking electronic nexus that linked every department at the mine.

  Before long a man's face appeared on the screen in front of O'Niel. There were two views, straight-on and profile: the standard employee ID poses. It was a heavy-set, moderately ugly face, devoid of expression. Somewhere in his early forties, O'Niel decided. Tough, experienced, and unimaginative. That was a description that could apply to ninety percent of the men and women who worked at the mine.

  Underneath the picture was the legend: YARIO, RUSSELL B.

  The second picture O'Niel thought he recognized was of a man who moved around quite a bit, from department to department. He was about the same age as Yario, leaner and darker, if not prettier.

  O'Niel studied both pictures, memorizing the two faces. Then he touched a special button and entered something other than a question into the computer.

  BEQUEST AUTOMATIC DISCREET SURVEILLANCE YARIO, RUSSELL B. AND SPOTA, NICHOLAS P. ALL SECURITY CAMERA REPORTS CONFIDENTIAL. MY EYES ONLY. O'NIEL. W.T.

  The machine responded dutifully: AFFIRMATIVE

  He entered, END TRANSMISSION and the computer acknowledged END TRANSMISSION, O'NIEL, W.T.

  Three sections of the mine generated more power than they used. The first was the solar power station, which supplied the entire outpost with life. The second was the fusion backup reactor, which was rarely brought into use.

  The third was the Club, which was never quiet.

  The woman dancing in the transparent cylinder beneath the baleful glare of the shifting strobe lights was not quite naked. The light wisps of material draped around her were placed more to satisfy convention than comfort.

  She was gyrating wildly to a thunderous, ostinato rhythm blaring from the speakers set in ceiling and wall. Much of it was electronic, most of it percussive. Her head was tilted back and her teeth were bared in a cross between an erotic sneer and a laugh. Her hair, clinging to the nape of her neck, was matted with perspiration.

  The cylinder was suspended above a long, curved bar against which men and women, offshift from the mine, bumped and swirled. Some watched the dancer in the plastic tube; others drank but most talked, glad to be out of their suits and breathing the illusion of real air.

  A second cylinder floated at the other end of the bar. In it a man wearing even less than his young female counterpart twisted and spun. Muscles rippled across his body with every turn. Perspiration flew from his skin as he flailed at the air.

  After a while the two cylinders began to move toward each other. Opposing panels slid aside and the cylinders merged. So did the two dancers, who never stopped moving. They executed a variation, prompting comments from those watching underneath. The man and woman knew many variations—they were professionals.

  The people in the crowd were shouting, not in anger but simply so they could be heard above the roar of the music. Individual tables were packed tightly on the floor, lit by the amber fluorescents that glowed above the bar, providing most of the light that illuminated the Club, along with the energetic strobes that teased the dancers.

  Circulating among the off-duty workers were the Company cleared "recreation assistants." Sometimes men walked arm in arm with men, Women with women. Choices were limited enough by nature. Variety was not frowned upon, prudishness having been left behind somewhere inside the orbit of Luna.

  A tall, well-dressed man ambled into the Club, peered over the heads of the swarm, and headed toward the distant bar, searching through the crowd as he broke a path.

  One of the bartenders smiled at him. The man grinned back, nodded once. The bartender turned to his console and punched in the code of Spota's favorite drink. The electronic mixologist lit up like a pinball machine as it started on Spota's request, blending it in sequence together with two dozen others.

  Hidden from casual sight among the exposed guts of wiring and air conduits overhead was a small tube not much larger than a pencil. It was painted to match its surroundings and whirred softly as its business end traversed the crowd.

  O'Niel rested in his chair before the bank of video monitors and studied the multiple images they proferred. One screen showed an empty access corridor, another a panorama of the bustling cafeteria. The Club was on the third screen, the view changing slowly as the camera swept left to right.

  When it reached the bar, O'Niel suddenly became alert and leaned forward. He jabbed at a switch, halting the camera's movement. Carefully he backed it up, nudging it down a notch until it was focused on a certain section of the huge counter. Then he touched the zoom control and held it down. It provided a close-up of Spota, who was accepting his drink from the bartender.

  Brief conversation between patron and server was exchanged and then the bartender took Spota's ident card and entered it into the bar's computer. The machine would dock the drinker's credit line proportionately.

  Spota's face flashed in the reflected strobe light as he looked upward. The dancers had separated and returned to their respective cylinders, which once more hung above different ends of the bar.

  The girl was jiggling almost directly above Spota. O'Niel resisted an urge to direct the camera upward, kept it and his own attention resolutely on the glistening face of the man below. Spota was experienced. O'Niel could not risk looking away. He might miss something.

  He was certain there would be something worth not missing.

  The locker room echoed to the greetings and complaints of the night shift, returning from the mine. Some of the men already had doffed their helmets before exiting the elevator, a violation of Company rules and a direct challenge to death, which waited patiently just down the elevator shaft. Others hopped around on one foot or the other, half in and half out of their atmosphere suits.

  These were dumped in large, dusty piles. They would be gathered up by clean-up crews and checked out for potential leaks, rips, and other assorted, potentially fatal little defects before being returned to their owners.

  Nearby the morning shift was lined up patiently at the oxygen fills, each man waiting his chance to stock air. It was crowded when Spota entered the area.

  O'Niel sipped at a cup of coffee that was too hot and winced. The autoperc in the squad room needed adjusting. Of course, he'd been working it overtime this past night.

  He rubbed at his eyes as he watched Spota make his way through the piles of discarded clothing and down the aisles. The ceiling camera panned to follow its quarry.

  Spota paused a few times to chat with some of the returning workers. Then
he reached a locker, opened it, and began climbing into his own atmosphere suit preparatory to going Outside. O'Niel considered the brief conversations he'd just witnessed. It was clear that Spota was well-liked by his fellow workers. That befitted someone who worked in Leisure and could command all sorts of extra perks denied the average miner—perks which might be shared with good friends.

  He noted the buttons Spota thumbed as he entered the elevator, had a camera waiting for the man when he arrived at Level Eight. Spota's face was visible through the faceplate of his helmet. The thin zero-pressure camera built into the scaffolding moved to follow.

  Spota stopped to talk with some of the men and women, ignoring others. None of the busy workers told him to get lost, despite the fact that such conversations cost them work time. Spota was evidently more than merely well-liked by his colleagues; he was downright popular.

  O'Niel grownd his teeth and wished fervently for an audio override that would enable him to listen in on the suit-to-suit channel Spota was using. It would be useful sometime, he told himself, to learn to read lips.

  He could always store the surveillance camera's recording and refer it to someone who could lip-read, except that most of the time Spota's face was turned away from the pickup's eye. So he had to be content with merely watching. It was very frustrating.

  Dust always managed to work its way into the shuttle loading dock. The cavernous chamber was full of sulfur dust and often smelled like a Texas barnyard at high noon in early August. Tan and yellow sulfurous clouds drifted around workers and machines as heavy containers of ore were bullied into place.

  One of the shipping operators was using a yellow lifter to straighten a line of ore carriers. A soiled bandana encircled his forehead, damp with sweat. Like everyplace else in the mine, excepting certain private quarters and the administration offices, the dock was under-cooled.

  The name of the individual manipulating the lifter was Yario. He looked big enough to manhandle the ore containers by himself. Hair the hue of the local coffee tumbled down the back of his neck. A tattoo of a striking serpent undulated on his left arm as the muscles beneath twisted and strained.