Outland (5 page)

Then the coffee sipper had slipped some thing into his locker and was climbing into his suit, preparatory to going Outside. His taller visitor had circled the far end of the aisle and was making his way back toward the cafeteria.

It all took only a few seconds . . .

The worker's cafeteria was not the only place in the mine that served food. The other was nearby, but spiritually it was a light-minute away, and was barely a quarter the size of the cafeteria.

The tables were light and airy in design, giving the room an open feeling the claustrophobic cafeteria never enjoyed. There were napkins and formal table settings. One has to be familiar with interspatial shipping costs to realize the meaning of such mundane items as silverware and napkins on a place like Io.

The lighting did not waterfall down from directly overhead but was recessed, illuminating the Ward Room with a gentle glow.

There were even people to clean the tables.

At the moment some forty people occupied the room. They sipped at coffee (real coffee) or tea, or soda. There were two long tables joined to form a U-shape by a third. People sat on both sides of the long tables, chatting as they drank or smoked. A few glanced at the large readout which always kept tabs on the position of the weekly shuttle. The far end of the room was dominated by the massive company logo, a series of concentric circles that extended left and right in a rectangle, with the letters CON-AM inside.

At the far end of one table sat a man at first glance no different from any of the other occupants of the room. He was a bit larger than most and bald beneath the company cap. His beard and eyes were dark, his attitude seemingly indifferent.

His features seemed taken from a much smaller man, all squinched together in that falsely cherubic face, which gave all his expressions a forced look.

There was nothing of the athlete about him, but you still had the impression he was much faster than he looked. He gave off an aura of readiness. It was the look of a large fox. Or hyena, both equally dangerous when they wanted to be yet capable of controlling their ferocity.

At the moment the man was relaxed, a kind of tense tranquillity in his expression. His eyes moved lazily, studying the assemblage as it listened dutifully to the man standing next to him. The man was O'Niel, and he was doing something he was not particularly fond of: talking.

". . . finally," he was telling the crowd, "I realize that I'm still new here. You're going to have to get to know me, and I'm going to have to get to know you. There will likely be some times we won't see eye to eye. I hope few of them. I know we can work together and get along." He ventured a smile that was not returned.

"I just hope I can justify your confidence in me." He paused. The silence in the room matched the silence outside. The loudest sound came from coffee lapping against cup rims and one muffled cough.

"Thank you." O'Niel sat down. The quiet hung in the air like a fog.

He leaned over and whispered to the sergeant seated on his left. "I really wowed 'em."

"Had them eating out of your hand," Montone whispered back, grinning. "This is about as excited as they ever get at one of these things. Don't forget they'd all rather be shooting the bull and swapping gossip. This is their off-time."

"Are there any questions?" The query came from the bear of a man seated on O'Niel's right, who had finally bestirred himself. Sheppard never whispered and his question echoed around the room. He was never afraid of being the one to break the ice. If he so desired he could break much more than that.

A number of backsides shifted awkwardly in their seats. For all the talent and ability packed into the Ward Room, its occupants were acting like a bunch of schoolchildren waiting for someone else to tackle the teacher's question.

Finally an older woman raised her hand. "Marshal . . . Flo Spector, Accounting Services." She looked around, as if seeking support from her silent companions. "I'm sure I speak for all of us here in extending our welcome to you and your family. If there is anything Ms. O'Niel or your son should need, please let them know they can call on me. If I don't know the answers to their question, I'll know someone who will."

O'Niel gave her a grateful smile, glad that at least someone retained a semblance of neighborliness. Of course, by the very nature of his job he could hardly expect an outpouring of affection. But he never got used to the coldness, despite having gone through similar introductory gatherings many times.

"Thank you very much, Ms. Spector. I will be sure and tell Ms. O'Niel . . . and Paul."

He glanced around the room, searching for signs of additional questions but there were none. The boredom was plain on everyone's face. They were ready to get back to work, to relaxing, anything that would take them out of the Ward Room and the unwelcome confrontation.

Sheppard took over again. "Well, I see there are no more questions." He looked over at O'Niel, smiled. At least, it seemed like a smile.

"I would just like to add my welcome to Marshal O'Niel. I'm sure you'll all agree he will find this a pleasant and uneventful tour. I know he's just started here. Io takes some getting used to, even for those of us who've put in time at other Con-Am projects, but pretty soon he'll find that this is just like every other mining town. There's never much trouble."

"Glad to hear it," O'Niel admitted. "I don't like trouble."

Montone shifted in his seat, looking the other way as Sheppard continued. "Just remember, these men and women work hard. Very hard. I'm proud of that dedication and I do my best to see that it's encouraged.

"Since I've been General Manager here this mine has broken all productivity records. We're on our way to becoming Con-Amalgamate's leading deep-system operation, and everyone in this room has received the bonus checks to prove it. There isn't another mine or manufacturing facility outside Mars that can boast our profit margin. I expect it to continue that way.

"Good work only comes from contented people." This time the smile seemed less forced. "I work them hard and I let them play hard."

O'Niel didn't respond to the subsequent pause, simply continued watching Sheppard. The manager gave a mental shrug and continued.

"So when the time comes to let off a little steam, you have to allow them some room. Considering how hard they push themselves out there,"— he jerked a thumb toward a port that showed the yellow orange surface of Io— "they're entitled to that." He leaned forward toward O'Niel.

"Just give them a little room." He was still smiling. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Marshal?"

There was an uncomfortable moment of total silence in the room. Montone wished fervently he was somewhere else.

He needn't have worried. O'Niel's response was noncommital but satisfactory. "Thank you for the advice, Mr. Sheppard."

"We're all professionals here," the General Manager added, relaxing in his chair.

"I'm sure we are."

"You drop around to my office." Sheppard was feeling quite content now. "We'll talk some more."

"I'll do that." O'Niel stood. "I'd better be getting back to the office." People were already filing out of the room. No one came forward to shake O'Niel's hand or wish him well. It didn't surprise O'Niel. He was used to that. "We professionals have our work to do."

"Right." Sheppard didn't rise along with him, signaled to a younger man to bring him some more coffee.

Once safely outside and halfway down a corridor, O'Niel let his anger out. Not by punching one of the prefab metal walls, or kicking at the unscuffable floor, or spewing a stream of curses. His face tightened a little, but most of the anger came out in his stride, which increased in length and force until his boots were hitting the floor with far more energy than was necessary just to carry a man forward.

They entered the vacuum-hose accessway which swayed under his march as Montone struggled to keep pace with his boss

"Now don't go getting your nose all out of joint," the sergeant urged him.

O'Niel didn't reply, didn't slacken his pace. His eyes stared straight ahead, ignoring the dim light that flashed occasionally from read-outs on the ceiling.

"What the hell was that all about?" he finally asked. His voice changed as he mimicked Sheppard's. " 'Do you understand what I'm saying, Marshal?' "

"That's just his way." Montone's voice was soothing. "A little ceremony for the good folk, that's all. I'm told he goes through that with every Marshal who comes here. He wasn't singling you out or anything like that. It's just his way. You know how some of these General Managers are."

"I don't like his way," said O'Niel softly.

Montone turned serious. "Not many people do. Only those who count, like the members of the Con-Am General Board. He gets results, Sheppard does. That's all they want to know. Don't mess with him."

"He's an asshole."

"He's a very powerful asshole. Don't mess with him! Save it for the rowdies in the Club. Take it out on them and stay away from Sheppard."

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Eventually the corridor ended in a hatch seal. O'Niel thumbed the switch and the hatchway admitted them to Building C. The mine complex was full of hatches, double and triple checks to contain any accidental air leaks.

The combination switch on this particular hatch was unusual. Most such portals had only a single stud to press to gain the supplicant admission. But Building C was tighter: it housed, among other important sections, the security area.

There was a jail uniquely suited to its environment. Also separate artificial gravity controls, a small squad-meeting room, a data center far more sophisticated than the simple double terminal in O'Niel's or anyone else's living quarters, an interrogation room, and a couple of small individual offices with, glass walls that overlooked the squad area.

On a door leading into one of these offices was the legend:

FEDERAL DISTRICT MARSHAL
W.T. O'NIEL.

The two men entered the security complex, Montone still trailing his superior.

"He's just trying to sniff you out." Montone was more willing to chat in the privacy of the jail chambers. "The last Marshal before you kept things running pretty smoothly. That's all he wants—all
they
want.

"If things run smooth, they make their money and everybody's happy. Nobody's here for their health or the scenery. Don't worry about the ship's heading is what I'm trying to say. Just see that she doesn't turn over and you'll find everyone here warming to you real fast. Not Sheppard; he doesn't warm up to anybody. But the stone faces in the Ward Room, they'll melt. They're just not sure of you yet."

They entered the squad room where several younger deputies were seated. They stood when O'Niel entered. He ignored them, marching on past.

Possibly he just didn't notice them. His thoughts were elsewhere as he entered his office, closing the door quietly behind him. There were reports to check, information to peruse, duty rosters to okay and a number of other things he badly wanted to go over to better familiarize himself with the physical layout of the mine. He wanted to study them in private, so he could simmer unobserved.

One of the younger deputies glanced through the transparent wall at the silently working O'Niel and spoke to Montone.

"What's your opinion of this one, sergeant?"

"O'Niel?" Montone joined the deputy in regarding the new Marshal. "Too early to tell. Quiet, private. Not the sort you'd invite over for a game of cards. Not antisocial or anything like that. Just . . . quiet." He turned away from examining his new boss, looking down at the deputy's computer readout.

"That's about enough psychoanalyzing. What've we got that's new on that Purser Office business?"

The miner's name was Cane. He was a thin blond man decorated with an equally slim beard that gave him the look of a newly annointed bishop. His eyes were a pale, faded blue. Hair, eyes, and physiognomy marked his ancestry as Scandinavian, but that meant nothing to anyone on polyglot Io. It never mattered where you were from, who your people were, what you used, to be. It only mattered how you did your job.

At the moment Cane's face shone with an expression of serenity that bordered on the beatific: his mouth was curved round in a little boyish half-smile that gave him the appearance of having just spent a week in the harem of a Turkish pasha and he wasn't about to tell anyone about it.

It was still light Outside. The, locker room was nearly deserted, the day shift having concluded their work and the night shift already out on the job, save for a few stragglers. No one confronted Cane as he strolled smilingly clown the aisles.

At the far end of the locker room was the spacious assembly area with curving steel tubes, like the, horns of a dozen ferrous longhorns, that projected outward from a wall. Suits and helmets had been placed on these supports and awaited their owners. At the far side was a sealed, double-thick hatchway door lined with controls and admonitions.

On the door itself a legend proclaimed boldly: CAUTION—ZERO ATMOSPHERE BEYOND—PRESSURE SUITS AND OXYGEN REQUIRED

Cane leaned forward, his hands held easily behind his back as he peered through the single port into the airlock. It was empty, brightly lit. At his practised command the hatch opened softly and he stepped inside. After a casual survey of the walls he directed the hatch to seal.

It required several switches to insure that the hatch produced an airtight seal. The delicate nature of living on Io demanded that anything involving air be controlled by several backups. Cane was very thorough. When he was positive he'd carried out the prescribed procedure properly he turned his attention to another row of buttons, pressed one.

There was a soft whine behind the door on his right, signalling that the mine elevator was starting upward toward his position.

A small group of men and women had finished topping off and checking out their air supplies. They'd donned the suits hanging in wait for them and were moving toward the hatchway, helmets in hand.

The usual joking and complaining ceased when one of them happened to glance curiously through the hatchway port to see Cane standing inside the sealed lock. It wasn't Cane's presence inside that cancelled the laughter: it was the fact that he wasn't wearing a suit.