procedures. Eventually, one of the women with Titus’s group chanced to object, “We’ve learned all this in training. I’m tired and I want to get to my room!”
“And that, Doctor, is why I must repeat it. You learned it, so you think you know it. You think that being tired is a reason to make haste and take shortcuts. That’s the attitude that gets people killed out here.”
From then on, the guide was more meticulous, making each of them work the controls on every emergency device they passed. The fourth time Titus was required to heft down a fire extinguisher and blow foam on the floor, he said, “You know, don’t you, that we’re so tired we’re not listening well.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed the guide. “That’s the point. You’ve learned this stuff, but now it’s going in on the deepest, unconscious level so you’ll react rather than think.” He grinned. “It’s the principle behind an M.D.’s grueling internship. Take it from me, it works.”
“You’re an M.D.?” asked Titus with interest. He had not forgotten Mihelich, the outsider like Mirelle.
The young man nodded. “We all do extra duty, especially when new groups arrive. Yours is the biggest so everyone has to work overtime getting folks settled. Yesterday, three astronomers and five engineers hauled your luggage around. The moon doesn’t know from class.” He waggled a finger at Titus. “You may find yourself assigned to cook next week!”
Titus chuckled. “I doubt that. At least not twice!” The others laughed, and agreed that none of them could cook either. As they entered their residence corridor, Titus moved up beside the young physician. “What’s your name?”
“Philips. Morrisey Philips. Yours?”
Tucking the name firmly into his memory, Titus gave his current alias. He’d been Shiddehara since his wakening, with only short times under other names to build identities he might need. “How big is the medical department?”
“Big enough. Why? Feeling bad? You’ll have another round of checks soon to adjust your gravity medication.”
“I’m fine,” said Titus. “But perhaps I’ll drop over to check out the place tomorrow. Will you be on duty?”
“Most likely. Always am. Here you are, number forty-three.” He presented Titus a key-card. “This way, folks.”
Eagerly, Titus opened the door and went in. Instantly, he was relieved to see his luggage piled in the middle of the floor, looking untouched. Locking the door behind him, he turned on the overhead light and squinted against the intrusive brilliance. He attacked the cases, dumping the contents in a frantic search for the packets of dark powder.
“Ah!” Untouched.
The relief made him sag onto the bed clutching two bags to his chest. Then he was acutely embarrassed at the mess he’d made. He forced himself to unpack meticulously and stow his belongings properly. He collected the little bags, boxes and bottles of precious nutrients, and the vials of tablet supplements with all their different, false, labels on the counter that served as a kitchen.
He noted that he would have to refill his prescription for blood pressure medication, and dumped today’s tablet down the disposer. The drug rendered humans sensitive to ultraviolet, and the false prescription was his excuse not to use the solarium.
There was a sink, wet bar-sized fridge, and a microwave etched with brand logos of sponsors. Over this was a cabinet with dishes, cooking implements, and basic supplies including the ubiquitous Nescafé, Earl Grey tea, and a package of Osem crackers with Fortnum & Mason marmalade which bore, on an attached card, the compliments of the King of England. Titus found a quart pitcher and managed to fill it with water. Then he warmed the water in the microwave and dissolved his powder.
His hand shook as he poured some of the solution into a disposable cup. He made himself carry the pitcher and cup to the small table and sit down before even tasting the divine liquid.
Only then did he give himself up to the shivering ecstasy of it. He’d drunk three cups before he came to awareness of the room he must call home for the duration.
It was cheerfully decorated in yellow and brown with a short pile carpet and heavy drapes across the wall beside the door. Peeking, Titus discovered he had a round window, a porthole actually, with a view of the corridor.
The room was large. With the bed folded up into the wall, there was enough space to throw a party. One closet held an extra folding table and several ultralight chairs. Another door led to a bathroom which was plastered with bright signs prescribing dire penalties for wasting water.
An alcove harbored a desk and slender display. There was a lounge and some easy chairs. On one wall, a viewscreen displayed a moonscape at Earthrise, but Titus saw the bank of controls below it and realized this was his vidcom as well as his outside window. Playing with it, he discovered the Project Station channels and found the news and two entertainment selections. Then he read the instructions.
There was a slot for media. Surely recordings would be traded briskly at the shopping mall until there was server capacity for entertainment.
He found the channels that showed images from cameras set all around Project Station, and even one of the alien craft.
Arrested in mid-motion, he feasted on the sight. He had no more idea what he was looking at than any human on Earth. Except he was certain now—certain down deep in his bones—that it was a luren ship.
It was a space vehicle, only vaguely streamlined. Tiny suited figures moving about the area attested to its size. It had housed and fed fifty luren. By the humans’ count, there had been two hundred orl aboard. The one-to-four ratio was standard in space, or so legend held.
This had been a cargo carrier, and its holds were filled with intriguing artifacts. The investigation had been going on now for two years, and a cloak of governmental secrecy still shrouded every detail. Some of it was classified above even Titus’s rating. “Weapons,” they whispered, but Titus doubted that. Weapons would be shipped on an armed vessel. This seemed like nothing but a trader.
I’ll have to go out there—get a look at the corpses.
He laughed at himself, amazed at what a meal could do for his ambition. Finishing the artificial blood, he told himself the station was so big he might complete his job here and still avoid Abbot, avoid defying him again. Things might not turn out too badly at all.
He was washing up when the vidcom chimed and an unfamiliar face appeared in one corner of the huge screen. “Dr. Shiddehara? This is Shimon Ben Zvi. I’m sorry to wake you after your trip, but something very odd is happening to your computer, and we think you ought to know about it. Dr. Shiddehara?” Clearly the man, who spoke with a distinct Israeli accent, couldn’t see or hear Titus.
Abbot! Abbot’s done something! With quick, grim strokes, Titus opened channel and answered, “This is Dr. Shiddehara. What’s this about my computer?”
“Oh, Doctor! I’m Shimon—in charge of operations for you. Carol, uh, Dr. Colby told us you were counting on the computer being up and ready to meet the new deadline. And it was but about an hour ago it began throwing strange error messages—ones that aren’t even in this unit! I know they aren’t in this unit—”
“I trust you,” Titus assured him. “Your degree is from the Technion, right? They told me you were the best.”
“I
