Deirdre glanced at Andy, who was muttering unhappily as he reeled his DBS probe back into the hull. Her chest ached and she wondered how deep they could go before the pressure began to really hurt.
GRANT ARCHER’S OFFICE
Katherine Westfall swept into the office without even a tap on the door. Red Devlin was hiding in the lavatory and Archer was on his feet, standing between his favorite armchair and the little serving table that held the phone console. He put down the handset and made a tight little bow to Mrs. Westfall.
“What have you to say for yourself?” she demanded.
Instead of the apprehension he’d felt only moments earlier, Archer barely suppressed a smile as he replied, “About what?”
Westfall blazed, “About the failure of the vessel you sent into the ocean! About the death of four volunteers aboard that vessel! About your criminal indifference to the danger you exposed them to!”
He let the smile show as he gestured to one of the armchairs. “Let’s talk this over calmly, shall we?”
“Four deaths,” Westfall said as she sat down on the edge of the chair. “Four murders.”
Sitting on the chair facing her, Archer said, “I just received a call from the mission control chief. The data capsule has shown up. It was a half hour late, but it’s in orbit around Jupiter now.”
Westfall’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She clamped it shut so tight that Archer heard the click of her teeth.
“Four murders,” Archer said coldly. “The question is, who tried to murder whom?”
“The capsule arrived in orbit?” she asked. “That means that…”
Archer said, “That means that they’re not dead. Something delayed their launch of the capsule, that’s all.”
“They could still be in trouble. Does the capsule say what’s happening down there?”
“Dr. Johansen and his people are looking at the data,” Archer said. “He’ll phone me with their preliminary findings in a few minutes.”
“I see.”
“If anything’s gone wrong with the mission … if the crew is in any kind of difficulty, Johansen will call me immediately, of course.”
“Of course,” Westfall said, in her little-girl whisper.
Almost casually, Archer asked, “Why did you assume they had died? Why did you assume the worst?”
Westfall blinked several times before replying, “When they failed to launch their data capsule on time, naturally I thought—”
“You thought they were dead.”
Her chin went up a notch. “Dead. Yes. That’s right.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“What do you mean by that?” Westfall snapped.
Archer turned toward the closed door of the lavatory. “Red,” he called. “Come on out here.”
For a moment nothing happened. Archer said to himself, He couldn’t have gotten out of the lav. There’s only the one door to the room.
Slowly the door slid back and Rodney Devlin stepped hesitantly into the office. Archer noticed that Red had cleaned himself up a bit. His spiky hair was brushed relatively smooth, his white outfit looked neater, if not cleaner. But the expression on his face was clearly uneasy, apprehensive.
Westfall stiffened for a moment, but she recovered enough to ask, “What’s he got to do with anything?”
“He’s the one who got the nanomachines for you,” said Archer.
With some of her old haughtiness, Westfall replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Nanomachines,” Archer repeated. “Gobblers. Murder weapons.”
Fixing Devlin with a steely gaze, Westfall said, “I don’t know what this criminal may have told you, but he’s a born liar. Everyone knows that.”
Devlin pointed a finger at her as he said, “You told me you’d chuck me in jail if I didn’t get a sample of gobblers for you.”
“Which you wanted to feed to Deirdre Ambrose at the launch party, just before she left with the others on the mission,” Archer said to Westfall.
“I did no such thing!”
“I can get Franklin Torre to testify that he gave Devlin a sample of nanomachines.”
“What of it? That doesn’t prove that I asked him to do it,” Westfall countered. “This man is a known procurer, a smuggler, a thief, and a liar. No one in his right mind would take his word over mine.”
“That’s right,” Devlin said, clenching his hands in front of himself. “Nobody would take my word against yours. I knew that. That’s why I did what I did.”
“You obtained gobblers and fed them to Ms. Ambrose at the party,” Westfall said to Devlin.
“I got nanos, all right,” Devlin said. “But I fed ’em to you, not her.”
Westfall’s face went white.
“You’ve got those nanos in you right now, lady. You drank ’em down at the party.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed. “You…” Suddenly Westfall launched herself at Devlin, screeching wildly, her clawed fingers seeking his face, his eyes. The Red Devil threw his arms up to defend himself, and Archer, startled by her fury, jumped out of his chair and wrapped his arms around her middle and dragged her away from Red.
“I’ll kill you!” she screamed. “I’ll kill you!”
Archer pushed her down onto one of the recliners. Westfall fell back onto it, her chest heaving, her face contorting wildly. Suddenly she burst into racking sobs.
“You’ve killed me,” she blubbered in her high, thin voice. “You’ve murdered me.”
“Your medical readouts are all within acceptable limits,” Dorn said, without taking his eyes from the data screens of his console. “How do you feel? Any problems?”
The cyborg was still standing at his post before the ship’s controls, his feet locked into the deck loops that kept him from drifting in the perfluorocarbon liquid. Yeager stood behind him, Corvus was at the console on his left. Deirdre looked up from the empty sensor screens toward Dorn’s control console.
She could see from the screen at Dorn’s right that they were diving deeper. The curve that showed the ocean’s pressure against the outer hull was rising steeply.
“How do you feel?” Dorn repeated.
Andy Corvus pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve got a headache.”
“My back hurts,” said Yeager, clamping both hands just above his hips and arching his spine slightly.
Dorn said, “There’s nothing indicating physical problems on your data readouts.”
“It’s not serious,” Yeager said. “Just tension, most likely.”
Corvus turned toward Deirdre. “Dee, what about you?”
“I have a sort of tightness in my chest,” she answered.
“Maybe a massage would help.” Yeager leered.
“Oh, Max,” said Deirdre. She tried to scowl at him but couldn’t work up the mood.
“Internal pressure is rising as we descend deeper into the ocean,” Dorn said coolly. “Please report any increased discomfort immediately.”
“What about you, Dorn?” asked Deirdre. “How do you feel?”
The cyborg flexed his prosthetic arm. “A slight stiffness in my shoulder. I don’t think it’s related to the pressure increase.”
“You need a lube job,” Yeager joked.
