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Authors: Alan Dean Foster
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because recalcitrant visitors to his own section usually spent some time making use of medical services prior to extended stays as his guests.
The equipment, insofar as he could tell, was up to date and reasonably well maintained. There was plenty of it, expensive and hard to ship. Pity the Company didn't devote as much care to its employees before they got hurt, he thought.
He found Lazarus at her private station, hunched over a stack of acrylic readout boards and a computer screen full of graphs and chemical symbols. At that moment, she was dividing her attention between the screen and a nearby nurse who appeared upset.
"Who the hell ordered all these pressure packs?" the doctor demanded irately. "Doesn't anybody have any sense around here? This is a mine we're responsible for, not a war."
"You did, Doctor." The nurse tried and failed to keep the irritation out of her voice.
"I said one hundred, not one thousand."
"You said one thou . . ."
"I said one hundred ." There was enough acid in her voice to cut through stainless. "Which can't be mistaken for anything except one hundred. It doesn't sound remotely like one thousand." She looked up from the screen, slowed her words to a sarcastic drawl.
"Listen, you'll see what I mean. One thouuuusssaaaand . One huuuundrrrreeedd . They're totally different, aren't they? Not even close." She looked over a shoulder, saw O'Niel standing patiently behind her.
"You think they sound the same?" Then she frowned. "Who are you, anyway?"
"Are you Dr. Lazarus?"
"Yes. Take two aspirin and call me in the morning. That's a medical joke." Her eyes roved over him, noting the insignia on his jacket and the bars on his collar. "You're the new Marshal, whatsisname."
"Yes, I'm whatsisname. I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes."
"I got an alibi. I got four people who will swear they were playing poker with me." She didn't smile as she rose from the seat facing the screen and started for the small laboratory, having forgotten the nurse and the pressure packs. O'Niel moved around the computer terminal, smiled slightly at the put-upon nurse's see-what-you're-going-to-have-to-deal-with look, and followed the doctor as she made her way past tables and wall benches.
"I've never heard that one before," he murmured. "That's really funny."
"Sorry." Lazarus didn't sound like she was.
"Yesterday a man deliberately went into Outside without a pressure suit."
She lifted a bottle, checked the contents, set it back on the table. "Yeah, I know."
She was taking an inventory as she walked, matching readings on her board with various items in racks and cabinets. O'Niel didn't enjoy trailing after her as he talked. He didn't like conversing with somebody's back.
"A couple of days before that," he continued, "another man cut open his suit while working Outside. On purpose, it would seem."
Lazarus shrugged, didn't turn to look back at him. "It happens here."
"How often?"
"I don't know." She was starting to sound irritated, obviously wishing he'd go elsewhere with his questions. "It just happens here."
"Why?"
"I'm not a psychiatrist. I've got enough trouble trying to keep peoples' bodies intact without worrying about their heads. I can't tell you why. I suppose some people just can't take it here after a while." She grinned humorlessly. "Can't imagine why not. Io in the Spring is such a lovely place. If you want a preview of Hell. Never thought you'd be offered a chance to work there. I always thought Hell was a permanent sign-up."
"The two suicides. Did you do autopsies?"
"Why not?"
She finally stopped and turned to face him, gave him a disbelieving glance. When she saw that he was serious, she explained, speaking slowly and carefully as if to a child.
"In the first place, the Company wanted the bodies shipped out quickly. They don't tell me why. I guess because they feel that having the corpses of a lot of suicided folks hanging around might be bad for morale.
"Secondly when somebody exposes
The equipment, insofar as he could tell, was up to date and reasonably well maintained. There was plenty of it, expensive and hard to ship. Pity the Company didn't devote as much care to its employees before they got hurt, he thought.
He found Lazarus at her private station, hunched over a stack of acrylic readout boards and a computer screen full of graphs and chemical symbols. At that moment, she was dividing her attention between the screen and a nearby nurse who appeared upset.
"Who the hell ordered all these pressure packs?" the doctor demanded irately. "Doesn't anybody have any sense around here? This is a mine we're responsible for, not a war."
"You did, Doctor." The nurse tried and failed to keep the irritation out of her voice.
"I said one hundred, not one thousand."
"You said one thou . . ."
"I said one hundred ." There was enough acid in her voice to cut through stainless. "Which can't be mistaken for anything except one hundred. It doesn't sound remotely like one thousand." She looked up from the screen, slowed her words to a sarcastic drawl.
"Listen, you'll see what I mean. One thouuuusssaaaand . One huuuundrrrreeedd . They're totally different, aren't they? Not even close." She looked over a shoulder, saw O'Niel standing patiently behind her.
"You think they sound the same?" Then she frowned. "Who are you, anyway?"
"Are you Dr. Lazarus?"
"Yes. Take two aspirin and call me in the morning. That's a medical joke." Her eyes roved over him, noting the insignia on his jacket and the bars on his collar. "You're the new Marshal, whatsisname."
"Yes, I'm whatsisname. I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes."
"I got an alibi. I got four people who will swear they were playing poker with me." She didn't smile as she rose from the seat facing the screen and started for the small laboratory, having forgotten the nurse and the pressure packs. O'Niel moved around the computer terminal, smiled slightly at the put-upon nurse's see-what-you're-going-to-have-to-deal-with look, and followed the doctor as she made her way past tables and wall benches.
"I've never heard that one before," he murmured. "That's really funny."
"Sorry." Lazarus didn't sound like she was.
"Yesterday a man deliberately went into Outside without a pressure suit."
She lifted a bottle, checked the contents, set it back on the table. "Yeah, I know."
She was taking an inventory as she walked, matching readings on her board with various items in racks and cabinets. O'Niel didn't enjoy trailing after her as he talked. He didn't like conversing with somebody's back.
"A couple of days before that," he continued, "another man cut open his suit while working Outside. On purpose, it would seem."
Lazarus shrugged, didn't turn to look back at him. "It happens here."
"How often?"
"I don't know." She was starting to sound irritated, obviously wishing he'd go elsewhere with his questions. "It just happens here."
"Why?"
"I'm not a psychiatrist. I've got enough trouble trying to keep peoples' bodies intact without worrying about their heads. I can't tell you why. I suppose some people just can't take it here after a while." She grinned humorlessly. "Can't imagine why not. Io in the Spring is such a lovely place. If you want a preview of Hell. Never thought you'd be offered a chance to work there. I always thought Hell was a permanent sign-up."
"The two suicides. Did you do autopsies?"
"Why not?"
She finally stopped and turned to face him, gave him a disbelieving glance. When she saw that he was serious, she explained, speaking slowly and carefully as if to a child.
"In the first place, the Company wanted the bodies shipped out quickly. They don't tell me why. I guess because they feel that having the corpses of a lot of suicided folks hanging around might be bad for morale.
"Secondly when somebody exposes
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