Read Online Outland by Alan Dean Foster - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Dean Foster
Ads: Link
themselves to near zero-pressure atmosphere there isn't a lot to inspect. You can't run an autopsy through a food processor. And in the third place, you're becoming a nuisance."
O'Niel reached out and yanked open a drawer, blocking her intended path.
"I know. It's a bad habit."
She sighed, looked boredly up at him, and waited for him to finish.
"I would like," he continued pleasantly, "a record of all incidents like these last two that have happened during the past six months. I would like it real soon, or I just might kick your nasty ass all over this room." He smiled thinly, pushed the drawer back in. "That's a Marshal joke."
He spun on his heel and marched out of the hospital. She watched him leave, then turned back to her work.
Sagan was looking forward to the night. His shift had gone well: no glitches, no problems, no arguments. No breakdowns requiring anything more than the usual amount of sweat.
Even the foreman had managed an occasional kind word, and his assistant LaVille had finally conquered his damnable cold to the point where he no longer shattered everyone's eardrums by sneezing through the suit coms.
The exchange in the locker room had gone smoothly, as always. Around him in the lavatory his co-workers were likewise preparing themselves to go off duty or on, as their shift schedules dictated.
He finished smoothing the depilatory cream on his face, waited a moment before wiping it and whiskers off with a clean towel. He followed this treatment by applying an aftershave with a heavy aroma and erotic name.
The final result he admired in the mirror. Not bad, he told himself. He joked with a passing friend on the way to the showers, exchanged comments on the day's work with another, then strolled back to the bunkroom. He wore only undershorts.
The aisles were relatively deserted, though the dormitory was never what could be called dead silent. Dim sounds from the video players at the far end of the aisle reached him, while the noise of individual viewers whispered faintly from open or sealed bunks.
Sagan's private little world was on Level Two of Aisle Seven. Its location was a reflection of his comparatively short tenure at the mine.
The most experienced workers, those who'd been longest on Io, occupied the topmost bunks of Level Four, which were the quietest and offered the greatest amount of privacy. A man on Level Four could lie in bed and gaze upward in the knowledge that no one else was tossing and turning above him. This system was not instituted by the Company but by the workers themselves, though it was as thoroughly enforced as any of the more formal regulations.
The multiple tour men, the Jove-jockies, had the bunks in the corners near the back of the dormitory. These were away from the video screens and much of the noise from the bathroom. They were almost peaceful.
Sagan often envied the old-timers their nearly private quarters, but he had no intention of sticking around long enough to qualify for one. The moment his single-year tour was up, he'd cash in his bonus and head home.
That was still in the future. For now there was tonight.
He climbed into his bunk with the ease of practice, flipped on his reading lamp. At a touch the privacy screens slid shut. He reached into one of the drawers set into the foot of the bed and fumbled under the clothing inside.
The vaccination gun he withdrew was compact, a blunt gun-shape that was mostly nozzle and trigger. The gun was not illegal. Most of the workers had authorizations permitting their ownership. It made the distribution of medicines much simpler when the dispensary could ship capsules to each worker's bunk instead of having to call them into the hospital one at time. Such trips wasted work time.
The tiny half-transparent vial that Sagan excavated from behind the drawer was smaller than his thumbnail. He slid back the breech and slipped the vial into the gun's receiving chamber. A quick check showed that the gun's air cylinder was
O'Niel reached out and yanked open a drawer, blocking her intended path.
"I know. It's a bad habit."
She sighed, looked boredly up at him, and waited for him to finish.
"I would like," he continued pleasantly, "a record of all incidents like these last two that have happened during the past six months. I would like it real soon, or I just might kick your nasty ass all over this room." He smiled thinly, pushed the drawer back in. "That's a Marshal joke."
He spun on his heel and marched out of the hospital. She watched him leave, then turned back to her work.
Sagan was looking forward to the night. His shift had gone well: no glitches, no problems, no arguments. No breakdowns requiring anything more than the usual amount of sweat.
Even the foreman had managed an occasional kind word, and his assistant LaVille had finally conquered his damnable cold to the point where he no longer shattered everyone's eardrums by sneezing through the suit coms.
The exchange in the locker room had gone smoothly, as always. Around him in the lavatory his co-workers were likewise preparing themselves to go off duty or on, as their shift schedules dictated.
He finished smoothing the depilatory cream on his face, waited a moment before wiping it and whiskers off with a clean towel. He followed this treatment by applying an aftershave with a heavy aroma and erotic name.
The final result he admired in the mirror. Not bad, he told himself. He joked with a passing friend on the way to the showers, exchanged comments on the day's work with another, then strolled back to the bunkroom. He wore only undershorts.
The aisles were relatively deserted, though the dormitory was never what could be called dead silent. Dim sounds from the video players at the far end of the aisle reached him, while the noise of individual viewers whispered faintly from open or sealed bunks.
Sagan's private little world was on Level Two of Aisle Seven. Its location was a reflection of his comparatively short tenure at the mine.
The most experienced workers, those who'd been longest on Io, occupied the topmost bunks of Level Four, which were the quietest and offered the greatest amount of privacy. A man on Level Four could lie in bed and gaze upward in the knowledge that no one else was tossing and turning above him. This system was not instituted by the Company but by the workers themselves, though it was as thoroughly enforced as any of the more formal regulations.
The multiple tour men, the Jove-jockies, had the bunks in the corners near the back of the dormitory. These were away from the video screens and much of the noise from the bathroom. They were almost peaceful.
Sagan often envied the old-timers their nearly private quarters, but he had no intention of sticking around long enough to qualify for one. The moment his single-year tour was up, he'd cash in his bonus and head home.
That was still in the future. For now there was tonight.
He climbed into his bunk with the ease of practice, flipped on his reading lamp. At a touch the privacy screens slid shut. He reached into one of the drawers set into the foot of the bed and fumbled under the clothing inside.
The vaccination gun he withdrew was compact, a blunt gun-shape that was mostly nozzle and trigger. The gun was not illegal. Most of the workers had authorizations permitting their ownership. It made the distribution of medicines much simpler when the dispensary could ship capsules to each worker's bunk instead of having to call them into the hospital one at time. Such trips wasted work time.
The tiny half-transparent vial that Sagan excavated from behind the drawer was smaller than his thumbnail. He slid back the breech and slipped the vial into the gun's receiving chamber. A quick check showed that the gun's air cylinder was
Similar Books
