Orb by Gary Tarulli Read Free Book Online Page B

kilometer of being perfectly round. Highly unusual.”
    Thompson, with his doctorate in geology and the information he provided, seemed to have anticipated Melhaus’s findings. I’m certain he would have, if he had not already, made the same discovery. He deliberately chose not to make an issue of precedence, but rather said, “Larry, the crew has been spending some necessary time here sharing a few personal feelings. Would you care to add something of your own?”
    “Yeah,
Larry,
” said Diana, trying to goad him into responding.
    “Nothing pertinent comes to mind,” the physicist replied, apparently having a vague sense of what we had been discussing.
    The conversation was going downhill fast I thought, and I was staying out of it.
    I hoped.
    “Nothing,” Thompson repeated, matter-of-factly. He paused, looked at Angie, then looked at me and asked, “What does Angie miss?”
    I was a bit surprised by the question; the answer, however, was easy. “Angie misses mousing. She’s a seven kilogram ball of fury when she finds a mouse.”
    “There you are Larry,” said Thompson. “Something to think about. Even the damn dog misses something.”
    Judging by his look, Melhaus was formulating a confrontational reply. Anticipating as much, Thompson gave him a long steady stare and, in a tone of voice that could not be mistaken, said:
    “Now let’s all get back to work.”

Thompson
     
    LATER THAT SAME afternoon, Thompson requested that I join him in his cabin. Entering, I observed he was busy at his workstation, accessing personnel files.
    “Have a seat,” he said, pointing to the room’s other chair. “I’ll get right to the point. I see you have several courses in psychology to go with the communications degree and your credentials as a writer, correct?”
    “That’s right, I majored in communications, minored in psychology. Neither were actively pursued post grad. I elected to make a living as a writer.”
    “Understood, but do you believe for a minute the psych minor went unnoticed when the Selection Committee worked through the complicated process of choosing a crew for this ship?”
    “At the time I didn’t give it much thought.”
    “Recently, I have. I’ll answer the question for you: Not a chance in hell. In my twenty years’ experience with the CSA I have reluctantly come to accept that very little gets by them. On board the
Desio
, I consider it my duty to see that
nothing
gets by me. I vaguely remember you saying that your being picked for this mission was as much happenstance as anything else.”
    “I said that?”
    “Yeah, you did. I didn’t believe it then, I believe it less now. I suspect your credentials were
exactly
what the Committee was searching for. Precisely why I have come to this conclusion may best be served by asking you a question or two.”
    “You have my undivided attention.”
    “Do you know the number of CSA ships, other than ours, that have artwork decorating their bulkheads?”
    “I couldn’t say.”
    “I can. There are none.”
    “Pity.”
    “Do you have any idea how many ships are designed with separate sleeping quarters for each and every member of the crew?”
    “Don’t know. Will these all be rhetorical questions?”
    “With you, might as well be, but I’m going to ask them anyway. The answer is none. Do you have any idea how many ships have Vivaldi, Schubert and Mozart wafting over their intercom systems?”
    “Same answer?”
    “Right,” Thompson said, scowling, but not really expecting much in the way of an informed response. He then gestured over his shoulder. My gaze followed.
    “You see that hunting bow I have mounted over my workstation?”
    I nodded. “If there’s a story behind it, which seems pretty damned likely, I want to hear it.”
    “Just shut up and listen. That bow is on a list of personal items that mission engineers gave a derisive name: “Nonessential mass.” Perhaps you can guess some other items on their list: Kelly’s