Orbital Decay by Allen Steele Read Free Book Online

for Olympus. Have you had any radio contact, love?”
    There was a pause. A construction pod. Traffic Control ?
    Anderson wished she would be a bit less formal with him. Oh, mon chéri amour , perhaps even informal enough to take your clothes off for me? He glanced at his console again, to be sure. “That’s confirmed, ah, Communications.” But why rush things? “That’s construction pod Zulu Tango on direct course for Olympus. Have you received radio confirmation?”
    Opening comlink and signaling , Traffic Control. Stand by.
    Anderson heard the familiar whisper of the primary channel being opened and lovely Ms. Lowenstein’s voice saying, Con s truction pod Zulu Tango , this is Olympus Command. Do you request emergency docking instructions ? Over.
    A pause. Nothing. No response from the approaching pod.
    Her voice again. Construction pod Zulu Tango , this is Olympus Command. Do you copy? Over.
    Anderson checked his screen again. The pod was still on a beeline for Skycan. From the data the computer was giving him, it was a little less than fifteen miles from Olympus and closing. He glanced up at an overhead TV monitor, but couldn’t make out the pod’s navigational lights from the stars in the background. Anderson figured the little spacecraft had to be running on its fuel reserves by now.
    Zulu Tango , this is Olympus , Joni Lowenstein said again. Do you copy? Please acknowledge contact.
    What’s going on with this asshole? Anderson wondered. Is his radio out?
    As if in reply, a new voice came over the radio link. Olympus Command , this is Zulu Tango , over.
    Zulu Tango , you’re in Olympus traffic zone. Do you wish to dock? Over.
    You’re damn straight I want to dock , Olympus. The voice had a distinguishable sneer in it. Clear Bay Three , over.
    Anderson felt his temper rise. Who did this jerk think he was, demanding docking space for a pod at Olympus? “Open the channel, Joni,” he snapped. When he heard the click of the frequency being opened to him, he said, “Pod Zulu Tango, this is Olympus Traffic. What the hell are you trying to pull?”
    Listen , pencil-neck Olympus Traffic , the voice snarled, don’t gimme any shit and get that bay open now !
    Anderson, gasping for breath, could have sworn he heard the communications officer stifle a laugh. Her voice then came back on the line. Zulu Tango , is this an emergency? Over.
    Lady , there’s going to be an emergency if you don’t get pencil-neck to gimme a clear place to park this bug. I’m decelerating now , and I don’t want anything between me and Bay Three ’cept ten miles of nothing , or I’m going to stomp on his head. Over.
    Anderson reeled back from his console, staring at the screen and the white blip on it, which now seemed as big as a golf ball. What manner of maniac were they dealing with here? A ferry to Vulcan about to go out, another on approach from the shack, an OTV bringing up a cargo canister from low orbit—and here was a pod with no business being there at all, demanding an airlock all to its own. H.G. Wallace was going to have a duck….
    The voice from Zulu Tango came over the link again: And while you’re at it , Olympus , get Wallace and tell him that Neiman wants words with him when I get in. Thank you, sweetheart … over and out.
    The string of insults Anderson had prepared disappeared from his mouth. Neiman. Of course, it would be Neiman. His lip curled in disgust, but he felt his hands quiver slightly, and he hurried to clear the other traffic away from Bay Three.
    He now knew what manner of maniac with whom they were dealing.
    The construction pod was a squat cylinder that looked vaguely like a bumblebee; indeed, the yellow and black stripes running horizontally along its midsection added to its metaphorical appearance. Its primary electrical supply, at the rear, came from a long bank of solar cells resembling wings. The large spherical fuel tanks near the bottom could have been pollen sacks; the polarized canopy