The Tranquillity Alternative by Allen Steele Read Free Book Online

MADNESS ! and (her personal favorite) NO ATOMS ON THE MOON ! Most of the protesters were sound-asleep, curled up in sleeping bags inside tents made of lightweight materials which were spin-off products of the space program. A bearded, long-haired young man in jeans and a Mexican serape stood by the roadside, pounding metronomically against a leather Indian drum as he solemnly stared at the NASA employees reporting in for the morning shift.
    “Hey, Cris! Look!” Laurell turned around in the passenger seat to point at the hippie. “It’s my cousin Igor! Look, it’s my cousin! Quick, pull over … !”
    “Laur …” Cris began.
    “No, c’mon! I swear to God, it’s Igor!” Before Cris could stop her, Laurell rolled down the DeLorean’s side window and stuck her head out. “Hey, look out!” she screamed from the car. “Look out! There’s a gator right behind you!”
    The kid jumped a few inches, nearly dropping his drum as he looked back in terror. Laurell was in convulsions; Cris had to roll up the window for her, she was laughing so hard.
    “You’re such an asshole,” Cris murmured, grinning despite herself. Only Laurell could pull off such a gag; a theater major in college before she had entered law school, she had a knack for convincing almost anyone of the most bald-faced lie. This talent for instant persuasion had made her a good trial lawyer. It had also helped to convince a lot of conservative male colleagues in the Florida Bar Association that she was straight.
    “That I am …”
    “That you are. Now shut up and look serious for the nice man.” Laurell got herself under control as Cris slowed down for the security checkpoint at Gate 3 and rolled down the driver’s side window for the uniformed guard who stepped from the gatehouse to shine a flashlight inside the DeLorean. A white-helmeted MP stood behind him at curbside, his right hand lingering near the .45 automatic holstered in his Sam Browne belt. Cris held up her plastic ID badge; Laurell found her VIP Visitor’s badge and showed it through the windshield. The guard carefully examined both badges, then checked them off on his clipboard.
    “Thank you, Captain Ryer,” he said as he gave her a quick salute. “Good luck on your mission.” He waved them through the checkpoint; the MP added his own salute as they drove past him.
    Laurell glanced back at the guards. “Gee, and he didn’t even ask if we were sisters.”
    Cris smiled again. Laurell knew she was nervous; ever since they had left their house in Titusville, Laurell had been making wisecracks, singing along with the classic rock station in Orlando and talking back to the DJ, all in a futile attempt to take the edge off the moment. It hadn’t always worked, but then again Laurell had always played the irreverent cut-up next to Cris’s disciplined Air Force officer.
    The sisters remark was an old standby, going back to the beginning of their relationship almost three years ago when they had met at a private gym in Titusville which catered covertly to the local gay community. There weren’t too many places in the area where two lesbian women could go during a long courtship without being accosted by straight single men, and fewer still where an obviously gay relationship would be tolerated. Thus the alibi of sisterhood; both Cris and Laurell were in their late thirties, and—until Laurell had dyed her hair—both were blondes, tall, and athletic-looking. Since they vaguely resembled each other, the pretense of being siblings made a good cover story.
    But there were differences. Cris glanced again at her lover, still not quite used to Laurell’s recent change in appearance. A few weeks ago Laurell had sprung almost ten grand for cosmetic breast reduction, a surgical operation that had left her almost as flat-chested as a prepubescent teenager. Laurell insisted that she’d done so because big tits had put her on an unequal footing—no pun intended—with her male counterparts at