Yario went down without a sound and lay quietly on the floor—as quietly as the sides of beef hanging suspended around him.
O'Niel stumbled backward, leaned against the cold wall for support, and tried to catch his breath as he stared down at Yario. The man wasn't faking it, as O'Niel had. He'd be unconscious for some time, for which O'Niel was grateful. A dangerous opponent, much more so than the panicky and now very dead Spota.
Reaching up with one hand, the Marshal unbuttoned his high collar, the rigid protective neck shield it had concealed still in place. With his fingertips O'Niel could feel the deep gash the garrote wire had cut in the tough plastic.
He unsnapped the collar and inspected it. If Yario had kept on pulling he eventually might have cut through the shield. But there was no reason to suspect its presence, so he'd let loose as soon as he'd thought the Marshal dead. Fortunately.
O'Niel tossed the collar to the floor and made certain the big man was definitely out. Anyone that big and quiet who knew how to use a garrote properly was someone O'Niel had no desire to wrestle with again.
Rising, he walked aver to the side of beef Yario had been turning. With satisfaction he noted the words GENERAL MANAGER stamped into the meat. He began turning it slowly, as Yario had been doing, shining his own light on the frozen carcass. There seemed nothing unusual about it; no sewn-up cuts, no special markings.
Using the flat of his palm he tried slapping the beef, the sounds hollow inside the chilly container. He was starting to shiver.
Unexpectedly, a slap generated a whick in stead of a thick, flat sound. Reaching into his pants pocket he withdrew a small knife. It was an old-fashioned folding steel blade, not one of the fancy laser scalpels like those used in the hospital, but it would do. He sawed at the outer layer of fat where his slap had made the funny noise.
Once he'd made a hole of sufficient diameter he stuck his hand in, probed with his fingers. Before long his face broke out in a pleased smile. Using the knife again he sliced a long opening in the beef, peeling aside the outer layer of fat and meat.
Where the tenderloin ought to have been there was a hollow space. In the hollow, neatly stacked, were more than a hundred of the soft plastic bags of red liquid that Spota had been carrying.
His smile widened. Each bag looked as if it held about four ounces. Four hundred doses per bag. Forty thousand doses resting in the side of beef. That represented quite an investment on somebody's part.
It was up to him to see that the red death was properly filed. Generally O'Niel hated filing, but this job would be a pleasure. He looked around, found a sack full of tiny bottles of wine also marked GENERAL MANAGER. He dumped the wine, not caring if any of the bottles broke, then started transfering the plastic bags into the sack . . .
IX
The fairway was bright green and recently groomed. Closely bunched cypress guarded the right side. Tufts of cloud floated in a sky of adamantine blue. Off to the left were several cleverly laid-out traps and a serpentine stream filled with lily pads. Additional bunkers were visible off in the distance, guarding the approaches to the Green. The distant flag marking the cup fluttered loosely in a warm breeze.
A loud crash sounded as the polished mahogany driver struck the ball. The ball flew a short distance before contacting the wall, at which point it fell to the floor. Its computerized image, however, flew onward from the exact spot where the ball had made contact with the wall-screen, the sensitive screen taking note not only of the angle of contact but also the ball's velocity. Both had been transfered to the computerized ball-image now fading toward the Green.
The image landed some two hundred forty yards from the tee, off in the right rough. Sheppard pursed his lips as he studied the results of his drive. He was still slightly twisted around in follow-through posture. In a moment he would touch the control that would advance the scene toward him, automatically matching up the real ball sitting on the fake grass by his feet with the lie of the computerized image.
He stood alone on the false turf at one end of the office. The rest of the work area was dark, lit solely by ihe projected image of the championship Gulf course glowing brightly on the wall-screen.
"What's the matter?" a voice inquired solicously out of the darkness. "Sun get in your eyes?"
Sheppard turned, lowering the club. O'Niel stood at the far end of the office, silhouetted in the doorway by back light from the reception area. A smaller, feminine voice sounded agitatedly from behind him.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Sheppard. I told him you weren't to be disturbed but he just pushed . . ."
"It's all right, Darlene. You can go." The slim shape outlined behind O'Niel hesitated, then disappeared.
"Well, well. If it isn't the law." Sheppard calmly returned his attention to the screen and concentrated on setting up his approach shot. "I'm working on distance right now, not accuracy. It's not a bad lie. What do you think . . . a seven iron?"
O'Niel walked into the room, closing the door behind him. "Hey, Sheppard. Guess what I just found in a meat locker? Fresh off the last shuttle and waiting for pickup down in the loading bay?"
"I have this feeling you're going to tell me even if I don't guess." He spoke while selecting an iron from his golf bag.
O'Niel continued, thoroughly enjoying himself. "I found two hundred fifty pounds of hamburger named Yario that works for you. I also found your new shipment of PDE. I threw the hamburger in jail and the PDE in the toilet. Or was it the other way around? I've got the hamburger's cell locked and me with the only combination, so he doesn't have any naughty visitors while he's sleeping."
Sheppard's fingers tightened on the shaft of the iron. He turned slowly to face O'Niel and tried to smile. The effort failed. His tone was softer than usual.
"My, you've been a busy little Marshal, haven't you?"
"Are you proud of me?"
"Let's say I'm truly dazzled."
He turned back to the screen, lined up and swung. The ball sliced low and to the left, hooking badly. Both men watched in silence as the ball-image landed in the near trap. Sheppard's hand was shaking ever so slightly as he turned to jump the screen image forward.
"Nice shot," said O'Niel approvingly.
Sheppard adjusted the control, brought the image too close, backed it slowly until a red light beeped at him from the tiny wall-screen control console, signifying that the real ball lying on the false grass by his feet matched up with the image that had been on the screen. He tapped the ball gently with the end of the iron.
"Did you really destroy the entire shipment?"
"Yes. Quite a lot of it, wasn't there? Business must be good. Good enough to drive at least a hundred men and women to suicide before you'd have to reorder."
"You do have a flair for the dramatic."
"No, actually I prefer to go about my work quietly. Tell me, was it expensive?"
"More so than you can ever imagine:" The General Manager had recovered his aplomb.
"Hard to replace?"
"Harder than you can ever imagine."
"Looks like you're out of business, then."
Sheppard deliberately took his time putting the seven iron back in the bag. The cost of shipping golf clubs and the comparatively useless bag all the way to Io had been considerable. Sheppard reached for his wedge, paused a moment to study the Marshal the way an entomologist might study a new species of butterfly.
"I think I've misjudged you, O'Niel. My first impressions were all wrong, and that's unusual. You're not stupid. You're crazy."
He pulled the wedge clear of the bag, spoke pityingly but not sympathetically. "Do you really think you've caused anyone more than an inconvenience? An expensive inconvenience, I grant you, but only an inconvenience. Is that really what you think?" He shook his head sadly.
"Go home and polish your badge, Marshal. You're dealing with real grown-ups here. You're out of your league. Can't you see that? Can't you understand what you doing to yourself?"
O'Niel's slight smile didn't
disappear. "I bet whoever sent you that shipment is going to be mad you lost it. Real grown-ups don't have much of a sense of humor about such things." He looked past the staring Sheppard, to the image glowing on the wall-screen.
"I'd use a nine iron here. Just try to swing easy. The trap doesn't look too deep. But if you're not careful you'll bury yourself real quick."
He turned and headed for the door. Sheppard started to take the shot, paused to look toward the departing figure.
"Marshal."
O'Niel halted, but didn't look around.
"You're dead, you know that? Dead. You hear me?"
"I hear you." He continued on out of the dimly lit office without looking back . . .
O'Niel made his way through corridors and accessways to the lower levels of the mine. The lower he went the fewer people he met. Machinery lived in the depths of the complex, machinery that ran itself and often repaired itself. Only rarely was the attention of its human builders required. Maintenance was routine, performed at predetermined intervals.
Occasionally unscheduled adjustments had to be made to certain pieces of equipment. O'Niel descended the last walkway, turned to his left after briefly consulting a small map. He hoped to make one such adjustment.
The hatchway he soon encountered was marked ELECTRICAL BAY. He unsealed it, hefted the small black case in his left hand, and walked in, careful to seal the hatch behind him.
The bay resembled a mausoleum, a low-ceiling endless chamber filled with row upon row of vertical islands. Each island contained the wiring and relays for a separate section of the mine.
A soft hum of power disturbed the air, flowed through the room. It was energy drawn from a distant sun used now to serve the needs of humans and other machines.
O'Niel made his way past several islands, constantly refering to his map. As expected he was alone in the bay. The islands varied considerably in size. Some were quite massive, such as those for the male worker's quarters, female worker's quarters, and the mine lifts. Others were smaller, such as the nne marked HOSPITAL. Eventually he found the one labeled GENERAL MANAGER SYSTEMS.
Rows of metal panels lined the Islands like the scales of a fish. Communications fibers ran from island to island, thin strands of glass wrapped in opaque plastic. There was a small slit atop each panel. O'Niel located the one he wanted, slipped his special security ident card into it.
A row of multi-colored lights blinked once, then stayed on. The panel snapped open, exposing an intricate nexus of wires, glass fibers, power lines, and the familiar colored geometry of printed circuits.
He studied them carefully, his gaze traveling from one to the next. The power leads he ignored.
Eventually he located a thick cluster of shiny glass fibers. The spider's nest marked the confluence of multiple communications lines, private lines, interspatial, and computer linkups. Working by number and code he painstakingly traced several of the lines until he found the one he wanted. Then he opened the small case he'd been carrying.
The interior was a sloppy mass of wires and chip boards; tools rested somewhat more neatly in a side compartment. O'Niel selected a thin piece of insulated glass fiber with transparent end links. Carefully he placed one end across the fiber leading to Administration. The other end he set against an empty terminal inside the panel marked MONITOR.
As soon as they made contact, both blunt ends of the short cable annealed to the terminal and cross fiber, forming smooth, unbroken joints. Their special chemical composition would not interfere with the laser-boosted messages flowing through the communications fiber.
Since there was no distruption of electrical flow, only a slight lessening of light intensity which would be compensated for at the next laser booster up the line, no one could tell that the communications fiber had been tapped.
He closed the panel, the snaps clicking into place. As soon as the final snap locked home the lights glaring above the panel went out. As shadows slumped down around O'Niel, he closed his bag, turned, and made his way back out of the bay. No one had seen him enter, and no one saw him leave.
The squad room was bustling with activity when O'Niel strode in the following morning. Most of the day shift deputies were already there, chattering among themselves, swapping stories as they awaited their new assignments. A few noticed O'Niel's arrival and nudged their neighbors. The level of conversation lowered but never ceased altogether.
It was Ballard who confronted him as soon as he arrived. The deputy kept pace with him as they crossed toward O'Niel's office.
"Good morning, Marshal."
"Morning. What have we got?"
Ballard thought a moment. "A breaking and entering in the women's quarters. Can't tell if it was a pervert, a thwarted lover, or an attempted burglary. Anyway, the guy was surprised and ran like hell."
"Any prints?"
"Nothing clear enough to record. I double-checked myself to ensure that was thoroughly processed, after what happened with that Sagan fellow. We don't want another guy like that running loose."
"I doubt that this is similar," O'Niel told him, "or the guy wouldn't have run. Sagan wouldn't have. But your thoughts were right."
"I was hoping you'd say that. It didn't tie but a few people up and I thought it wouldn't hurt to make sure."
"Right. What else?"
"Not much. The usual drunks, the usual complaint from Ms. Machard in Admin about the peeping tom. Reports of a fire on Admin Level Two which proved to be false." He broke into a knowing grin. "Oh, yeah. There was a doozy of a fight in the cafeteria."
"Over what?"
"At first I thought it might've tied in with the breaking and entering in the female worker's quarters. Jealous boyfriend confronting a lover and like that." He shook his head. "Nothing so sensible. Somebody butted in line ahead of somebody else."
O'Nielgave him a disgusted look.
"Yeah, that's the way I felt. As if the folks stuck here don't have enough serious problems. Anyhow, it was more noise than substance. A broken nose and some teeth was the extent of the damage. Plus the breakage, for which their pay will automatically be docked." He gestured over his shoulder, "Both guys are cooling off in the tank."
O'Niel nodded his approval, then frowned. He was looking at Ballard's collar. "Where are your sergeant's stripes?"
Ballard looked uncomfortable. "Ah, well . . . Marshal, you know it's only been a couple of days since Sergeant Montone, and I thought . . ."
"You're the new sergeant," O'Niel snapped, interrupting him. "You wear your new stripes or you're out of uniform. Understand? Put them on now."
"Yes, Sir."
Ballard off to comply, leaving O'Niel to enter his office alone. The first thing he did was check the readings on Yario's cell. Oxygen flow and internal pressure were stable, the former higher than normal because Yario was bigger than normal. The bastard was still alive. O'Niel didn't consider going down the corridor. He'd learned his lesson with Spota. Yario wouldn't talk. O'Niel would leave him to the processors at the main station.
He sat down in front of the data console. Before checking in he took a moment to relax, staring out through the transparent partition at the assembled day shift.
They're a cheery bunch, he mused, surveying the deputies. Young, most of 'em. They think they're pretty tough, just like the miners.
They were on Io for the same reason as the miners: money. According to the personnel records most of them were married. Some had kids, though not on lo. He wondered how many would evaporate when push came to shove. Because it was going to, he was pretty sure of that. You didn't kick people like Sheppard in the butt without them trying to kick you back twice as hard.
Their faces were eager, expressions animated. Most of them enjoyed their duty. They were too young yet to be disgusted with it. He doubted many of them had ever confronted anything more dangerous than a raging drunk.
They haven't learned yet, he told himself. Probably most of them never will. If they're lucky.
He sighe
d, swiveled the chair so that he was facing the console, and punched in his code and name.
O'NIEL, W.T.
The machine challenged back: O'NIEL, W.T. SECURITY CODE?
He entered the code and the console responded PROCEED.
MY EYES ONLY, he typed in. A quick glance showed that everyone was still gathered in the middle of the squad room listening to Ballard, who was reading out the assignments. There was no one standing casually next to the window.
SURVEILLANCE COMMUNICATIONS TAP ON SHEPPARD, MARK B. RESULTS TO DATE?
The wonderful thing about the security computer as opposed to a human deputy, he mused, was not only its speed of response but the fact that it never argued or talked back to you, or took up your time with useless questions. It just gave you the facts, ma'm, just the facts.
FOUR COMMUNICATIONS, the machine informed him. THREE INTER-OFFICE, ONE LONG DISTANCE.
It that was interesting, he thought. Not entirely unexpected, but interesting. It seemed that Sheppard wasn't a man who was troubled by second thoughts.
DESTINATION OF LONG DISTANCE COMMUNICATION? he inquired.
The console replied: MAIN STATION, TRANS-JOVIAN SPHERE OF OPERATIONS.
REPLAY, he ordered.
A babble of incomprehensible noise Issued from the moaning speaker set in the front of the console. O'Niel quickly jabbed the STOP button, keyed in the order to REWIND/UNSCRAMBLE/REPLAY.
The computer whirred a tiny tape somewhere inside the console was respooled. There was static, then the sound of a com unit beeping to life. The small video screen also came alive. It showed Sheppard's face. The General Manager sat at his desk, looking into its pick up. He was evidently waiting for a reply to a call. He looked agitated and upset. O'Niel was pleased.
"Hello?" a strange voice said. Sheppard's image reacted instantly. He continued to look directly into his pickup, spoke as though conversing with O'Niel and not the unseen and as yet unknown greeter.