coat on, waited for a lull in the rain and opened the door and splashed his way around to the front door of the main dome onto which his smaller one abutted, a drenching, squelching passage through puddles on what had been a pebbled walk.
He met warmth inside, electric light and cheerfulness, the heat of the electronics and the lights which were always on here; and the bodies and the conversation and the business. “Tea, sir?” an azi asked, on duty to serve and clean in the dome; “Yes,” he murmured, sat down at the long table that was the center of all society and a great deal of the work in the staff dome. Maps cluttered its far end; the engineers were in conference, a tight cluster of heads and worried looks.
The tea arrived, and Conn took it, blinked absently at the azi and muttered a Thanks, that’s all, which took the azi out of his way and out of his thoughts. A lizard scuttled near the wall that separated off the com room: that was Ruffles. Ruffles went anywhere she/he liked, a meter long and prone to curl around the table legs or to lurk under the feet of anyone sitting still, probably because she had been spoiled with table tidbits. Clean: at least she was that. The creature had come in so persistently she had acquired a name and a grudging place in the dome. Now everyone fed the thing, and from a scant meter long, she had gotten fatter, passed a meter easily, and gone through one skin change in recent weeks.
A scrabbling climb put Ruffles onto a stack of boxes. Conn drank his tea and stared back at her golden slit eyes. Her head turned to angle one at him directly. She flared her collar and preened a bit.
“Help you, sir?” That was Bilas, making a bench creak as he sat down close by, arms on the table. Non-com and special op colonel—they had no distinctions left. Protocols were down, everywhere.
“Just easing the aches in my bones. Any progress on that drainage?”
“We got the pipe in, but we have a silting problem. Meteorology says they’re not surprised by this one. So we hear.”
“No. It’s no surprise. We got off lightly with the last front.”
Another staffer arrived, carrying her cup—Regan Chiles dropped onto a bench opposite, scavenger-wise spotting a body in authority and descending with every indication of problems. “Got a little difficulty,” she said. “Tape machines are down. It’s this salt air and the humidity. We pulled the most delicate parts and put them into seal; but we’re going to have to take the machines apart and clean them; and we’re really not set up for that.”
“You’ll do the best you can.” He really did not want to hear this. He looked about him desperately, found fewer people in the dome than he had expected, which distracted him with wondering why. Chiles went on talking, handing him her problems, and he nodded and tried to take them in, the overload Education was putting on Computer Maintenance, because inexpert personnel had exposed some of the portable units to the conditions outside. Because Education had programs behind schedule…and shifted blame.
“Look,” he said finally, “your chain of command runs through Maj. Gallin. All this ought to go to him.”
A pursed lip, a nod, an inwardness of the eyes. Something was amiss.
“What answer did Gallin give you?”
“Gallin just told us to fix it and to cooperate.”
“Well, you don’t go over Gallin’s head, lieutenant. You hear me.”
“Sir,” Chiles muttered, clenched her square jaw and took another breath. “But begging the colonel’s pardon, sir—my people are going shift and shift and others are idle.”
“That’s because your department has something wrong, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll talk to the other departments.” He was conscious of Bilas at his elbow, witness to it all. “I stand by Gallin, you hear. I won’t have this bypassing channels.—Drink the tea, lieutenant; both of you. If we have any problems like that, then you keep to chain of
He met warmth inside, electric light and cheerfulness, the heat of the electronics and the lights which were always on here; and the bodies and the conversation and the business. “Tea, sir?” an azi asked, on duty to serve and clean in the dome; “Yes,” he murmured, sat down at the long table that was the center of all society and a great deal of the work in the staff dome. Maps cluttered its far end; the engineers were in conference, a tight cluster of heads and worried looks.
The tea arrived, and Conn took it, blinked absently at the azi and muttered a Thanks, that’s all, which took the azi out of his way and out of his thoughts. A lizard scuttled near the wall that separated off the com room: that was Ruffles. Ruffles went anywhere she/he liked, a meter long and prone to curl around the table legs or to lurk under the feet of anyone sitting still, probably because she had been spoiled with table tidbits. Clean: at least she was that. The creature had come in so persistently she had acquired a name and a grudging place in the dome. Now everyone fed the thing, and from a scant meter long, she had gotten fatter, passed a meter easily, and gone through one skin change in recent weeks.
A scrabbling climb put Ruffles onto a stack of boxes. Conn drank his tea and stared back at her golden slit eyes. Her head turned to angle one at him directly. She flared her collar and preened a bit.
“Help you, sir?” That was Bilas, making a bench creak as he sat down close by, arms on the table. Non-com and special op colonel—they had no distinctions left. Protocols were down, everywhere.
“Just easing the aches in my bones. Any progress on that drainage?”
“We got the pipe in, but we have a silting problem. Meteorology says they’re not surprised by this one. So we hear.”
“No. It’s no surprise. We got off lightly with the last front.”
Another staffer arrived, carrying her cup—Regan Chiles dropped onto a bench opposite, scavenger-wise spotting a body in authority and descending with every indication of problems. “Got a little difficulty,” she said. “Tape machines are down. It’s this salt air and the humidity. We pulled the most delicate parts and put them into seal; but we’re going to have to take the machines apart and clean them; and we’re really not set up for that.”
“You’ll do the best you can.” He really did not want to hear this. He looked about him desperately, found fewer people in the dome than he had expected, which distracted him with wondering why. Chiles went on talking, handing him her problems, and he nodded and tried to take them in, the overload Education was putting on Computer Maintenance, because inexpert personnel had exposed some of the portable units to the conditions outside. Because Education had programs behind schedule…and shifted blame.
“Look,” he said finally, “your chain of command runs through Maj. Gallin. All this ought to go to him.”
A pursed lip, a nod, an inwardness of the eyes. Something was amiss.
“What answer did Gallin give you?”
“Gallin just told us to fix it and to cooperate.”
“Well, you don’t go over Gallin’s head, lieutenant. You hear me.”
“Sir,” Chiles muttered, clenched her square jaw and took another breath. “But begging the colonel’s pardon, sir—my people are going shift and shift and others are idle.”
“That’s because your department has something wrong, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll talk to the other departments.” He was conscious of Bilas at his elbow, witness to it all. “I stand by Gallin, you hear. I won’t have this bypassing channels.—Drink the tea, lieutenant; both of you. If we have any problems like that, then you keep to chain of
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