you.”
“But he didn’t . . .”
Blake nodded. “He called a press conference.”
She sighed.
“The professor’s been under a lot of pressure,” Blake said. “Randolph Mays has been on Ganymede for over a month. Raising hell with the Space Board and the Culture Committee because Forster won’t give him an interview. Forster hasn’t given an interview to anybody . He’s been in hiding so long most of the hounds finally got bored and went away. But Mays has whipped them all up again.”
“So . . .” Sparta nodded, unsurprised. “Forster’s decided to throw me to the hounds.” She found a seat and started buckling herself into it.
Blake looked acutely embarrassed. “Just one press con-ference. Then it’s over. He’ll be there too.”
“The difference is, he loves this sort of thing.”
“You can handle it.” In a less than enthusiastic voice he called to the pilot, “Need me up there?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the woman replied, and closed the flight-deck door firmly behind her.
A minute later the retrorockets rumbled, beginning an unusually slow and gentle burn. Blake and Sparta, sitting side by side with safety harnesses in dangerously loose con-dition, failed to notice the smooth deceleration, which they owed to their pilot’s weakness for romance.
After a wild ride by moon buggy, involving two transfers to escape prying telescopes, Sparta reached the ice cave un-der the pressure dome where the Michael Ventris still waited. The ship’s cargo hold and equipment bay were sealed, and its tanks smoked with liquid fuel. The cave was empty except for the huts of the little encampment; the Ven-tris was poised to blast off.
Sparta met the crew. It was almost a homecoming for her—she knew not only Forster, but Walsh, who had piloted cutters that had carried her to the moon and Mars. And then there was McNeil . . .
“Angus, it really is you.” She grabbed the burly engi-neer’s hand in both hers, keeping him at arm’s length while she looked him in the eye. “Found yourself a captain with a grand wine cellar, did you now?”
He returned her knowing look. “Still in the inspectin’ business, Inspector?”
“And haven’t made lieutenant in all these years, is that what you’re askin’, McNeil?”
“Wouldna ha’ crossed my mind.” Both their Scottish ac-cents were growing thicker, as they tried to outdo each other. “I’m mightily pleased to see you, whate’er your rank may be.”
She let go of his hand and hugged him. “And I’m pleased to be working with you.”
In the supply hut Forster mounted one of the lavish din-ners that made their lives in the ice cave tolerable. Sparta sat between Forster and Tony Groves, and learned something more of Groves than the quick navigator suspected, for as usual he was asking most of the questions. As she told him the standard tale of Ellen Troy’s “lucky” exploits, she inspected him with a cold macrozoom eye and an ear trained in the inflections of speech, confirming his restless-ness and daring. But it was on the basis of his nice smell that she decided he was a person to be trusted.
The other new face at the table was poor Bill Hawkins, who sat enveloped in gloom and had to struggle just to get out the pleasantries; he said he was pleased to meet her, but Sparta suspected he could not have given an adequate de-scription of her five minutes later, so absent were his thoughts. When he excused himself early, Groves leaned over and told Sparta, in an unnecessarily low voice, what she already suspected.
“Lovesick. Poor boy was dumped for another fellow. He was rather gone on the girl, and I don’t blame him. She was a looker. Oh, and very intelligent, to hear him tell it.”
“We’ll take his mind off such things soon enough,” growled J. Q. R. Forster. “Now that the Inspector has joined us, there is no reason to delay another day.”
Sparta shared Blake’s dark, warm hut and its narrow
“But he didn’t . . .”
Blake nodded. “He called a press conference.”
She sighed.
“The professor’s been under a lot of pressure,” Blake said. “Randolph Mays has been on Ganymede for over a month. Raising hell with the Space Board and the Culture Committee because Forster won’t give him an interview. Forster hasn’t given an interview to anybody . He’s been in hiding so long most of the hounds finally got bored and went away. But Mays has whipped them all up again.”
“So . . .” Sparta nodded, unsurprised. “Forster’s decided to throw me to the hounds.” She found a seat and started buckling herself into it.
Blake looked acutely embarrassed. “Just one press con-ference. Then it’s over. He’ll be there too.”
“The difference is, he loves this sort of thing.”
“You can handle it.” In a less than enthusiastic voice he called to the pilot, “Need me up there?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the woman replied, and closed the flight-deck door firmly behind her.
A minute later the retrorockets rumbled, beginning an unusually slow and gentle burn. Blake and Sparta, sitting side by side with safety harnesses in dangerously loose con-dition, failed to notice the smooth deceleration, which they owed to their pilot’s weakness for romance.
After a wild ride by moon buggy, involving two transfers to escape prying telescopes, Sparta reached the ice cave un-der the pressure dome where the Michael Ventris still waited. The ship’s cargo hold and equipment bay were sealed, and its tanks smoked with liquid fuel. The cave was empty except for the huts of the little encampment; the Ven-tris was poised to blast off.
Sparta met the crew. It was almost a homecoming for her—she knew not only Forster, but Walsh, who had piloted cutters that had carried her to the moon and Mars. And then there was McNeil . . .
“Angus, it really is you.” She grabbed the burly engi-neer’s hand in both hers, keeping him at arm’s length while she looked him in the eye. “Found yourself a captain with a grand wine cellar, did you now?”
He returned her knowing look. “Still in the inspectin’ business, Inspector?”
“And haven’t made lieutenant in all these years, is that what you’re askin’, McNeil?”
“Wouldna ha’ crossed my mind.” Both their Scottish ac-cents were growing thicker, as they tried to outdo each other. “I’m mightily pleased to see you, whate’er your rank may be.”
She let go of his hand and hugged him. “And I’m pleased to be working with you.”
In the supply hut Forster mounted one of the lavish din-ners that made their lives in the ice cave tolerable. Sparta sat between Forster and Tony Groves, and learned something more of Groves than the quick navigator suspected, for as usual he was asking most of the questions. As she told him the standard tale of Ellen Troy’s “lucky” exploits, she inspected him with a cold macrozoom eye and an ear trained in the inflections of speech, confirming his restless-ness and daring. But it was on the basis of his nice smell that she decided he was a person to be trusted.
The other new face at the table was poor Bill Hawkins, who sat enveloped in gloom and had to struggle just to get out the pleasantries; he said he was pleased to meet her, but Sparta suspected he could not have given an adequate de-scription of her five minutes later, so absent were his thoughts. When he excused himself early, Groves leaned over and told Sparta, in an unnecessarily low voice, what she already suspected.
“Lovesick. Poor boy was dumped for another fellow. He was rather gone on the girl, and I don’t blame him. She was a looker. Oh, and very intelligent, to hear him tell it.”
“We’ll take his mind off such things soon enough,” growled J. Q. R. Forster. “Now that the Inspector has joined us, there is no reason to delay another day.”
Sparta shared Blake’s dark, warm hut and its narrow
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