“The job’s yours, Commander,” Roman told him evenly. “I suggest you get to the hangar and prepare to receive the landing party. Make sure their samples are properly sealed, and that they stay that way until they reach the lab.”
Ferrol took a deep breath. “Acknowledged. Sir.”
“Very good, Commander. Dismissed.”
With a grimace, the other left the bridge, his back very straight.
So that’s how it’s going to be, is it? Ferrol thought darkly as he headed aft toward Amity’s hanger. He puts human lives at risk because the Tampies tell him to—comes within a chip-skin of complete disaster—and when I try to put his priorities straight, I get sent to Coventry. He wanted to stomp, but the ship’s slow rotation was already being brought to a halt, robbing him of even that minor satisfaction. Insult piled on top of injury, particularly since the lander wasn’t even due for at least another hour. Briefly, he thought about the needle pistol and envelope hidden in his cabin…
No, he told himself. He had to let the mission run its course; had to let Amity’s crew demolish this last feeble attempt to prove that humans and Tampies could be anything but bitter enemies. A draw would only lead to more stalling on the pro- Tampies’ part.
In fact—it suddenly occurred to him—that might even be what Roman was going for with this harassment. Trying to push him into making his move in hopes of that draw, or even of a pro-Tampy backlash.
Ferrol smiled tightly. Sorry, Captain, but it’s not going to be quite that easy. He would do all that he was told, be a model exec… and wait.
The hangar crew proved ready to receive the lander. With things under control there, and with no particular interest in hanging around waiting for the landing party to make its appearance, Ferrol headed to the survey section’s lab complex for a quick check of the lockbox facilities. The scientists and techs there also seemed prepared, though he found he was forced to take their word for most of the technical details; and by the time he returned once more to the hangar the lander had arrived.
“Dr. Sanderson,” he greeted the party’s leader as the latter emerged, awkward in the zero-gee as he aimed his feet toward the nearest velgrip patch. “I’m Commander Ferrol; I believe we met yesterday.”
“Yes,” the other nodded vaguely, his mind clearly on other things. “We’ve got the sample boxes back in the hold—can you get some people to help us carry them to the lab?”
From behind Ferrol the rotation alarm sounded. “If you’ll wait a few minutes, Doctor,” he told Sanderson, “we’ll have enough gravity to use one of the carts over there.”
“Yes, all right,” Sanderson said, moving to one side as the rest of his team began filing out of the lander. “I’m going ahead to get things ready; Steef—Dr.
Burch—will show you how to unpack and load the boxes.”
Ferrol swallowed the retort that came to mind. “Yes, Doctor,” he said instead.
Sanderson nodded again and took off toward the hangar door without another word, and Ferrol headed around to the aft hold door. Unsealing it, he stepped high over the rubber-edged sill and went inside.
The landing party had indeed been busy down there.
Packed beneath the cargo netting were nine fifty-liter sample boxes, wedged in together with the remains of the ruined analysis table. Ferrol’s lip twisted at the sight of the latter; he was looking forward to seeing how the captain would phrase this one in his log. Unfastening the cargo netting, he guided the mesh as it retracted onto its spool. A movement of air brushed the back of his neck, and he turned—
To find a Tampy standing not thirty centimeters away.
Face to face with a Tampy, for the first time since Prometheus… and in an instant all of his careful mental preparation for this moment collapsed. The lopsided face seemed to press in on him—the slight rasp of the alien’s breathing echoed in the enclosed space—the whiff of bitter-sour body odor curdled his stomach—
And as the red haze of memory and anger faded from before his eyes he saw that the Tampy had disappeared. And that there were the sounds of confusion and shock from outside the lander. And that the knuckles of his right fist were tingling…
Damn.
He stepped to the hold door, just in time to see Burch and Llos-tlaa helping the other Tampy back to his feet in the low gravity. A reddish splotch was already becoming visible to the left of the other’s twisted mouth. Burch looked up at Ferrol, a disbelieving look on his face. “What happened here?” he asked.
Ferrol took a careful breath, his muscles starting to tremble with adrenaline reaction. I need to apologize, he knew; but even as he opened his mouth to do so the words seemed to stick in his throat. To say he was sorry—sorry!—for hitting one of the race that had stolen his home—
“It is all right,” the Tampy grated, raising a hand to stroke his jaw where Ferrol had hit him. “I am not hurt. It is all right.”
Ferrol clenched his teeth, a hint of the blind rage returning to haze his vision. Of course the Tampy was “all right”—he’d say the same from a sick bay bed if he had to. The Tampies were on Amity to score points, and proving how good they were at turning the other cheek was the obvious way to twist Ferrol’s unthinking reaction back against him.
And he was damned if he was going to add to their warm charitable glow by pretending he was sorry. “Next time don’t sneak up on me like that,” he told the alien shortly. “Dr. Burch, whenever you’re ready I’ll give you a hand with these boxes.”
Burch threw a look at Llos-tlaa. “Ah… right,” he said. “Sure.” With a slight hesitation, and clearly keeping a cautious eye on his coworker, he left the Tampies and joined Ferrol in the hold.
They worked together in silence, removing the boxes from the hold and stacking them outside on the hangar deck. Peyton appeared halfway through the job, but with the cramped conditions making it no more than a two-man job her contribution consisted mainly of fetching a cart from the hangar bulkhead and repeatedly warning them not to step on what was left of her analysis table. Full weight had returned by the time they finished loading the cart, and with Ferrol at the controls they headed toward the lab complex.
They were halfway there before Burch finally spoke. “Why’d you hit Ttra-mu?” he asked, his voice forced-casual.
“I don’t like Tampies,” Ferrol said.
“How come? If you don’t mind talking about it, that is?”
“As a matter of fact, I do mind,” Ferrol said.
He glanced, looked over in time to see Burch swallow. “Ah,” the other said, a bit lamely.
“There’s a lot of really interesting stuff down there to study,” Peyton spoke up, clearly trying to steer the conversation onto safer territory. “Were you monitoring us, Commander?”
“I did the computer-scrub on the rabbit’s transformation,” Ferrol reminded her.
She reddened slightly. “Oh, yes.”
A pang of guilt poked a small hole in Ferrol’s conscience. There was no reason to make this so awkward for Burch and Peyton—it wasn’t the scientists he was angry with, after all. On the contrary, it could easily be Amity’s survey section who would have the best chance of ultimately seeing through the Tampies’ facade of peaceful friendliness. Giving them the impression that all anti-Tampies were violent comabrains would only make it that much harder for them to accept the truth when the facade finally broke. “Those memory-plastic skeletons look particularly intriguing,” he commented. “You think you’ll be able to duplicate the material?”
“Oh, sure,” Burch assured him. “If there’s one thing human biotechnology has gotten down pat, it’s the duplication of interesting molecules and biochemical systems.”
Peyton snorted gently. “Though there’s always the tendency to forget that the whole is more than just a collection of commercially useful parts. The Tampies are right about that, at least.”