Murder in Orbit Read Free

afford to waste a thing. That reality is so much a part of our daily life that “Waste not, want not” is almost a religion around here.
    The time clock made a red slash across my card as I punched in—an indication that I was late again. (That information was also entered into the colony’s main computer, of course. The red slash was strictly for my benefit, a kind of automated reprimand.)
    â€œYour mentor called shortly before you arrived,” said a mechanical voice as I crossed the room to get my white lab coat and gloves.
    â€œAny message?”
    â€œYes. Dr. Twining says that while he is gratified to know you are as late for other obligations as you are for your appointments with him, he thinks it would be wise for you to start getting places on time.”
    I made a face and slipped on the protective mask I wear whenever I work in the treatment facility. (The chemicals we use to break things down are too powerful to take a chance on any unexpected spills or splashes.) Then I went to the next room, where I did a quick check of the gauges.
    Everything was in order.
    That didn’t surprise me. The computer monitored the whole facility. I was just here as a safety measure, to guard against the system breaking down—an unlikely event, since the plant has two backup systems to keep it going. I scowled as I made some marks on the chart on the wall. I don’t like playing nursemaid to a virtually infallible machine. It’s boring.
    Turning to the holding tanks, I pressed a button and watched as the lid of one of them lifted. I had gotten into the habit of peering into the tanks to see what was being decomposed. I know, I know—it’s disgusting. But it helps stave off the boredom. Besides, it fascinated me to see the stages of decomposition various things go through—especially in such a potent chemical situation. It reminded me of the time-lapse films they used to show us in elementary science. You know, the ones where you see a flower blossom in thirty seconds. Only here the process was reversed. I was watching decay instead of growth.
    Anyway, since it was largely a biochemical process, I could always tell myself it was professional curiosity.
    Making sure that my mask was secure, I peered into the tank. Nothing very interesting—just the usual mixture of kitchen scraps and fecal matter slowly rolling over in response to the giant paddles rotating at the bottom of the tank.
    As I was turning to the second tank, something at the edge of my vision caught my attention. I felt a message from my brain telling me to look again, that something wasn’t quite right.
    I turned back to the first tank and cried out in horror.
    A man’s body was floating facedown in the chemical soup.
    For an instant I couldn’t move. I just looked from side to side, as if I expected somebody to step forward and take over.
    But there was no one else in the room.
    I was alone with the corpse.
    Finally I ran to get a gaff hook to pull the body out. But when I returned to the tank, I caught my breath and fell to my knees. The action of the paddles had rolled the body over and I could see the man’s face. His features were blurred by the action of the chemicals. His eye sockets were hollow. His skin was the color of luncheon meat.
    The sight was too much for me. My stomach began violently emptying itself. Suddenly my protective mask became my enemy.
    Choking, I clawed at it. Finally I managed to pull the mask away from my face. But the sickness had splashed into my eyes, and they burned with the acid of it.
    Blinded, I staggered toward the shower. (Safety Regs require one where people work with strong chemicals.)
    I didn’t make it. Stepping in some of my own vomit, I felt my foot slip sideways. It pulled my bad hip with it. I cried out in pain as I crumpled to the tile floor. Then I was silent. At least, I assume I was, since I cracked my head against the floor and went out