Lifeline

Brahms studied the dark-skinned man. Roha Ombalal had been a brilliant chemist but was an utterly incompetent manager. The tall Indian had a soft, gentle voice with the potential for projecting a great deal of authority. Brahms had envied Ombalal for that, but scorned him for not making use of his gift. He could have been a perfect leader image, paternal and intelligent—all the things that Brahms, with his youth and clean-cut, boyish appearance, did not have.

But Ombalal was not a successful administrator—he had his priorities all wrong.

The Indian chemist had wanted everyone to like him, wanted the Orbitech 1 people to think of him as a benevolent manager, someone they could talk to.

To foster his image, or maybe just to avoid his other duties, Ombalal had spent a great deal of time wandering through the labs, looking at all the work being done. Occasionally, he would become fascinated with the research, interfering and not getting his own administrative work done. Some of the scientists may have loved him for his genuine interest; others thought he was harassing them, getting in the way.

But what could the parent corporation expect? Orbitechnologies had a consistent policy of “rewarding” brilliant researchers with promotions into administrative posts. Brahms stated his own position frequently: “I wouldn’t put a scientist in an important managerial position any more than I would put an administrator in a lab doing research.”

When Orbitechnologies finally relieved the director of his duties and ordered Brahms to replace him, Ombalal’s family had been sent home, but he had been allowed to stay for a while, as a figurehead, only to save face.

Roha Ombalal had been devastated, wide-eyed and baffled at his misfortune. Brahms could tell that the director had never failed like this before, and he still didn’t seem to grasp what exactly he had done wrong.

“Knock, knock?”

Brahms looked up and scowled at the obese man who strode into his office. Tim Drury, the Maintenance/Services Division leader, began to speak, but Brahms held up his hand, indicating Terachyk intent at the terminal.

“Don’t disturb him. He’s doing something for me.”

Drury shrugged. “Question—when are we going to start getting things back to normal? We’ve told everybody they have a few days off to recover from the shock, but some service parts have already started fizzling. My people are going to have to go back to their maintenance duties before long. It’s going to be dregs for their morale if they’re the only ones back on the job.” Drury threw a glance at Ombalal and lowered his voice. He knew who really made the decisions. “Are you going to restart the production lines, Curtis?”

“I’m just the associate director.” Brahms kept his gaze on Ombalal, trying to spark some life in the man.

“Ask me if it makes any difference now.” Drury rolled his eyes. He didn’t seem to realize what Brahms was trying to do.

Drury had long, curly blond hair and a bushy reddish mustache poised on his upper lip as if it intended to launch itself off at any moment. And he was huge.

Brahms disliked people who had such low self-esteem that they allowed themselves to get so enormously fat. “A lazy body is the sign of a lazy mind” he had always believed. Brahms kept himself in good shape, reveling in the fine-tuned feel to his body. But Drury was always so good-natured it was difficult to be angry at the man.

Ombalal finally spoke. “He is correct, Mr. Brahms. Do not let me hold you back.”

Brahms removed his glasses, blinking in the light. “Well we have the raw materials to last us a while. Just no food. Yes, all divisions will return to work. It’ll distract them, keep them quiet for a little longer. Until we can think of something.”

Drury smirked. “How can the universe bear to go on without a continual supply of our no-smear lipstick? Or airy-but-durable single-molecular weaves for the height of fashion!” He paused. “But what about Production Division? Who’s going to fill McLaris’s place—now that he’s taken, er, a brief leave of absence?” The heavyset man made a maddeningly aloof smile.

Once again, Brahms burned. McLaris’s theft of the shuttle-tug was an appalling betrayal of Brahms’s leadership—a betrayal of all the good people on Orbitech 1. Not only had McLaris taken the last working shuttle, but he had shocked the colonists, called attention to their desperate situation, before Brahms could find a way to solve things. McLaris had stolen their icon of hope, the symbol that allowed them to think they still had a link with Earth. Even now, McLaris was en route to the Moon, safe and free, leaving the rest of them trapped. Trapped.

Brahms threw a glance at Ombalal, hoping that the man might volunteer for McLaris’s former position. The station director continued to stare at his large feet.