The Jupiter Theft

When they reached the security rep’s quarters, Caffrey carefully locked the X-ray spy camera away in a cabinet. He indicated a chair. “Sit down, Commander,” he said.

Jameson sat down. Caffrey’s manner was strangely formal. He was usually a fairly regular guy for a security rep. And this wasn’t the comfortable armchair he usually sat in during debriefings. It was a fully equipped interrogation seat, with accessory plugs, ankle and wrist straps, and a head clamp. It tilted and swiveled to give its occupant a sense of psychological helplessness.

“What do you want to know, Ray?” Jameson said.

The security man didn’t answer. He pressed a buzzer on his desk.

“It’s up to the top brass, of course,” Jameson went on, trying to keep his voice conversational, “but maybe this time we ought to lodge a formal protest. Bugging the lander is one thing, but this time it endangered the mission. If that landing leg had given way when we touched down on Callisto, Li and I could have been killed.”

“Don’t say anything yet, Commander,” Caffrey said.

The door opened and a tall, unsmiling man in gray coveralls came through. Jameson didn’t recognize him, but he knew the type. It was some functionary from the Reliability Board.

“This is Commander Jameson, Doctor,” Caffrey said.

Jameson looked up at the RB psychologist and said, in a feeble attempt at a joke, “You going to strap me in, Doc?”

“That won’t be necessary,” the RB man said. There wasn’t a trace of humor in his words. “Just grasp those armrests. That’s right. Now put your head back against the backrest while I adjust it. That’s the way.”

He had Jameson hooked up in a few minutes: skin electrodes, blood-pressure cuff, EEG cap, electromyograph, voice analyzer, and the rest of them. They were all plugged into a little averaging computer marked restricted use. He positioned a little device on a rolling stand in front of Jameson’s face to record changes in retinal color and pupil size, and sat back, waiting for Jameson to utter the first word. It was a familiar RB gambit.

Jameson fought back his anger. “You know, I was checked out thoroughly at the start of the project,” he said. “Everybody was.”

“Nothing to get concerned about, Commander Jameson,” the psychologist said soothingly. “You’ve been working closely with your Chinese counterpart for some time now. This is just a routine attitude test. Everybody’s going to have one.”

It was easy for Jameson. He’d grown up as a Guvie brat. He’d been taking tests since his kidcare days: tests to get into the right schools, tests to qualify for government employment and housing and food chits, tests to get into the Space Resources Academy. It got to be second nature. You learned to give them what they wanted.

“You speak Chinese rather well, Commander. Not just the vocabulary—the four tones seem to come naturally to you. Most Westerners have trouble with them.”

“I just have a good ear, I guess.”

“Do you feel any special affinity for the Chinese?”

He kept his voice carefully neutral “They’re okay.”

“Li Chen-yung in particular?”

“Li’s all right.”

“You’re not being very responsive, Commander.”

“Li’s my partner in this exercise. We have to mesh as a team. Our staying alive depends on our trusting each other. Up to a point.”

“Up to a point?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” It was impossible for Jameson to read those steely eyes. “Do you feel anger toward Li over the incident with the spy camera?”

“No. Li probably didn’t know it was there.”

The RB interrogator studied the little hooded screen on his computer. He punched for various readings. Jameson knew it was showing his anger and resentment. That didn’t matter; his feelings would be interpreted as anger toward Li and the Chinese. A little anxiety and resentment about being grilled was normal anyway, no matter how reliable you were.

The questioning took about an hour. It was a fairly standard RB mix, with a new version of the authority-acceptance index and the same tired questions on alcohol and drug dependence he’d been answering for twenty years. It ended with a sexual orientation series, complete with flash holos, a needle sampling his blood, and a very uncomfortable metal codpiece with leads hooked to the computer. So far as he could tell, no drugs were being fed into his bloodstream via the needle, so the test was routine. There was no particular reason for it, which made it all the more insulting.

The RB man folded up his instruments and left. Jameson swabbed electrode paste off his forearm with an alcohol-soaked gauze pad. “Finished with me?” he asked Caffrey in a level voice. “Or did you want to do that debriefing?”

Caffrey flushed. “No, you can go now.”

The lounge had emptied out somewhat by the time Jameson returned. Sue was sitting alone at one of the little plastic tables surrounding the central floor well. There was no sign of Dmitri. Jameson drew himself a beer and joined her.

“What was that all about?” she said.