Murder in Orbit by Bruce Coville

for the Rim. We didn’t talk much—there were too many people around for us to discuss the mystery, and even though Cassie wasn’t actively hostile anymore, we still hadn’t worked our way up to casual conversation. So I had to content myself with the view, which is pretty spectacular when the elevator first enters the Rim. Unlike the ride through the Spoke, where there’s not much to see since it’s enclosed to protect us from radiation, when you break through into the Rim, the glass sides of the elevators let you look out over the colony. It’s an entirely different viewpoint than I get from my rock, because you’re still a couple of hundred meters from ground level when it happens. Unfortunately, the elevator is moving so fast you don’t really have time to enjoy it. In fact, some people never see it at all; anyone with a weak stomach usually faces inward, so they won’t have to watch the ground rushing up at them.
    â€œWhat next, Sherlock?” asked Cassie as we stepped out of the elevator.
    Ignoring her sarcasm, I consulted Dr. Puckett’s list. “The nearest suspect is about three buildings over,” I said after a few minutes.
    â€œI can hardly wait,” muttered Cassie.
    When you’re doing something like this, the first time is always the worst. At least, that’s the way it is for me. The attack of nerves I suffered as we approached the first address on our list was enough to make me want to take the next ship back to Earth.
    We paused outside the door and I located the name, Dr. Debra Doyle, on the directory mounted beside the frame.
    â€œWhat should we say to her?” I asked, gripped by a sudden surge of panic.
    â€œHow should I know? This whole thing was your idea; I’m only here because Elmo made me come. You do the talking. I’ll watch her eyes.”
    Thanks for nothing , I thought. What made Cassie’s reaction really annoying was that she was right. There was no reason I should expect her to carry the ball for me.
    Straightening my shoulders, I knocked on the door.
    â€œCome in,” said a warm, feminine voice.
    I touched the button at the side of the door and it slid open. Cassie and I stepped through.
    â€œCan I help you?” asked the smiling brunette sitting behind the desk. She seemed very nice. Unfortunately, she was the secretary, not Dr. Doyle herself.
    â€œWe’d like …” I stopped. My voice wasn’t working. I swallowed and tried again. “We’d like to see Dr. Doyle.”
    â€œCan I tell her what it’s about?” asked the secretary, still smiling.
    â€œA school project,” I replied.
    The secretary gave me a funny look, but she buzzed her boss and repeated the message. I watched as she nodded her head. I couldn’t hear the actual answer, because it came through a small plug she wore in her ear.
    â€œYou can go in,” she said at last. “You’re in luck. She’s in a good mood today.”
    Wondering what the doctor’s bad moods were like, I led Cassie through the door the secretary indicated, into a room that was almost buried in books and papers. What is it about these scholars that makes so many of them insist on real books—which cost a small fortune to ship up here—instead of microfilms and computer storage, which are cheap and easy?
    Dr. Doyle looked up from the book she was examining. She had a stern appearance, yet I could see a hint of humor in her eyes that made me feel at ease.
    â€œHow can I help you?” she asked.
    To my astonishment, this wonderful thing happened: I opened my mouth—and words came out. That may not seem like much, until you consider that until that moment my mouth had felt like it was full of cotton balls. Suddenly I was not only talking, I was making sense. I was on a roll!
    My grandfather had always told me that, being a McPhee, sooner or later I would find that I had the Irish “gift of