Orbital Decay by Allen Steele Page A

though?”
    “N-no, what… the helmet?”
    “No, goddammit! The Muzak!”
    “The music? The Dead?”
    “Fuck, no, not the Grateful Dead! The Muzak !” His mouth stretched into a grimace. “Man, if they piped the Grateful Dead into my earphones I wouldn’t be over here! I’d love hearing ‘Truckin’ or ‘Hell in a Bucket’ while I was out there pushin’ girders around. I’d be the happiest dumb son of a bitch they got hired on this orbiting funny farm!”
    He hurled the helmet across the compartment. It bounced off a locker with a dull thump and drifted in midair near the empty spacesuit he had cast aside, looking like a decapitated head. “But, oh no , Cap’n Wallace decides that if he’s going to give any music to us hardworkin’ Joes spending eight hours every day shoving around beams and welding cross sections with our feet, it’s gonna be music that he likes… dentist chair music !” His voice rose to a scream. “Bullshit guaranteed to drive us out of our fuckin’ minds !”
    “Yeah,” Harris mumbled hurriedly, “I can understand…”
    “ Understand ?” Virgin Bruce shouted. “You can understand ? Do you know what it’s fucking like ? Christ! You’re out there sweating out trying to hold two beams a hundred feet long together with those claws and weld ’em together before they both drift off to Mars, getting that sweat frozen on your forehead ’cause the heater’s on the blink again and it’s twenty degrees inside that thing, and one of your buddies is on the radio having apoplexy ’cause he can’t do what he’s gotta do till you’re done and out of the way, and Wallace and Luton are giving everyone hell ’cause the whole project’s four months behind schedule… and what do you hear in the background on your headset, some faggot string section playing ‘Born Free’! Don’t tell me you can understand , kid…”
    “Uhhh…”
    “And you know why Wallace wants that crap piped all over the station, on the main comlink channel for the beamjacks? It’s supposed to be calming, and to make us more efficient!”
    “Ahhh…”
    Whatever reply Harris might have managed was interrupted by the compartment hatch being unlocked and swung open. He and Virgin Bruce looked around to see two men pulling themselves through the hatch. One wore a uniform coverall bearing the shoulder insignia of Skycorp; on his breast was a patch that read “Security.” A taser was strapped to his belt. He was also the biggest crewman on Olympus, and probably the biggest Navajo anyone on the station had ever met. Phil Bigthorn, a.k.a. “Mr. Big,” had biceps the size of some guys’ thighs.
    The other newcomer wore a golf shirt and raggedy Bermuda shorts and, while not quite in Mr. Big’s class, had a large, muscular build. Doc Felapolous’ hair was prematurely gray, as was his mustache, which he kept waxed so that it tipped upward at the ends. In his early fifties, his age pushed the limit for Skycorp’s space employees. His darkly tanned skin and deep wrinkles gave him the appearance of a desert rat, which fitted in with his Arizona upbringing.
    Grasping a rail with one hand Mr. Big immediately started pulling himself toward Virgin Bruce. His other hand was reaching for his taser unit. Bruce grabbed for a handhold and swung himself around, bracing himself. Between them, Bob Harris looked as if he were trying to melt into the compartment wall.
    Felapolous lightly grabbed Bigthorn’s arm. “Hold on, Phil,” he said calmly. “Let’s just let ol’ Bruce get a chance to explain himself.”
    His gaze went to the beamjack. “Now, Mr. Neiman, would you kindly explain to us just what in the blazes you’re trying to prove?”
    Virgin Bruce, meeting the security officer’s cold stare, replied, “Would you explain to me what ape-shape is doing here?” A corner of his mouth twisted up as his eyes locked with Mr. Big’s. “What’s the matter, Phil? Looking for another dance like our one in the