Orbital Decay by Allen Steele Page B

wardroom last month?”
    Mr. Big smiled a smile completely devoid of any humor. “You want a fight, Brucie, you got a fight. This time you don’t get a tray to bash me with….”
    “Gentlemen, you’re beginning to behave like my nephews,” Felapolous said, still as calm as an afternoon in the Sonora. “Besides that, you’re about to give our friend here an anxiety attack.” He looked at Bob Harris. “Son, unless you’d like to learn what it’s like to be caught between two mad dogs, my advice to you as a physician is to get the hell out of there.”
    Harris glanced at the men on either side of him, then grabbed for a rail over his head and squirmed from between them. Doc Felapolous looked at Virgin Bruce, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. “To answer your question, Mr. Neiman, I suggest that you examine your own actions. You come blasting in here in a pod, against regulations, demanding docking space and turning the channel blue with your language. You threaten the traffic control officer and tell the com officer to send Mr. Wallace up here so you can ‘have words with him.’ When you get here, you pin the first person you see against the wall….”
    “Hey! I never touched him!” Virgin Bruce looked at Harris. “You tell him! I never laid a head on you!”
    Harris shook his head vigorously. Felapolous barely gave him a glance. “All right, I’ll take that back, although you did seem to be a bit intimidating when we came in here a second ago. At any rate, you’ve managed to create quite a stir. Considering your reputation…”
    “Reputation!” Bruce shouted. “Listen, Doc, lemme tell you about my reputation. Check my record. Who pulls more double shifts than any other beamjack? Who manages to get four hundred square feet of that powersat built every three days? Who went out and rescued Jobe’s ass when his tether broke?”
    “Who did we catch trying to smuggle a case of beer up by bribing a shuttle pilot?” Mr. Big said. “Who once tried to hook into a comsat and attempted to transmit an obscene birthday message to the chairman of the board of Skycorp?”
    Virgin Bruce started coughing, putting his hand over his mouth. Felapolous noticed the snoopy helmet with the torn out wires floating nearby. “Despite your propensity for sophomoric antics, I’ve never recalled an instance of you damaging equipment before,” he said. “You want to tell me about it?”
    “Well, yeah,” Virgin Bruce said. “That’s why I’m here, Dr. Feelgood. See…”
    Felapolous raised a finger admonishingly. “Bruce, I would appreciate it if you didn’t use that nickname someone has managed to pin on me. I may be known for dispensing various and sundry painkillers, but as a licensed physician and member in good standing of the AMA, I prefer that you call me ‘Doctor’ or ‘Doc’ or ‘Felapolous’ or ‘Edwin’ or any combination of the aforesaid. ‘Dr. Feelgood’ makes me sound like the guy who used to be the President’s personal physician.” He paused, gasped hugely, and sneezed into his palm. “You may continue. And please hurry; this place is cold.”
    Mr. Big’s eyes rolled upward for a moment. Dr. Feelgood had never been known for brevity of speech. Harris hung from a rail and stared at them all. Trapped in an airlock with three guys called Mr. Big, Dr. Feelgood, and Virgin Bruce. What had ever compelled him to leave San Francisco?
    Virgin Bruce continued. “What I was coming to, uh, Doctor, is a case of the crazies from having to hear that damn dentist-chair music—no offense—being piped into my helmet while I’m trying to work.”
    Felapolous wiped his hand on his shorts and touched a finger to his lips. “Ah. You refer to the Muzak.”
    “Yeah, I mean the Muzak. I hate hearing it in the station, I hate hearing it when I eat, when I’m trying to sleep, and I especially don’t like hearing it when I’m trying to do my job.”
    “So you decided to take it up directly with your project