View from Ararat by Brian Caswell Page A

environment.
    It’s fun while it lasts, I guess, but there are things that you miss out on. Things you need to know, in case they ever toss you out of the hothouse.
    Luckily, I’ve always been a quick learner . . .
    Medical Research Facility
    Edison (Southwest)
    16/15/202 Standard
    GALEN
    He studies the screen, watching the test results as they come through from the operatives on the Pandora . The central data frame is ether-linked to the punchboards in the examination centre hurriedly set up on board the C-ship, and the results feed directly into the Research computer.
    Charlie places the teacup on the console in front of him and slides into a chair on his right-hand side.
    â€˜Anything?’ she asks – as if he might have forgotten to mention it if there was.
    He looks at her ironically for a few moments, and she shrugs an apology. Then he relents.
    â€˜Not a thing,’ he replies. ‘I didn’t really expect there would be.’
    The figures are in the ’frame if he cares to pull them up, but he knows every aspect of the data without visual confirmation.
    Less than two hundred people on the whole ship had actually come from the South and Central Americas in the critical period. Less than two hundred who stood even the remotest chance of accidentally encountering anyone who might have had contact with the CRIOS contaminent.
    Realistically, the chances of anyone aboard any of the C-ships having come within a thousand clicks of the mystery bug were millions to one against.
    But he still can’t shake the feeling of foreboding.
    Galen Sibraa. The crippled psychic . . .
    He rubs his hands over his face in a small concession to the exhaustion he is feeling, and continues to watch the data scrolling down the screen.
    Finally, the computer chimes for attention, and the message flashes:
    â€“ TRANSMISSION COMPLETE.
    â€“ ALL RECORDS DOWNLOADED TO RESEARCH AND LOGGED.
    â€“ CENTRAL DATA FRAME UPDATED.
    â€“ FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS . . .?
    â€˜Hard copy now, and download all files to my personal punchboard.’ He pronounces each word precisely, leaning slightly forward towards the v-a pick-up.
    â€˜Well . . .’ Beside him, Charlie almost whispers the word. There is an unmistakable relief in her voice and in the sigh she allows to escape. ‘So far, so good.’
    For the first time in hours he smiles and removes his gaze from the screen. In just about any area of med research, Charlie is about the most innovative and imaginative person he has ever worked with. But she can slip into terrible clichés sometimes.
    â€˜So far,’ he replies, and something in his tone of voice alerts her to the joke, because she looks at him with that hurt expression she can put on.
    â€˜I did it again, didn’t I?’
    He nods, and she returns the smile. Then she leans across and runs the backs of her fingers down his cheek.
    Charlie always pretends not to notice, but she’s perceptive. She knows.
    He happens to be in love with her. Very unprofessional, but purely platonic, of course.
    â€˜Two more ships to come, then we can start to relax,’ she says, as the machine chimes again and the last page of hard-copy slides out of the slot into the basket. She scoops them up and drops them into the binder.
    â€˜Yeah, right,’ he replies. But he isn’t finished worrying about this one yet. ‘It’s not enough, you know.’
    She waits. There is more and she knows it.
    And she knows him too well to waste words prompting.
    â€˜The blood tests.’ He thumbs the control, and the servos hum quietly, turning his chair towards the window.
    The sky is clear blue. Outside, it is summer. Forty-four degrees Celsius in the shade, and they are in Edison, on the coast. Inland, it must be well over fifty in places.
    Without turning back, he continues. ‘If there’s any danger, we’re not likely to pick it up by checking blood samples.’
    â€˜It’s a pretty