if they discovered the bombing had been specifically directed against them, they would retaliate. It was far less certain that they would exert much care in ensuring that their retribution was directed only against the guilty parties.
By the middle of the second week, Jack Carroll had finished his forensics report on the technical details of the saboteur's methods—a report which Lee and Perlenmann decided to keep under wraps until the case was nearing its resolution. A general disclosure now would only tell the perpetrator how much the investigators did (or, rather, did not) know.
As he leafed through Carroll's report, Lee sighed, letting his last hopes for an easy investigation escape along with his breath. Ten days of thorough research had turned up nothing. The time had come to press some personal buttons and to see what happened when he did.
* * *
The cavernous gut of the damaged hydrogen purification tank was alive with the echo of distant work crews. Lee craned his neck to look up at the “ceiling” ten meters overhead and moved deeper into the vast space, angling toward the intermittent white-blue glow of workers' torches.
A dozen steps later, he found himself approaching a stocky silhouette, its hands-on-hips stance backlit by the intermittent light of the welding. Parson's voice was less pleasant than usual. “What do you want here, Dirtsider? My people have filled out your idiot reports, so leave 'em alone.”
“I wish I could, Mr. Parsons, but I'm afraid ‘your people' didn't complete the questionnaires I gave them. To be specific, not a single one of them provided the names of any individuals that they suspected of being radicals—either Dirtsiders or Upsiders. Now I wonder why that would be.”
“Wonder all you like, Patrolman.” Parsons spat; the impact of the saliva made a flat sound, like a pebble ricocheting off slate. “We're not snitches on this station. And if that's what you require of us, then you can go to hell.”
“If you, or any of your people, have any relevant suspicions, I advise you not to withhold them. Anyone who does so knowingly is obstructing an official investigation, which in this case makes them accessories to sabotage—and guilty of endangering the lives of the workers at this facility.”
As Lee had guessed, that was the right button to press; Parsons' voice grew taut, his words coming out in a rush. “You're going to accuse my men of endangering their fellow fuel workers? All of whom are Upsiders? Well, take your best shot, Patrolman. But I'll tell you this: we watch out for our own here on Callisto, and if we have any problems, we sort it out ourselves. You don't understand how things work out here—and it's real easy for newcomers to get hurt by things they don't understand. Don't you agree?”
“Threatening a Customs Patrol officer is a serious offense, Mr. Parsons, and it makes me wonder if I shouldn't expand my investigation to include you as a prime suspect.”
Parsons laugh was soft and deep. “Did I threaten you, Lieutenant? Gee, I can't remember saying anything threatening. I was just commenting on how outsiders can find this sort of political problem to be difficult—even dangerous—to handle. And as for investigating me,” Parsons snorted derisively, “be my guest. Let me guess. You're convinced that I'm a deep cover operative for the radical Dirtsiders, right?” His teeth shone as he sneered. “Yeah, while the Dirtside Greens and Neo Luddites are slowly strangling this facility out of existence, you'll waste time investigating the people who need to keep it running in order to survive.”
Parson's tone grew more strident. “You make life hard for us and who knows, maybe production will suffer. Maybe that will make life hard for the Greenie bigwigs on the Steering Committee by giving the Neo Luddite hardliners just that much more ammunition to criticize their handling of Callisto. Maybe that will mean an inquiry, and maybe that will make life hard for you—very hard.” He paused and leaned closer. “You get my drift?”
Lee leaned into Parsons' face. “Yes, and I hope you're getting mine. I'm here to uphold the law and find the saboteur. And that's exactly what I'm going to do—with or without your help.”
Their faces were less than three inches apart, the scratchy hiss-and-whine of torches intermittently piercing the silence. Then Parsons changed his stance, which gave him an excuse to lean back and laugh. “Suit yourself, Patrolman; it's your court-martial.” He turned into the glow of the torches and drift-walked away across the belly of