Easy Pickings
by Bill Siderski
The piercing amber trefoil lit up a quarter of the interface environment, impossible to ignore. Markson thought it off, then sighed. “Radiation shields again, Cap’n,” he called out.
“Anywhere to put ‘er down?” came the disembodied response.
Markson thought up the star charts. Thin red lines arced among the stars as various trajectories were plotted. Markson selected one planet and called for the linked survey data. Suddenly the plot lines shifted, twisting grotesquely. The entire environment melted to one side as a sharp pain lanced through his head. Markson wrenched the interface band off his head and flung it across the cabin.
Cradling his head in his hands, he waited for the nausea to subside. When he thought he could open his eyes without vomiting, he cautiously looked up to see the interface placidly spinning in a graceful circle near the opposite wall. He rubbed his gray crewcut. “Gah,” he muttered. “AstroFord’s better idea, my ass.”
“Sump’n wrong?” asked Captain Jeffers.
Markson and Jeffers had been partnered for years. They were miners when they had to be, smugglers when they could be, and liberators of unguarded equipment more often than either. Jeffers was older and went by the honorific Captain. “That blasted interface is fried; it won’t stay in alignment. When I tried to pull up the survey data, it felt like my head was being ripped off. I told you we were too close to that white dwarf. You cooked something, and Sara’s telling us she ain’t happy.”
“Got the Patrol off us,” said Jeffers. “Did ya forgit that?”
“You dumped our payload of heliamphora,” replied Markson. “We’d have been rich-“
“We’d have been dead! It was the only way to reduce our mass to jump far enough-“
“And now we’re out in the middle of nowhere and need repairs, and even if we find someplace to do it, we got no way to pay for it.”
“Aw, Sara’s fine,” said Jeffers. “Aincha, girl?” He reached out and carefully patted a nearby console. The recent battle with the Patrol had overloaded several systems. Trying to bypass a conduit, he had been blasted in the face with sparks. He had a medical patch over the ruined eye until they could get to a discreet geneticist where he could buy a used one. He turned to Markson. “What did ya get on a place for us to set down?”
“Nothing,” said Markson.
“I’ll have to pull it up manually.” He turned to a console and worked the controls. It took several seconds for a tank at one end of the cabin to warm up, and for the star chart to be recreated in holograms. While he waited, he shifted uncomfortably. He had survived the battle with the Patrol with only bruises, but he was taller and lankier than Jeffers, and even in near-zero gravity, the seat was uncomfortable.
When the tank was lit, Markson indicated one planet. “This is our best bet. Only 22 degrees off our present heading, about seven hours away.” He had to wait for the linked data to appear. “Here we go. No assigned name, surveyed 42 years ago. No indications of inhabitants, breathable atmosphere, probable mineral deposits. Survey didn’t even land. Just noted the info and moved on.”
Jeffers scratched his grizzled chin and grinned. “Virgin planet, eh? Perfect. Lay a course for it. A load of ore is just what we need. While the radiation scrubbers do their work, we’ll take a look around, see if we can’t replace what we had to dump.”
Seven hours later, the Sara Cinia was in a mild braking orbit as Jeffers and Markson mapped the surface and looked for a good place to land. On the thirteenth orbit, the computer pinged.
“Ah, look at that,” said Jeffers. He patted the ship’s console. “I knew you’d come through for us, baby. A nice fat mineral deposit. From the strength of the signal, it looks like it’s right on the surface.” He scratched absentmindedly at his eyepatch. “Hard to tell what it is on this,” said Markson. He was scowling at the tank display. “It reads metallic, I’ll give you that. But there’s no telling if it’s ore, a ship, or even a building. Though nothing in the atmosphere suggests either a recent spaceflight or industry.”
Jeffers rubbed his chin. The scratches from the battle still itched. “So there’s no dangerous indigenous population t’worry about. If what we saw’s a spaceship, it’s been here a while. If it’s a mine, it’s abandoned. Easy.” He indicated a spot on the display. “We’ll put down on the other side of this ridge here, and we can sneak up real quiet-like. Jist in case.” Markson frowned. “That means hiking through a couple of klicks of rough forest terrain.”
“You gittin’ old on me? Jist in case it is a Patrol ship, you wanna set down next ta it? Make it real easy for them ta pick us up?”
“No.”
“Then we set down here and walk.”
“Yes, Cap’n.” Markson brought the ship down nice and gentle, just where Jeffers wanted it.
While the ship cooled they organized a couple of day packs. Markson programmed the location into a portable triangulator.
Last thing they did was strap on pistols. It never paid to leave weapons behind. They walked outside the blast area, and Markson took a reading.
“That way,” he said, and they headed out through the forest.
Tall trees with wide leaves created a gloomy undergrowth. Around the trunks were stiff ferns. Large roots disrupted the ground, making an uneven surface. After three hours of struggling their way up the ridge, they stopped at a small glade. “Least we haven’t run against any animals. I ain’t seen a single one,” said Markson. He took out his flask and took a drink. Something in the treetops flashed in the corner of his eye.
Markson stared. “Did you see that?”
“What?” He shook his head. He thought it had looked like a red jellyfish with orange-tipped tentacles, gliding through the air like a bird. “Probably nothing. This’d be a nice place to settle down, actually. Nice and peaceful. No locals; the whole planet is easy pickings. Maybe we should declare sovereignty and sell the mining rights.”
“If we don’t find something, we won’t have a choice,” said Jeffers. He wiped sweat off his forehead and stood.
“Let’s move on.” Markson checked his monitor. “That way.”
As the ground leveled out, it became easier traveling. After another hour, Jeffers stopped and motioned to Markson. Without making a noise, he indicated a clump of shrubbery. In between the leaves, a splash of white was visible. They drew their pistols and started to make a slow reconnaissance. “I know what that is,” said Jeffers. “That’s a landing gear module.” There was still no sign of people, so they approached. Gradually the elongated shape of a landing craft was visible through the thick brush. A side door stood open and the vines and ferns were encroaching into the interior. “Nobody’s been here in a while.” They started pulling some of the branches away to reveal the ship. “I know what this is!” said Jeffers. ”It’s an Eagle class lander. Sturdy ships. If we can get her going, it’ll be even better than the Sara. I’ll check it out.” He climbed the stairs and disappeared into the ship.
Markson kept an eye on the forest. There was a yell, and Jeffers appeared in the doorway. “What happened?”
“It’s so rusted I cut my hand on something in there. I shoulda brought a light. Ship wouldn’t even power up, but maybe we can pull the power couplings; they oughta be worth something at the Mord Andell Freemarket. Suppose we kin cut the ship up for scrap, but it’ll be a pain tuh get the torches up here. Now what?” Markson was staring into the forest. “We need to go that way.” He pointed.
Jeffers joined him, wrapping a cloth around his cut hand. “Well, let’s go. We know this’s here. Maybe there’ll be sumpthin’ easier. Like a working mine, full of ore and jist waiting for us to allow some of it the opportunity tuh travel.” He chuckled, and they headed out.
Within half an hour they came to another glade. Pistols drawn, they squatted behind some bushes to observe. The glade was over twenty meters across and was dominated by a bulbous object in the center. The object was about five meters at its highest point, and shaped like a giant ball of dough that had been dropped from the sky. The surface was a flat gray except for tiny glimmers spattered evenly.
The full sunlight in the clearing was strong after being in the underbrush, making the glimmers seem even brighter. There was no noise or movement.
“That’s it, all right,” said Markson.
“What do you make of it?” Jeffers was staring at the glitters. “Those look like Fire Crystals. But ya say it reads metallic?”
Markson nodded. “So what glitters like Fire Crystal, but is metallic?”
They looked at each other and slowly grinned. “Heliamphora!” they said together.
“Smell that?” Jeffers’ eyes half closed, and he breathed deeply. “Ah haven’t smelled that in years. Me mum used ta make a dish that smelled jist like that.”
Markson thought that Jeffers’ mother must have been an odd cook. Markson could clearly smell that night with Juli on the beach. That first time they had kissed. That night she had-
Jeffers spoke, interrupting Markson’s daydream. “Those glitters are all over the surface. It sure ain’t a natural vein of ore, bulging up like that. What kind of structure gits made out of heliamphora? Ya don’t suppose it’s actually a mine shaft, do ya?” He seemed mesmerized by the thought. “Maybe it’s even a ship. Why not?” They both thought of ships for a moment. “We just found ourselves a jackpot,” said Markson. “Easiest pickings in a while. Cosmic justice, making up for what we dumped.”
A slight breeze tickled the treetops, and the susurration whispered encouragement. From the dark underbrush, the sparkles were too bright to look at directly. They blended together, becoming a giant, edible jewel, a fairgrounds, an admiral’s cluster.
Markson’s eyes were watering, and he found it hard to concentrate. He looked down at the sensor. “The metallic reading is stronger below ground."
They stepped into the clearing and started to make their way around the object. A third of the way around, there was an ovoid portal. They stopped.
“No sign of inhabitants,” Jeffers smiled and lowered his gun. “Whatever’s here is all ours. We might even have us an abandoned ship.”
“A ship’d be nice,” agreed Markson dreamily. “Can you fly an alien ship?”
That stopped Jeffers for a moment. “Gar, that’s a good point.” He stared at the toy ship he had received for his birthday. “We’ll never know unless we take a look,” he paused. “No scorching from a touchdown. No sign of a campfire. The grass ain’t even beat down. We’re the first ones here!” He liked getting to the fairgrounds early, before the crowds.
After a last glance around the clearing, Markson followed.
Jeffers was entranced by the calliope patterns of the glittering surface. With every step, the glints danced across the surface in a hypnotic repetition. In different lives, they approached the opening. Jeffie ducked behind the stump, and wiped some drool off his lip. It was almost lunchtime and he could smell what his mother was making. Until she called, he would keep playing with his friends. He had just found the best spot for hide and seek; it was a hollow between two boulders. He peered into the darkness. Before using it, he’d have to make sure he fit. He moved forward.
Markson opened the door, peering into the bedroom. It was dark, but just light enough to make out her outline on the bed. He stepped inside.
Jeffie stepped inside the barrel of fun, keeping his hands out along the walls. Nothing happened. “Well, the lights ain’t automatic.” He ran his free hand along the wall, looking for a trick switch. “Th’walls are smooth. C’mon guys.” He took another couple of steps. “Still nothin’. Hey, have ya got a portable light?”
Ensign Jon Markson stepped forward out of formation, and presented his pack for inspection. Markson’s feet went out from under him, and he grabbed Jeffers for support. They both crashed down and started to slide into the darkness, Jeffers on his back, Markson on his stomach. They fell down an incline into a pool of knee-deep, faintly viscous liquid and the dream was over.
Jeffers landed in a sitting position, and the gun he forgot he was holding went spinning into the darkness. Markson flopped next to him, and came up sputtering. “Gah,” he spat. “Sure hope it doesn’t taste like yer ma’s cooking. It’s sour. Hold on.” He reached into the pool and pulled up a handful of gems. “Bottom of the pool is littered with these, though. Damn uncomfortable to land on. But worth it.” He spit, then tried to wipe his tongue on his sleeve. “Liquid’s nasty. It stings.” He tried scraping his tongue with his fingernails, then started to rub his eyes. “Hurts worse’n a Patrol shock stick.”
The pain started small but sharp, growing like a living thing until waves of pain washed over him. Jeffers stood and pulled Markson to his feet. “Lit’s see what we can do about gittin’ out of here.” He started searching for his gun. “Ow!” He jerked his hand back out of the liquid, and clutched where he had cut it earlier. “Stings like a blister beetle!” Even in the dim light, the cut looked to be bleeding profusely.
Markson moaned and fell to his knees, hands clenched over his eyes.
Jeffers looked from where he thought his gun was to his trembling partner. He scooped up a handful of gems and shoved them in his pocket before splashing back to Markson. “Hold on,” he said. “Ah’ll git us out.” He grabbed Markson’s pack, and it came apart in shreds. He stared at the tatters of cloth in his hands for a moment before he noticed it was getting even darker. Much too far up the slope to reach, the orifice was slowly puckering closed. “Hey,” he cried. He tried to run up the slope. He got two steps before he slid back into the liquid.
Markson was wailing now, and Jeffers cried out as the eyepatch loosened and fell off.
The screams continued for two more days, until finally the clearing was peaceful again.
Bio: Bill Siderski was born of Slovakian immigrants fleeing Soviet restrictions in the 1960s. His father attempted to start a company manufacturing disposable clothing, but soon ran into money trouble. After failing to pay back a loan to the mob, the family spent several years on the run. While hiding in Zion National Park, they stumbled across the remains of a campsite belonging to DB Cooper. They attempted to pack the money and evidence out, but were attacked by drug smugglers. The smugglers hired Bill as a mule, and was soon running their product into large cities, such as Hollywood. He became a favorite of the celebrities, and soon became a staple at their parties. There was a falling out when Carly Simon wrote ‘You’re So Vain’ about him. In retaliation he agreed to testify for the FBI about the drug consumers, and was placed in Witness Protection. He satisfied himself writing letters to the editor in Esperanto, until a dispute with neighbor Thomas Pynchon over a blueberry bush threatened to end up in court, compromising both their identities. Bill lost an arm-wrestling match and agreed to move, taking the offending bush with him. There are rumors that he knows what happened to the Kursk, but promised not to remember until Abba reunites. His hobbies include sesquipedalia and making up stuff for his biography.
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Easy Pickings by Bill Siderski 3AM by Gareth D Jones
Three AM
By Gareth D Jones
Mark awoke with a start, confused. The vague remnants of a dream swirled around his head and it took a moment for his brain to register what had disturbed him.
It was the doorbell.
Eyes half blinking, he peered at the alarm clock, holing it close to his face to pick up the dim glow of the dial. Three AM.
On an orbital habitat that didn’t mean much in real terms, but if you were sound asleep the inconvenience was just as bad as on the surface of a planet.
Behind him the covers shifted as Rose sat up and leaned over his shoulder. “What time is it?” she whispered.
Mark held the clock up for her to see, unable to get his mouth working.
“What’s happened?” Rose asked, her voice full of worry.
Mark shrugged and swung his legs out of bed, automatically reaching for his jeans and pulling them on against the chill of the night. If the kids wake up… He left the threat unfinished as he headed for the door. Behind him he heard the light tread of Rose stepping out of bed too. “Stay there!” he whispered as he headed down the hallway. It was probably idiot teenagers on their way back from a club in the leisure sections. He didn’t want Rose coming to the door with him when it could be some maniac outside.
At the door he upped the transparency of the viewing pane slightly and peered out. There was someone there. Not pranksters knocking and running then. Behind him Rose glided quietly along the hallway, pink floral pyjamas rustling slightly. Mark waved her protectively around behind him and turned on the external light.
It was a security officer. Great. Someone’s broken into the office. He fumbled with the lock. Or set fire to it. Rose gripped his arm and moved closer behind him.
The crackle of the officer’s comm and an unintelligible, scratchy voice interrupted the silence. Mark opened the door cautiously. “Yes?”
The officer, a young chap with a severe hair cut, held his cap in his hands and smiled apologetically. His eyes veered over Mark’s shoulder and lit up at the sight of Rose. That’s the other reason I didn’t want her coming to the door in her pyjamas!
“I’m sorry,” the officer said. “I’ve just been told this is the wrong number.” He backed up a step and paused, as if waiting for permission to leave.
“Oh, Ok,” Mark said, relieved.
“Thanks.” The officer nodded, turned and left.
‘Thanks.’ Why did I say ‘thanks’? Mark was suddenly irritated. The only thing worse than being woken up in the middle of the night was being woken up in the middle of the night for no reason. He locked up again and headed back up the hallway. Rose trailed behind.
Back in the bedroom Mark took off his jeans and flopped back into bed. He kneaded the pillow into a comfortable shape and settled back down for sleep. Rose went to check on the kids, then came to join him. If he’d woken the kids up… The threat tailed off as sleep descended around him. He was vaguely aware of Rose slipping back under the covers next to him. “I’m really upset.” The whisper startled him back from the brink of sleep. His mind tried to translate the sentence into something that made sense in his semi-conscious state. It failed.
“What?”
“I thought something terrible had happened.”
“What?” Mark found himself back awake again. “When I saw the security officer. I thought something bad must have happened.”
“Nothing happened. It was the wrong door.”
“I know,” Rose sniffed. “But when I saw him I thought someone must be dead. A decompression or something. I don’t know.”
“I told you to stay in bed; then you wouldn’t have seen him. Then you wouldn’t have been worried.” Uh, oh. A subconscious alarm sounded. Too logical.
“You don’t even care!” The accusation was all the more pointed for being whispered. “Someone could be dead!”
“Of course I care.” Mark rolled over to face his wife, trying to demonstrate that he was not, in fact, desperately hoping to go back to sleep rather than carry on the conversation.
“You’re always the same. You just want to go to sleep.”
“No,” he protested lamely. Always the same? When else has this happened? His eyes had adjusted to the dark again and he could see the stricken look on her face. “Look,” he said, reaching out to stroke her arm. “Everything’s fine. Nothing happened.” He tried to put an arm round her, but she resisted.
“I know you don’t care about my family as much as I do,” she said, “but I worry about them. What if one of them had been in trouble?”
“Like what?” “They could be in hospital. You wouldn’t get up in the middle of the night to visit them.”
“How could we? We can’t both go and leave the kids." Drat. Too reasonable.
“You always have an excuse.” She rolled over and turned her back to him.
“Just go back to sleep,” he said wearily and patted her on the back.
“Don’t touch me,” she whispered fiercely.
Fine. He rolled back into his own comfortable position. Thanks, Mr Officer. You knock on the wrong door, and now I’m in trouble! He lay there for a while, teeth gritted in frustration, trying to relax again. Three AM! He’s lucky he didn’t wake the kids up…
The doorbell rang and Rose sprang to wakefulness. No sound from the kids in the next room. It was pitch dark. Who would be calling this late at night? Next to her Mark was stirring and fumbling about for the clock, making more noise than the bell. He’ll wake the kids! “What time is it?” she whispered.
Mark lifted the clock up over his shoulder, almost colliding with her nose.
She tried to focus her eyes on the dial that was now too close. Three AM. Rose sat up stiffly, worried. Someone calling after they had gone to bed was just annoying; someone calling in the middle of the night was alarming. “What’s happened?” she asked at Mark’s back as he climbed out of bed. He swayed out of the room, trying to do up his jeans as he went. She slipped out of bed behind him.
“Stay there!” he hissed fiercely.
Typical. Thinks he’s the big man and he should deal with it. She ignored him and followed down the hallway, worrying with each step what might cause someone to call at this hour.
Mark peeked through the viewport, blocking her view, then shooed her round behind him impatiently. As he switched on the porch light and lightened the viewport she could finally see who had disturbed their sleep. It was a security officer. Rose took in a sharp breath and grabbed Mark’s arm. Someone must be dead. Why else would they be calling? An accident, maybe? She felt fear rising up through her chest, constricting her breathing. Through Mark’s muttering she could hear the officer’s comm crackle a message. I hope it’s not…I don’t want it to be anyone!
Mark finally opened the door, letting in a draft of cooler air from the climate controlled passages. She hardly noticed it as she focused on the young man’s face, trying to determine how bad it was.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry,” the officer smiled sheepishly. “I’ve just been told this is the wrong number.” He glanced at Rose and his smile broadened.
Rose felt herself sag inwardly, weakened by the relief flooding through her.
“Thanks,” Mark was saying as the policeman walked away. ‘Thanks’? You idiot! He worried me half to death and you say thanks!
Mark locked up. Rose felt like she might cry in relief. I need a cuddle. Mark stomped off, ignoring her. He’ll wake the kids. She followed in his wake and went into the children’s room to check on them. By the time she had slipped back into bed beside Mark he was already breathing heavily, drifting off to sleep. Can’t he see I’m upset? He obviously couldn’t. “I’m really upset,” she whispered.
“Huh?” He jerked awake.
He sounds like such a jerk when he does that! “I thought something terrible had happened,” she whispered instead. “What?” Mark whispered back, but didn’t bother rolling over to talk.
“When I saw who it was. I thought something bad must have happened.”
“Nothing happened. It was the wrong door.” Mark was so good at stating the blindingly obvious, even when it was completely beside the point.
“I know,” Rose sniffed, finding her throat constricting now that she was trying to voice her fears, “but when I saw him I thought someone must be dead. A decompression or something. I don’t know.”
“I told you to stay in bed; then you wouldn’t have seen him. Then you wouldn’t have been worried,” Mark replied heartlessly. That upset Rose even more.
“You don’t even care!” she whispered. “Someone could be dead!”
“Of course I care,” Mark rolled over to face her, rather belatedly.
It’s too late to pretend you’re interested now! “You’re always the same. You just want to go to sleep,” she accused.
“No,” he protested lamely, blinking rapidly to keep his eyes open. “Look,” he said, reaching out to stroke her arm. “Everything’s fine. Nothing happened.”
She ignored his attempts. He tried to put an arm round her, but she resisted. Now she was too annoyed with him to want a cuddle. He never took her concerns seriously. He just didn’t care about people. “I know you don’t care about my family as much as I do,” she said, “but I worry about them. What if one of them had been in trouble?”
“Like what?” An edge of impatience crept into his tone.
“They could be in hospital. You wouldn’t get up in the middle of the night to visit them.”
“How could we? We can’t both go and leave the kids,” he retorted.
“You always have an excuse.” She rolled over and turned her back to him. Why can’t he just show that he cares?
“Just go back to sleep,” he said patronisingly and patted her on the back.
“Don’t touch me,” she whispered fiercely, wishing that he would say something right for a change, something that would make her want to cuddle him again. He didn’t even try though. He just rolled back over away from her, settling back down to go to sleep. Rose lay curled up, eyes wide open, staring at the vague glimmer of light from the night lamp in the hallway. Tears hovered at the edge of her lashes, threatening to spill over onto her cheeks. She tried to relax. After all, nothing had happened, she thought. Well, not until you called, Mr Officer. Thanks a lot! Now you’ve caused a row and I can’t get back to sleep. Somewhere out in the station, a security officer was happily going about his business, without a care in the world, and here she was, lying awake, upset, angry. Three AM! Thanks a lot!
Rick sat in a small refreshment booth humming a quiet tune to himself. He was situated on the edge of the recreation section where the main corridor led off into one of the large residential area of Astropolis. There was very little foot traffic this time of night. It was mid week, a far quieter time than the rowdy late nights of the weekend.
He had followed one group of youths for a short while, but they had just been going to the 24 hour store. Everything was quiet there too, so Rick had picked up a chocolate bar and munched his way through it. The empty wrapper now lay on the seat beside him. His comm crackled to life, startling him. He jumped in his seat and grabbed for the receiver on his belt, managing to crack his knuckles on the neighbouring chair.
“Domestic disturbance at domicile sixty one, habitat section 18,” the anonymous voice informed him. Addresses were so dull on the station. Rick frowned. He didn’t like domestic disturbances. Give him a burglar any day, or a drunken brawl. Those he could deal with. But domestics, they were tricky. Nobody ever appreciated security poking their nose into what went on at home. Often the row spread to the neighbours who had called it in.
Rick started the short journey to habitat section 18, practicing his best conciliatory look and understanding smile. By the time he had arrived in the section a few moments later he still felt unprepared. Rick wasn’t a family man and felt unqualified for dealing with family arguments. It wouldn’t be so bad if people didn’t think I was five years younger than I am!
He stopped at the corridor junction and brushed down his uniform to make sure there were no crumbs of chocolate to spoil his appearance. He took a deep breath of the cool air that circulated all of the station’s corridors, and strode down the dim corridor with seeming confidence. He glanced at his wristwatch as he walked. Three AM.
The dwelling was in darkness and no noise broke the still of the night. Hopefully the row was over, making his job easier. He reached out and pressed the doorbell. It chimed loudly, startling against the quiet background. Still there was no other sound from inside. Maybe they’ve gone back to bed?
After a moment his ears, straining in the late night calm, could make out the sound of someone moving behind the door. The viewport lightened slightly. Rick was so intent on the task at hand that when the comm at his hip crackled to raucous life he jumped again. Why couldn’t they get the system working properly?
“Correction on that domestic disturbance. Domicile number is 161, that’s one hundred and sixty one.”
The voice at the other end didn’t sound particularly bothered by the mistake. Great! Now I’ve woken someone else up needlessly. Rick tried to compose himself. He took off his cap and tried to look apologetic, yet professional. I bet they’ll be really pleased with me, he thought sarcastically.
The porch light came on, making him blink against the sudden brightness. The door opened and a man peered out, blinking and dishevelled.
“Yes?” He looked about Ricks own age; which of course meant he looked five years older than Rick.
“I’m sorry,” Rick began, smiling in what he hoped was a soothing way. “I’ve just been told this is the wrong number.” He thought he’d done quite well, until he spotted the woman peering round from behind. She was wearing silk, floral pyjamas and, despite looking a bit rumpled from bed, she was rather cute. Rick’s smile broadened involuntarily, and he tried to hide his reaction by stepping back and putting on his serious face.
“Oh, OK. Thanks,” said the man. Relieved, Rick turned and hurried away, hoping he hadn’t looked too much like an idiot. Behind him the door banged shut. Why did the guy say ‘Thanks’? he wondered. I’ve just pointlessly woken them up.
He strode off down the corridor in search of number one hundred and sixty one. At least they can go back to sleep in peace, he thought. I’ve got a row to go and deal with!
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