0199: Finders Keepers

Ziggurat #107

“Excellent,” Santana nodded, unfolding her arms to smooth down the white skirt of her uniform tunic. “Now that’s done, we’ll be able to employ the asteroid pod for retrieving materials and making repairs. A two thirds of the time, anyhow.”

“And the other third?” Lamont asked, stifling a yawn.

“We plan to make daily runs between here and the tower,” the Chief of Operations explained. “That will facilitate some crew rotation. Not to mention our only means of communication right now, since we haven’t found a way to cut through the radio noise.”

“On that topic, what is your impression of the structure so far, Lamont?” The eyes of Phobos had turned toward the newspaperman from their pools of shadow near the ceiling. “Are our people safe there?”

Resisting an urge to sarcastically quote Clifford Ashton, Lamont merely gave a tired shrug. “The part of the tower we’re occupying seems perfectly suited for us. If not for this…” Here, the newspaperman waved a hand to indicate the repair effort. “I would be warning you that it’s got to be a trap.”

Santana winced, rubbing the bridge of her imperial nose. “Yes, and if that’s the case, we have no choice but to take the bait. I wish I’d had the foresight to recommend a second shuttle of some kind for Westward.”

The slender hand of the Martian dropped to rest gently on her shoulder. “One cannot anticipate everything, Amila.”

The diminutive woman smiled weakly and patted his hand, which was easily twice the size of her own. “Nevertheless,” she said.

“Not for nothing,” Lamont offered, “but the landing bay of the tower is holding a proper museum of smallish boats. At least, that’s what I assume they are. And nobody appears to be using them.”

Taking his hand from Santana’s shoulder, Phobos turned to look at him again. “Are you suggesting that we requisition them for our own use?”

“I don’t know what the rules are out here, mate,” Lamont admitted, this time failing entirely to repress a yawn. “But after what that tower’s done to us, I’d say fair’s fair.”

The Chief of Operations rubbed her square jaw thoughtfully. “Interesting,” she said. “But I think we’ve kept Mr. Townsend long enough. Thank you for your help today, Lamont. You’ve earned some sleep.”

“And I hope to get some,” the newspaperman agreed, rubbing his eyes. “But first…” His expression took on a furtive aspect as he glanced about the room, taking a step closer to Amila.

“Yes?” She asked, visibly perplexed.

“I have it on good authority,” Lamont said, lowering his voice to just above a whisper, “That you may be familiar with something called ‘The Rosary.’”