case.
Finally, she became an analytical historian, specializing in recent events, pouring through manifests and records, publishing astonishing works detailing for the first time the most probable course taken by the Quill, postulating the direction of their originâthe first solid evidence as to the home of the deadly pests.
But no one cared.
The new worlds, confirmed or potentially contaminated, were abandoned; the stations were left to deal with their populations; and the Quill were merely something out thereâsomething convenient to blame for the quiet, steady reduction in Earther exploration funding, for the drawing inward and consolidation of Earthâs once-vast ambitions to endless renovations of the domed colonies on Sol Systemâs immediate neighbors.
Theyâd cared once. When Gail was born, there were research facilities being established throughout Sol System, all devoted to finding a way to destroy Quill tissue without harming the tender Terran ecosystems built at such cost and with such hopes. They floundered on the same rockâthere was no Quill tissue to test. Every known specimen had been destroyed in the frenzy to protect humanity. The contaminated worlds? The pests were thereâthe Quill Effect killed every human foolish enough to landâbut the most sophisticated remotes and robot probes failed to retrieve a scrap of Quill tissue. It couldnât be found.
Earth had given up years ago. She hadnât.
âDr. Smith?â
Surprised her attention had wandered, Gail shook her head slightly, gambling she would probably disagree with anything the stationer proposed, heard or not. Toboâs lips quirked, as though he knew perfectly well sheâd lost track of what was going on, before he said helpfully: âI have no objections to letting the station techs keep the âbot and give it a once-over. Maybe they can find out why it cut loose from its protocols and went roaming.â
âCommander?â Gail raised her brow to get Grantâs reaction. It was the FDâs toy, after all.
There was nothing to read from his composed features. âIâve no objection, Doctor,â Grant offered smoothly. âShipâs equipment has nothing to do with me.â
Administrator Forester didnât bother hiding his relief. Why? What was going on here? Gail wondered again, intrigued in spite of herself. âThank you. Iâm sure that will go a long way toward alleviating anyââ he appeared to struggle for a word, then settled on a lame: ââany questions about what happened.â
âYou take your privacy very much to heart here,â Gail observed dryly. âRest assured, I have no interest in Thromberg Station or its population, with the exception of obtaining the assistance of Aaron Pardell. Have you made any progress in locating him for me?â
Foresterâs face tried to work into a smile but failed. âSurely thereâs someone else who can help you, Dr. Smith,â he ventured, with an almost desperate air. âI canât imagine what possible use this man could be, even if we find him. I have to tell you in all honesty: this Aaron Pardell may not even exist.â
âThatâs not the message you sent to Titan U, Administrator,â Gail reminded him, chilling her voice several degrees. âIn that, you claimed to have his birth record. I trust you arenât about to tell us that was a lie.â
âNo! No. Well, not a lie ...â Forester, whoâd been standing during his tirade against the Seeker âs deployment of a potential spy, chose that moment to sink into the seat heâd been offered and earlier refused. Out of the corner of her eye, Gail noticed Grantâs two guards werenât relaxing. Probably enjoyed having something to do , she told herself, making a private vow to keep them very busy if Forester was about to tell her theyâd come to Thromberg for nothing.
Learning to Kill: Stories