Free The Genius Asylum: Sic Transit Terra Book 1 by Arlene F. Marks Page B

all the way out here and incredibly overqualified for most of the duties available. Well, if you can’t laugh, you’re going to cry, right? So he did what he could to make life bearable, if not enjoyable. He encouraged us to develop our interests, use our imaginations, make our own fun. And it worked. Kept us all sane, at any rate.”
    “Speak for yourself,” Ruby scolded playfully before adding, “Karim was into sports and fitness. He spent a lot of time in the SPA room. He even tried to organize virtual reality baseball games and soccer matches among the crew. He failed, unfortunately. Still, he cared enough to make the effort, and you have to respect him for that.”
    Drew’s gaze wandered once more to the wall behind Jensen’s seat, where someone had apparently painted a mural. About one meter square, it depicted a deep space hub, much larger than this one, amid a swarm of docking and departing ships. The style was impressionist, and the colors were richly metallic golds, platinums, and bronzes, with the occasional splash of Chinese red or peacock blue. But the most impressive color was no color at all — it was utter blackness. The artist’s depiction of space held not a hint of blue or brown. After staring at it for several minutes, Drew was half-convinced that there must be a breach in the hull. “And whose interest does that represent?” he asked, pointing.
    “Nobody knows,” said Jensen, shaking his head. “And no one seems anxious to step forward and take credit for it, either.”
    “There are pictures like it all over the Hub,” Ruby added, “and they’re making our Structural Integrity Specialist crazy.”
    “How does a painting affect structural integrity?” Drew wanted to know.
    “It isn’t a painting,” Jensen replied. “Take a closer look at it. That isn’t smart paint — it’s plaincoated metal, and nothing has been applied onto it. Someone has found a way to change the refractive index of the individual molecules of that bulkhead.”
    Ruby pursed her lips. “It’s probably the work of an alien device. Some kind of molecular paintbrush.”
    “The only way to know for sure is to catch the Midnight Muralist in the act.” Jensen’s voice lowered conspiratorially. “But you can never be sure where he — or she — will strike next.”
    “Well, we’d better let you get back to work, Fritz,” said Ruby. “I want to show Drew the SPA room, and then take him down to Med Services to meet the Doc.”
    “Meeting the Doc on his first day? Her bite is even more venomous than the Nandrians’,” the chef observed with a grin. “As a condemned man you’re entitled to a last meal, Mr. Townsend. Any requests?”
    Drew returned the smile. “As a matter of fact, yes. Does your—” He wrestled with his memory for a moment. “—your hydroponics unit. Does it grow citrus fruit trees?”
    The other man stiffened visibly. “For consumption only, sir. My fruit is not for bartering.”
    “Good. Because it’s been years since I had a fresh orange with my morning meal.”
    Jensen glanced uncertainly at Ruby. “Years, Mr. Townsend?”
    “Citrus is scarce on Earth these days, Fritz. A Jaffa orange costs almost as much as a video wall.”
    Suddenly sober, the chef told him, “They’re clementines, sir. I’ll see that you get one every day.”
    “We had no idea, Drew,” Ruby apologized as they left the caf. “We don’t get much news from Earth out here. And anytime I’ve requisitioned lemon juice, it’s arrived, no problems. What happened to the citrus crop?”
    He wanted to tell her. He wanted someone else aboard Daisy Hub to be as angry as he was. As angry as Jovanovich had evidently been when he first arrived. But Drew had no hard evidence yet, only circumstances and conjecture, and it could be fatal to his mission if anyone aboard the station acted prematurely.
    So he ducked the question. As they strolled along the gently curving corridor rimming D Deck, he asked Ruby instead,