Read Outland for Free Online Page B

environment. Also separate artificial gravity controls, a small squad-meeting room, a data center far more sophisticated than the simple double terminal in O'Niel's or anyone else's living quarters, an interrogation room, and a couple of small individual offices with, glass walls that overlooked the squad area.
    On a door leading into one of these offices was the legend:
    FEDERAL DISTRICT MARSHAL
W.T. O'NIEL.
    The two men entered the security complex, Montone still trailing his superior.
    "He's just trying to sniff you out." Montone was more willing to chat in the privacy of the jail chambers. "The last Marshal before you kept things running pretty smoothly. That's all he wants—all they want.
    "If things run smooth, they make their money and everybody's happy. Nobody's here for their health or the scenery. Don't worry about the ship's heading is what I'm trying to say. Just see that she doesn't turn over and you'll find everyone here warming to you real fast. Not Sheppard; he doesn't warm up to anybody. But the stone faces in the Ward Room, they'll melt. They're just not sure of you yet."
    They entered the squad room where several younger deputies were seated. They stood when O'Niel entered. He ignored them, marching on past.
    Possibly he just didn't notice them. His thoughts were elsewhere as he entered his office, closing the door quietly behind him. There were reports to check, information to peruse, duty rosters to okay and a number of other things he badly wanted to go over to better familiarize himself with the physical layout of the mine. He wanted to study them in private, so he could simmer unobserved.
    One of the younger deputies glanced through the transparent wall at the silently working O'Niel and spoke to Montone.
    "What's your opinion of this one, sergeant?"
    "O'Niel?" Montone joined the deputy in regarding the new Marshal. "Too early to tell. Quiet, private. Not the sort you'd invite over for a game of cards. Not antisocial or anything like that. Just . . . quiet." He turned away from examining his new boss, looking down at the deputy's computer readout.
    "That's about enough psychoanalyzing. What've we got that's new on that Purser Office business?"
    The miner's name was Cane. He was a thin blond man decorated with an equally slim beard that gave him the look of a newly annointed bishop. His eyes were a pale, faded blue. Hair, eyes, and physiognomy marked his ancestry as Scandinavian, but that meant nothing to anyone on polyglot Io. It never mattered where you were from, who your people were, what you used, to be. It only mattered how you did your job.
    At the moment Cane's face shone with an expression of serenity that bordered on the beatific: his mouth was curved round in a little boyish half-smile that gave him the appearance of having just spent a week in the harem of a Turkish pasha and he wasn't about to tell anyone about it.
    It was still light Outside. The, locker room was nearly deserted, the day shift having concluded their work and the night shift already out on the job, save for a few stragglers. No one confronted Cane as he strolled smilingly clown the aisles.
    At the far end of the locker room was the spacious assembly area with curving steel tubes, like the, horns of a dozen ferrous longhorns, that projected outward from a wall. Suits and helmets had been placed on these supports and awaited their owners. At the far side was a sealed, double-thick hatchway door lined with controls and admonitions.
    On the door itself a legend proclaimed boldly: CAUTION—ZERO ATMOSPHERE BEYOND—PRESSURE SUITS AND OXYGEN REQUIRED
    Cane leaned forward, his hands held easily behind his back as he peered through the single port into the airlock. It was empty, brightly lit. At his practised command the hatch opened softly and he stepped inside. After a casual survey of the walls he directed the hatch to seal.
    It required several switches to insure that the hatch produced an airtight seal. The delicate nature of