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

“When did the Nandrians make first contact with Daisy Hub?”
    She shrugged. “It happened before my time, and I’ve been here longer than I care to think about. With all their comings and goings, they were bound to stumble on us eventually, I guess. But we didn’t become a regular port of call until shortly after Gavin Holchuk arrived.”
    “Why then?”
    “Naguchi was the station manager at the time. Nayo valued order and discipline, and Gavin was grieving and angry. Not exactly an ideal fit. My guess is that Naguchi wanted to give him something difficult to do that would distract him and maybe dissipate his rage. Learning all about the Nandrians was the perfect assignment for Gavin. He threw himself into the work and, over the years, has compiled an enormous amount of data on them. He can even speak a little of their language. Just the fact that a Human would devote so much time and energy trying to understand their culture seems to have impressed the dickens out of them. So when I told you the Nandrians liked him, I didn’t mean—” Abruptly, she stopped walking. “Uh-oh!”
    There was another mural on the wall, a moonscape with planet ascendant, this one just as artfully drawn as the last.
    “Let me guess — this wasn’t here yesterday?”
    Ruby found a wallcomm and thumbed the blue button.
    “Spiro? This is Mom, honey. Check out D Deck thirty degrees clockwise of the SPA room. The Muralist has struck again.”
    An agonized cry drifted out of the speaker as Ruby turned with a grin. “Like the man said,” she reminded him, “we make our own fun around here.”

Chapter 8
    The SPA room looked like a torture chamber. Dimly lit, it was filled with metal frameworks resembling chairs, at least a dozen of them, each with a rainbow of wires cascading off its back and sides, some tethering it to the floor, some leading to a light-studded metal column in the center of the room, and the rest ending in interface plugs that seemed to sprout like bulrushes out of the armrests.
    “So where’s Doctor Frankenstein?” Drew wanted to know. “Out having a java?”
    Beside him, Ruby was chuckling. “Doctor Petroff says this room sends a chill down his spine — reminds him of the examining lab at his old dental college. Nonetheless, he’s in here for three hours every few days, playing a round of virtual golf. Lydia put together a SPA wafer for him, containing the twelve most challenging courses on Earth. Sometimes Devanan Singh joins him — he’s our electrical and field maintenance expert. You know, I’ve heard that a lot of business gets conducted on golf courses. If you have questions about the Meniscus Field, going eighteen holes with Singh might not be a bad idea. The skins are stored in individual compartments in the bulkhead, and there’s a change room, over there,” she added, pointing to the wall right behind them.
    “Skins?”
    “The body suits that interface with the chairs. We call them skins because you have to strip down and wear them next to your skin to get the full effect of the program.”
    “Do you know whether Khaloub spent any time in here the day he died?”
    Ruby frowned suddenly. “Why?”
    “You said he was a sports enthusiast. If he had some kind of medical condition that contributed to his death, and if he perspired inside one of those skins close to the time of his death…?”
    She shook her head wearily. “Are you sure you’re not a Ranger, Drew?”
    “If I were, I’d be working on Zulu. Answer my question, Ruby. Did Khaloub log any SPA time the day he died?”
    “Yes, but you can forget about finding any evidence inside his skin. For health reasons, SPA suits are sterilized between uses.”
    “And who is responsible for making sure that happens?”
    A beat, then, “The wearer. Each suit is custom-fitted to a single user. When it’s replaced in its compartment, the lockpad activates an automatic decon cycle.”
    “What if someone isn’t feeling well at the end of an