Saturn gt-12 Page 14

  “Decisions, decisions.”

  Timoshenko turned his head to see that it was Jaansen, one of the top engineers, standing next to him, tall and lean and pale as the winter sun.

  Without a word, Timoshenko slid his plastic cup beneath the cola nozzle and leaned on the button. Then he walked away, looking for a table where he could be alone. As he unloaded his tray, though, Jaansen walked up to the table, carrying a salad and a glass of milk.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” Jaansen asked, already putting his sparse lunch on the table. “I need to talk with you.”

  Timoshenko said, “About what?” Jaansen was one of the bosses, several rungs up the ladder above him.

  “Politics,” said Jaansen as he pulled out his chair and sat down. Suddenly Timoshenko had no appetite. He sat facing the pale Norseman. “I have no interest in politics.”

  “You did once. You were quite an activist.”

  “And look where it’s got me.”

  Jaansen waved a hand vaguely. “This isn’t so bad, is it? If you have to be exiled, this is better than most places.”

  Despite himself, Timoshenko asked, “Were you exiled?”

  “No, I chose to come here. For me, this is an opportunity to be in charge of a major engineering operation.”

  “To be a boss, you mean.”

  “You could be a boss, too,” Jaansen said. “The biggest boss of all.”

  Timoshenko scowled at him.

  “I mean it, Ilya. You could run for the office of chief administrator, once the new constitution is put into effect.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m serious. You could run, and you could win. All the engineers and technicians would vote for you. That’s a major bloc of votes.”

  “Why would they vote for me?”

  “Because you’re one of us. Everybody knows you and respects you.”

  Timoshenko grunted derisively. “I have very few friends. Hardly anybody knows me, and those who do don’t like me very much. I can’t say that I blame them, either.”

  Jaansen would not be put off. Pulling his palmcomp from his tunic pocket he began tapping out numbers as he spoke.

  “Politics boils down to arithmetic,” he said, pecking away. “You are much more respected by your fellow workers than you think. They’ll vote for you in preference to Urbain, and—”

  “Urbain? He’ll be running for office?”

  “Of course. He’s head of the science department, isn’t he? The scientists think they own this habitat. They think we’re all here to serve them. Of course he’ll run. And he’ll win, unless you can rally the engineers and technicians.”

  Timoshenko shook his head. “I have no interest in politics,” he repeated. But he stayed and listened and looked at the numbers Jaansen was pecking out on his palmcomp.

  Half an hour later, on the other side of the crowded, noisy cafeteria, Edouard Urbain was trying to finish his lunch and get back to his office. The cold potato soup was a poor imitation of vichyssoise. He hadn’t had a decent meal since leaving Montreal. Wilmot has no interest in cuisine, of course. Once I become chief administrator I will see to it that the cooks learn how to cook.

  There were a thousand things to do; construction of the roving vehicle was running into difficulties and the Jupiter encounter was almost upon them and this man Eberly wanted to draft a constitution for the habitat and make himself the chief administrator. Impossible! Urbain told himself as he sipped the unappetizing soup. This is a scientific mission, the entire purpose of this habitat is science. A scientist must head the government.

  “Are you as excited as I am?”

  Urbain jumped as if someone had poked him. Looking up, he saw the chief engineer, the Norseman Jaansen, smiling gently at him. Reluctantly, Urbain gestured him to the empty chair on the other side of his table.

  “Excited?” he asked as Jaansen took the proffered chair.

  “About the Jupiter flyby.”

  “Ah, yes. I suppose I am,” Urbain muttered as he spooned up the last of the mediocre soup. Then he noticed that Jaansen was empty-handed. “Aren’t you having lunch?”

  “I’ve already eaten,” said the engineer. “I was on my way out when I saw you sitting alone.”

  Urbain preferred to eat alone. But he said nothing and reached for his cup of tea. They served wine, of a sort, in the restaurants. The cafeteria did not.

  Jaansen said, “I can’t think of anything but the flyby. And the refueling procedure. I’ve checked everything associated with the procedure a dozen times, but still I can’t help worrying that I’ve forgotten something.”

  “That is why we create checklists,” Urbain said tartly.

  Jaansen smiled. “Yes, I know. But still…”

  Urbain finished his tea. “If you’ll pardon me,” he said, starting to push his chair back from the table.

  Jaansen touched his sleeve. “Do you have a minute? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “I must get back at my lab.”

  Jaansen nodded, his ice blue, pale-lashed eyes looking disappointed. “I understand.”

  Nettled, irritated at the pang of guilt he felt, Urbain conceded, “A minute, you say?”

  “Maybe two.”

  “What is it?” Urbain asked. He leaned over to pull his tray from beneath the chair and began placing his dishes on it.

  “I need your help. Your guidance.”

  “About what?”

  The engineer glanced around almost furtively before replying, “You know that the chief of Human Resources is forming a committee to draft a new constitution for us.”

  “Yes, so I have heard.”

  “And once the constitution is put into effect, we will vote on a government.”

  Urbain nodded as he asked himself, What is he driving at?

  “I presume that you will head that government,” Jaansen said.

  “Ah, yes. I suppose I will.”

  Looking quite earnest, Jaansen asked, “Are you prepared to make such a sacrifice? It will be a heavy responsibility.”

  Urbain began to reply, hesitated, then formed the words in his mind before answering, “I have thought about this quite seriously. It is a serious responsibility, you are entirely correct there. But since this is a scientific endeavor, it must have a scientist at its head. As chief scientist, I really have no choice in the matter. I must accept the responsibility.”

  “Assuming the people elect you,” said Jaansen.

  “Of course they will elect me. Who else could they vote for?”

  JUPITER ENCOUNTER MINUS ONE DAY

  “And where will you be when we fly past Jupiter?” asked Don Diego.

  Holly looked up from the raspberry bush she was planting along the embankment. “In my office,” she said with a smile. “I’ve got to get my work done sometime.”

  The old man wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of a gloved hand. “You don’t consider what we are doing as work?”

  “This is fun. I mean, it’s physical labor, y’know. But it’s fun. Besides, when I say ‘work’ I mean the job I was hired to do.”

  “You seem to spend part of each day here with me,” Don Diego said as he tugged at a stubborn coil of steel cable, half-buried in the ground.

  “I like being out here.” Holly realized that she enjoyed being outdoors, away from her office. She enjoyed working and talking with this older man, this serious yet lighthearted man who listened so well and had so much to teach her.

  “Careful,” Holly warned as he strained to pull the stubborn cable out of the ground. “That might be connected to something important.”

  He shook his head. “No, it is just some of the junk that the construction crews left behind. Instead of cleaning up the area as they were paid to do, they threw most of their leftovers down the embankment, figuring that no one would notice.”

  Holly went over to help him. Together they pulled the coiled length of cable free. Sure enough, it was connected to nothing. Just
leftover trash from the habitat’s construction.

  “Maybe we ought to organize cleaning crews to go through all the culverts and embankments,” Holly thought aloud. “We could prob’ly scavenge some useful materials.”

  “I worry more about the effects on our health. Steel rusts, and the rust seeps into our drinking water supplies.”

  “Everything’s purified when the water’s recycled,” Holly said.

  He nodded warily. “Still, I worry.”

  Holly returned to the raspberry bush, tamped down the freshly turned earth around it, then straightened up slowly, hands on the small of her back.

  “That’s enough for me,” she said, looking up at the long solar window. It was half in shade. “Dinnertime.”

  “Will you allow me to make dinner for you at my hacienda?” Don Diego asked, pulling off his stained, soiled gloves.

  Holly smiled. His hacienda was a one-bedroom apartment, she knew, just about the same size and layout as her own.

  “Why don’t I cook tonight?” she suggested.

  He looked embarrassed for a moment, then said, “You are a wonderful person in many ways, Holly, but I think I’m a better cook than you.”

  “Will you teach me how to make chili?” she asked eagerly.

  “Out of soymeat and pinto beans,” he replied. “Of course. I will even show you how to prepare the beans so they do not cause gas.”

  “Ain’t I ever gonna get dinner?” Manny Gaeta complained. “The cafeteria’s probably closed by now.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter, does it?” retorted Fritz von Helmholtz.

  Inside the armored suit, Gaeta was standing a good half-meter off the deck plates. He looked down at von Helmholtz through the heavily tinted visor of the helmet.

  “Cabrón,”Gaeta muttered. Fritz can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, he thought.

  Von Helmholtz looked up from his handheld and frowned at him. “We have to do the vacuum test first.”

  “It’s damned hot in here. I’m sweating.”

  “Turn up the cooling,” von Helmholtz said, unfazed.

  “I don’t wanna run down the batteries.”

  “We can recharge them overnight.”

  Gaeta knew he could stop the test by simply powering down the suit and popping the hatch. He’d been in the clunker for hours now, going through every procedure that they would need to record the Jupiter flyby. Gaeta felt tired and sweaty and uncomfortable.

  But Fritz is right, he knew. Check everything now. Make certain everything is working. Don’t want any surprises when you’re outside.

  “Vacuum test, right,” he muttered, scanning the Christmas tree of monitoring lights set into the collar of the helmet. Everything in the green, except for two amber lights: a low battery and an air fan that was running slower than design nominal. Maybe that’s why it’s so damn hot in here, he thought.

  Fritz was over by the big monitoring console, studying the diagnostics screen. “That fan will have to be replaced,” he said into the pin mike at his lips.

  One of the technicians nodded glumly. “There goes my dinner date,” he grumbled.

  Straightening up and turning toward Gaeta, Fritz curled a beckoning finger. “Come, my little sylph. To airlock number fourteen.”

  Gaeta began to walk. The suit felt stiff, despite the servomotors that were slaved to his arms and legs. “I feel like the Tin Woodsman in here,” he told Fritz. “Oil can! Oil can!”

  Fritz did not smile one millimeter. “The bearings are self-lubricating. As you exercise the suit, the joints will smooth out.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Gaeta followed Fritz toward the wide double doors of the lab. One of the other techs opened them. Gaeta was surprised to see Holly Lane standing in the hallway outside. Her eyes went wide when she saw the suit clunking toward her.

  He moved one arm slowly and flexed the fingers in a robotic wave. “Hi, Holly,” he called.

  “Manny? Is that you in there?”

  “It’s me.”

  She hefted a small plastic bag. “I brought you some chili. Homemade.”

  Von Helmholtz said, “We have no time for a meal at present. We are very busy.”

  “Come on along, Holly,” Gaeta called. “We’re goin’ down to airlock fourteen.” He resumed his plodding walk out into the hallway.

  “You’re going outside now?” Holly asked, scampering out of his way.

  “Naw. The Safety guys nixed my EVA. They got a whole crew out there to take on the fuel tanks comin’ up from Jupiter. I’ll just stay in the ’lock while they open it to the outside, keep out of their way. We’ll vid the Jupiter pass tomorrow; that’s when we’ll be closest.”

  “Can I watch?”

  “Sure,” Gaeta said, enjoying the nervous tic in Fritz’s right cheek. “Come on along.”

  TANKER GRAHAM

  “Hey, Tavalera, look sharp now, we’re starting the rendezvous maneuver.”

  Raoul Tavalera grumbled an obscenity under his breath. I know we’re starting the frigging rendezvous maneuver, he answered the skipper silently. Why the fuck else are we out here?

  The Graham was little more than a pair of powerful fusion engines and a habitation pod that housed its crew of two: the hardassed skipper and Tavalera, who was counting the days until his obligatory Public Service duty was finished and he could return to his native New Jersey. Once he got back, he planned to kiss the ground and never, ever leave the surface of planet Earth again.

  Cramped little Graham towed three enormous spheres full of the hydrogen and helium isotopes that fed fusion engines. They would soon be attached to the approaching habitat; once that task was finished, Graham and her two-person crew could return to the relative safety and dubious luxury of station Gold, in orbit around massive Jupiter.

  The skipper was buckled into her command chair, her ugly, pasty face almost completely hidden beneath her sensor helmet. All Tavalera could see of her was her mean, lantern jaw and the cruddy coveralls that she’d been wearing ever since they had left the space station, four days ago.

  When Tavalera had first come out to Jupiter he had been excited by the prospect of skimming the Jovian clouds. He pictured a daredevil operation, diving into the upper fringes of Jupiter’s swirling clouds, scooping those isotopes out of the planet’s incredibly deep atmosphere. Risky and exciting — and vitally necessary. Jovian fusion fuels fed civilization’s electrical power generators and nuclear rockets all across the solar system, from Earth out to the Asteroid Belt and beyond.

  Back then, Tavalera had envisioned an exhilarating life of thrilling missions into Jupiter’s clouds and swarms of adoring chicks begging for his attention. The reality was boringly different. The screaming dives into the maelstrom of clouds were done by robot spacecraft, teleoperated from the safety of station Gold. Tavalera’s only flight missions were routine ferrying jobs, transferring fuel tanks to ships from the Earth/ Moon region or the Belt. And the women aboard the space station chose their men by rank, which meant that Tavalera — a mere grubby engineer doing his Public Service tour of duty — was quite low on the totem pole. Besides, he growled inwardly, most of the women were ugly, and the few pretty ones were likely to be dykes.

  He began to count the missions, count the days and hours and minutes until he could be released and go home. This mission had been particularly dull; four frigging days towing three enormous fuel containers, plodding out to a rendezvous point to meet the approaching habitat, on its way to Saturn. Tavalera’s own coveralls stunk with four days’ accumulated crud. The skipper had tweaked him about it, asked him why he couldn’t take a shower with his clothes on. Bitch! he thought.

  Now all he had to do was sit tight and watch the control panel displays while the skipper maneuvered those three huge tanks to the approaching habitat. It had been a difficult mission; they’d used up most of Graham’s own fuel climbing up over Jupiter’s north pole to get clear of the fifty million — electron-volt synchrotron radiation that hugged the planet�
��s equator. Then they had to maneuver farther from Jupiter than any of his earlier missions had gone, a full twenty diameters upsun, outside the bowshock of the planet’s enormous magnetosphere and its own fearsome radiation. Downsun the magnetosphere’s tail stretched all the way out to Saturn’s orbit.

  The main display screen showed the habitat in a false-color infrared image. Tavalera looked up at the observation window and saw it dimly outlined in sunlight that glinted off its long, tubular body. To him it looked like a section of sewer pipe floating silently through empty space.

  “Releasing tank number one,” said the skipper, mechanically.

  Tavalera saw that the release light winked on, green. Cranking up the magnification on his screen, he watched a small army of technicians in spacesuits and one-man transfer flitters hovering at the far end of the habitat, waiting to grapple the spherical tank and attach it to the flying sewer pipe.

  Tank one went smoothly, as did tank two.

  Then the skipper said, “Uh-oh.”

  Tavalera’s heart clutched in his chest. Trouble.

  “Got a hangup on tank three,” she said calmly. “You’ll have to go outside and clear it.”

  Tavalera had been dreading that possibility. He didn’t mind flying through the dead vacuum of space inside a ship, even a gnat-sized one like Graham. But being out there in nothing more than a flimsy space-suit — that was scary.

  The skipper raised the sensor helmet off her face. “Well, brightboy, didn’t you hear me?” she snapped. “Get into your suit! We’ve got to clear that hangup before that bugger of a habitat sails out of our range.”

  We, Tavalera muttered to himself. She said “we” have to clear the snag. But she means me. She’s staying in here.

  Reluctantly he unstrapped and pushed himself off his chair, floating to the rear of the module where the spacesuits were stored. It took only twenty minutes or so to get into the suit and connect all the lines, but from the way the skipper swore at him it seemed like hours. She came back to check him out, and did it so swiftly that Tavalera knew she couldn’t have done it right. Then she shoved him toward the airlock.