by Ben Bova
Thrasher nodded. The stuffiness in his head was gone.
“I’ll go set up the VR equipment,” he said.
“Fine,” said Polk. “I’m going to give the guys a hand unloading cargo.”
Thrasher looked up and down the passageway. Polk pointed. “VR center’s that-a-way.”
“Right.”
“You’re okay now?” the astronaut asked.
“I’m fine. And I really appreciate your keeping my bout of nausea just among ourselves.”
Polk’s easy grin spread across his rugged face. “We’re all members of the team, Art. We look after each other.”
4
INTERVIEW
Sure enough, it was Vicki Zane who’d wangled the task of interviewing Thrasher via the virtual reality link.
As Thrasher wormed his arms and legs into the full-body sensor suit, he felt like a caterpillar morphing into a butterfly—in reverse. The dark gray gloves felt nubby against his hands; even through his coveralls he could feel the scratchiness of the sleeve’s sensors. It’s like wearing a suit made out of Brillo pads, he grumbled to himself.
At last he pulled on the helmet and slid its visor over his eyes. It was blank; he felt blind.
Then a voice from the ground said, “We’re receiving your signal loud and clear, Mr. Thrasher.”
“Good,” he said into the microphones built into the helmet. “How about giving me a picture?”
“Coming right up, on three. One . . . two . . .”
A swirl of colors and then he was looking at Vicki. She seemed to be standing in a few feet in front of him, looking slightly uneasy. Thrasher knew she was wearing a sensor suit and helmet, just as he was, but the image he saw was Vicki wearing a form-hugging cherry-red skirted suit, the jacket cut low enough to show some cleavage, the skirt not quite knee length.
“Hello, Art,” she said, beaming a bright smile at him.
“Hello yourself.”
“We’ll be on the air in less than five minutes. Is there anything I ought to know? More than the briefing your media people gave us?”
He shook his head. “I’m just going to walk you through the wheel, show you the crew quarters, work stations, command center, stuff like that.”
“Okay,” she said.
A disembodied voice said, “Reception is good. We go live in three minutes.”
“It’s good to see you again, Art,” Vicki said. “I’ve missed you.”
“Good to see you, too.”
“I understand you married your secretary.”
“Linda’s a lot more than a secretary.”
“Of course.”
“I mean, she runs the office. I couldn’t do without her.”
With a sly smile, Vicki asked, “Is that why you married her?”
“I love her,” Thrasher snapped.
“Uh-huh.”
The disembodied voice announced, “Two minutes.”
Arching an eyebrow, Vicki asked, “Is she as good in bed as I am?”
Thrasher bristled. “Better,” he snapped.
Her eyes went wide, then Vicki laughed. “You poor sap, you really are in love, aren’t you?”
“There’s a lot more to a good marriage than sex,” Thrasher said. And he realized, for the first time in his life, that it was true. Linda was wonderful in bed, warm and willing, but that was only a part of their relationship. They shared their lives, their work, their fun, their interests, their entire existence. That’s what marriage is, he told himself. That’s what I’ve been missing—until now.
Vicki was persistent, though. “I hear you can use virtual reality for lots of different kinds of simulations.”
Guardedly, Thrasher replied, “That’s true.”
“Like porno films, only better. Full sensory experience.” She was grinning wickedly now.
“So I’ve been told,” Thrasher said.
“Maybe after the interview is over we could test it out?”
“Vicki, I’m married.”
“But you’re ‘way up there in space. It could be a first! A breakthrough!”
Thrasher sighed. “Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.”
“Your loss,” she said.
Thrasher said nothing, but he remembered the nights he’d spent with Vicki. They were spectacular, and she knew it. But my reprobate days are over, he reminded himself. I’ve got something very precious with Linda and I’m not going to endanger it, not for anything.
He made a mental note to send Linda some flowers as soon he got back down on the ground.
He stood there, feeling awkward, saying nothing, until the director started the countdown to the interview.
Vicki smoothed her auburn hair with an automatic gesture, then turned on the full wattage of her smile and said, “Hello. I’m Victoria Zane, and through the wonders of virtual reality technology I’m going to take a tour through the Mars One spacecraft, in orbit nearly four hundred miles above the Earth, without leaving the studio in which this broadcast originates.”
And that’s exactly what she did. Thrasher walked her through the wheel’s central passageway, opened doors to the astronauts’ quarters, the galley, work stations and mini-laboratories, the command center from which the spacecraft was controlled. Vicki oohed and aahed in the right places, asked a few questions. Thrasher spent some time in one of the crew’s quarters, showing how comfortable the explorers were going to be on their way to Mars, with a snug built-in bunk and compact private lavatory.
He knew that most of the television audience saw what he was seeing, heard what he was saying. But the few people who had access to virtual reality equipment felt as if they were aboard Mars One, walking through the vehicle as if they were actually inside it.
At last the tour was finished; Thrasher stood almost precisely at the spot where he’d started the show.
“How long will it take to get to Mars?” Vicki asked.
“A little more than six months,” said Thrasher.
“And your crew of seven men and women will be living in this vessel all that time?”
“Right,” he said. “They’ll spend another six months on the surface of Mars, and then return back here to Earth.”
“What about radiation? Isn’t there dangerous radiation in space?”
Thrasher nodded. “The ship’s hull provides enough protection from the normal levels of radiation in space.”
Her eyes narrowing, Vicki said, “Yes, but aren’t there solar storms that can send out a huge blast of radiation, far above the normal levels?”
She’s done some homework, he thought. “That’s true,” he admitted. “We have a storm cellar for that. It’s an enclosed space protected by a powerful magnetic field that deflects the radiation particles.”
“Will it be safe enough?”
“The best engineers in the world have designed and tested it. It’ll be safe enough.”
“How long will the crew have to stay in the storm cellar?”
“Until the radiation levels go down. A couple of days. Maybe three or four.”
“Can we see the storm cellar?”
Typical newshound, Thrasher growled inwardly. Ignore all the good stuff and concentrate on a possible problem.
“It’s in the main body of the ship, down among the propellant tanks and other stores. We can’t get to it while we’re in these VR suits.”
Vicki nibbled at the radiation danger for a few more questions and Thrasher stonewalled her. Come on, he urged silently, wrap it up.
At last she put on her smile again and said, “Well, thank you for a fascinating tour of the Mars One spacecraft, Mr. Thrasher. I’m sure everyone wishes your crew the best of luck.”
“Thank you, Ms. Zane.”
Looking past Thrasher, Vicki said, “This is Victoria Zane, aboard the Mars One spacecraft, thanks to the wonders of virtual reality.”
Thrasher nodded. This ought to start sales of the VR sets climbing. Greg Sampson ought to be happy.
5
RETURN
The Mars One galley was a compact compartment just big enough for all seven of the crew to sit and eat together. Since there were only five people aboard the vehicle, two chairs at the circular table remained empty.
“How’d the interview go?” Bill Polk asked Thrasher.
Nodding as he swallowed a bite of sliced veal, Thrasher replied, “Fine. She hammered on the radiation problem, but I think I explained it away well enough.”
Judine McQuinn took a sip of fruit juice, then said, “She didn’t ask about sex?”
Thrasher’s brows hiked up. “No, she didn’t.”
“Five men and two women living cheek by jowl for nearly two years,” McQuinn said. “That’s the first question I would’ve asked.”
Polk muttered, “We’re all adults here.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” said McQuinn, with a mischievous smile.
Thrasher stared at her. “The psychologists have gone over this with each of you. You’ve all been deemed able to control yourselves.” Then he added, “Haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said Polk, sternly.
McQuinn went on, “Of course, as the team’s medical officer, I can prescribe medications if any of the crew gets rambunctious.”
One of the technicians, Zachary Deevers, young and darkly good-looking, said with a smirk, “If I was locked inside this tin can for six months with you, Judy-girl, I’d need a lot of medicating.”
She gave him a rueful look. “Zach, you’d just have to control yourself.”
Zachary countered, “But what if I don’t want to control myself?”
Polk broke into their banter. “That’s why we have airlocks, kid.”
Zachary looked shocked. Polk explained, “As captain of this ship, one of my responsibilities will be to maintain discipline.”
“Captain Bligh,” the other technician muttered.
“If I have to be,” said Polk, totally serious.
They finished the meal in desultory small talk, then the technicians headed to their separate work stations. Thrasher got up and, with nothing to do, walked back to the compartment that he was to sleep in.
He sat on the built-in bunk and picked the phone handset off the shelf that ran along the bulkhead beside it. The ship’s intercom was linked to its radio, and by relaying its signal through communications satellites, Thrasher could reach any telephone on Earth.
He punched up his own home number. It was almost eight p.m. in Houston. Linda should be—
“Hello?” Linda’s voice.
“Hi!” he said.
“Art! I saw you this afternoon. I took the VR tour with you.”
“How’d you like it? How’d it come across?”
“Wonderful! It was like being there.”
“Good.”
A heartbeat’s hesitation. Then Linda said, “Ms. Zane tried to scare people about radiation.”
“Linda, she’s a professional newsperson. They always try to find something to pick on.”
“You stood up to her very well.”
“Thanks.”
“She thinks she’s a sexpot, doesn’t she?”
Thrasher thought, Vicki is a sexpot. But he said, “All part of her TV personality.”
“Come on, Art, I know better.”
“That was over a long time ago, Linda. You know that.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, her voice warmer.
Thrasher got an idea. “Do you have the VR rig in the apartment?”
“No, it’s in the office.”
“Oh. Too bad.”
He heard her giggle. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
As innocently as he could manage, Thrasher replied, “A scientific experiment, Linda. A first. A breakthrough.”
“The office is just across the hall. I could go to the room where the VR equipment is stashed.”
She’s calling my bluff, he realized. Shaking his head, he said, “We’d need somebody to operate the system.”
“Three’s a crowd.”
“Yeah. I’ll be back home tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good.” Then, almost wistfully, Linda added, “Although it would be awfully interesting to try it.”
“Maybe. But I’d rather be there with you.”
“Me too!”
Thrasher slept fitfully, dreaming about having sex in zero gravity. He was floating naked in space with Linda, although now and then she morphed into Vicki and even his first wife. He woke up when the alarm clock built into the bulkhead started to buzz.
Sitting up in the bunk, he rubbed the cobwebs out of his eyes and muttered to himself, “Sex in zero-g. Yeah. With you upchucking all over her.”
All through his shower, shave and dressing in the pocket-sized lavatory he thought about the return flight. I’ll be in zero-g again for at least half an hour, he knew. I’m not going to make a jackass of myself again. He slapped two of the anti-nausea patches on his neck, one on either side, and went to the galley for breakfast.
Thrasher and Bill Polk suited up for the return flight, with Zach Deevers checking them over.
As they clomped toward the hatch that led out of the rotating wheel, Polk said, “Remember, no sudden head movements. Keep your head still and you’ll be okay.”
“Okay,” Thrasher said, keeping himself from nodding.
“Everybody gets woozy in microgravity. It’s normal. If we were going to spend a day or more in it you’d adapt and start to enjoy it.”
Thrasher made a grim smile. “If you say so, chief.”
Polk chuckled and pulled open the hatch. Thrasher saw the metal bulkhead sliding past.
“When we reach the open hatchway, you step right through. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Okay.”
The hatch appeared and Thrasher jumped through. His stomach immediately started crawling up toward his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut. He was falling, fluttering like a leaf falling from a tree.
Polk stepped through and grasped Thrasher’s arm firmly in a gloved hand. “You okay?”
Thrasher opened his eyes. “Yeah,” he said shakily. “I’m okay.”
“You’ll be fine. Come on.”
Together they squeezed through the hatch of the spaceplane and settled into their seats. Thrasher tried to keep his head perfectly rigid as he connected his suit’s lines to the outlets in the control panel. Polk busily ran through the countdown with ground control, then said tightly, “Disconnect in thirty seconds.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Thrasher saw that Polk did not move his head as he spoke. He’s feeling it too! Thrasher somehow felt better.
Sitting in the acceleration couch, Thrasher watched the display screen on the control panel as Polk disconnected the spaceplane from Mars One. A gentle push from the vernier thrusters in the plane’s nose and they backed away from the docking hatch.
“Free orbit,” Polk said to mission control.
Thrasher knew it would be half an hour before they fired their main engines and started their descent into the atmosphere. Thirty minutes. I can handle that.
“How you doing, Art?”
“Fine,” Thrasher said. And he realized he meant it. He was almost enjoying the feeling of weightlessness. As long as you don’t move your head, he warned himself.
Once Polk lit off the main rocket a feeling of weight returned. The plane bit into the atmosphere and began its jolting, shuddering flight through re-entry. Thrasher knew they were surrounded now by white-hot gases, air heated to incandescence by the speed of their flight through it. He could hear the howling, screaming sound of the air roaring past them.
His stomach felt almost normal now, although the plane was vibrating so hard his view of the control panel was blurry. Thrasher was glad they had no windows. He didn’t want to see the fiery hell they were diving through.
Polk sat back and folded his arms across his chest. The display screen showed nothing but a freakish white hash.
At last the ride smoothe
d out and the screen cleared to show blue-gray ocean. The water looked iron-hard.
“Through re-entry blackout,” Polk said.
Mission control confirmed, “We have reacquired your signal.”
Now they were flying like an airplane. Brown wrinkled mountains splotched with patches of late winter snow flashed past in the display screen. Polk swung the stubby-winged vehicle around in a series of wide turns, bleeding off velocity, then flared it out for a smooth approach to the runway at Spaceport America.
The wheels hit the ground solidly and Polk lowered the nose. “We’re down,” he said, breaking into a satisfied smile.
Thrasher felt glad to be back safely but happier still that he didn’t upchuck this time. Then he remembered that he wanted to send Linda a bouquet of flowers.
6
DEATH . . . AND ANALYSIS
It was nearly five p.m. when Thrasher finally got back to his office in Houston. He trotted down the circular stairway from the roof and breezed into the outer office. It was decked with flowers: roses, peonies, carnations, daisies—the room was ablaze with colors and filled with the soft aromas of spring.
But instead of greeting him with a kiss and a mug of ginger beer, Linda was sitting at her desk, her head sunk in her hands.
“Hey!” he snapped. “Welcome home the returning astronaut!”
Linda looked up; her eyes were red from crying. Thrasher rushed to her. “What’s the matter, kid?”
She gestured to the phone console. “It’s Vince Egan. He’s dead. Suicide.”
“Vince? Dead?”
Nodding miserably, Linda said, “His brother just phoned. They found him in the garage, in his car with the motor running. Carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“But that doesn’t mean it was suicide,” Thrasher said. “It must’ve been an accident.”
Linda shook her head. “He had stuffed rags along the base of the garage door. To make sure the gas couldn’t get out. He killed himself.”
Thrasher felt as if he were back in space, weightless. He sagged onto the edge of Linda’s desk. “I can’t believe it. Vince wasn’t the type to kill himself.”
