Mrs. Wargin told me that she was wearing a simple blue pantsuit, with a brooch given to her by her mother, and had her hair trimmed in a fashionable “lunar” cut.
Friday morning, I carried my bag to the #3 airlock, which just accommodated lunar buses or BusyBees. I was pretty confident that my cast wouldn’t be a problem, but the smart thing to do was to run myself through a sim to make sure I understood the limitations in my range of motion in the context of the cockpit.
BusyBees were basically just a tube with an engine, and on other trips I flew them multiple times a day, running construction workers, miners, or geologists out to different sites. Elma described it as being a glorified bus driver.
And yet … there was a joy in flight, regardless of the craft. Flying in vacuum is so unlike flight on Earth. Some of it is the lack of wind, sure, but the rest is the way your relationship with mass and velocity takes on the purest expression of each. And flying in space is different than flying over the Moon. Both are vacuum, yes, but the clarity of the lunar landscape gave a sense of speed that you did not get in true space.
And then, of course, night flights when the stars come out. I remember seeing stars from the surface of Earth, but I’ve always been a city girl, so they have been muted pale things that fluttered against a sky lit by sodium vapor lamps. On the Moon, when I’m flying at night, it is as if someone has spilled diamonds on black velvet. I would kill for a gown that looked like the stars in space.
I’d also kill for a chance to launch one of the big rockets, but I wasn’t holding my breath on that.
* * *
Frisch ducked his head into the cabin. “Oh, good. You’re here.” He slung his Crew Preference Kit off his shoulder and headed for one of the lockers. “As soon as you’re finished with precheck, we can suit up.”
I tucked the log back into its elastic holder and stood up. “Ready.”
“I find myself unsurprised.” He pushed his CPK into the locker, efficiently securing the bag with temp-stow tethers. “I was thinking to start with the South Pole outpost, since it is further, and then work our way back.”
“That sounds sensible.” I followed him out of the BusyBee to the donning room adjacent to the airlocks.
The room hummed as the morning shift prepped for a day of work. Some were heading out to do construction at the habitat being constructed in the Marius Hills lava tube and others to do prospecting for water at the South Pole. When the base was new, the donning room had been coed to conserve space. I think at some point the original plan had been to split it the way they had the crew quarters, but that never rose to the top of the priority list. The fact was that getting into an intravehicular pressure suit didn’t require being naked.
If we were going to be donning a full extravehicular mobility unit, that would be different, but the IVP suits we wore in transit were just meant to protect us in case of depressurization. We didn’t need a liquid cooling and ventilation garment or a battery pack, just an umbilical to connect us to the main ship for air, power, and comms.
On my first trips to the Moon, we had helped each other change in tiny spacecraft crowded with instrumentation. These days astronauts had the luxury of having suit techs on the Moon. This was an unexpected benefit of the fact that the colonists weren’t as highly trained as full astronauts. Having someone else check and prep the suits was safer.
My assigned IVP suit hung in place on the 6B donning stand with several others, prepped for surface work as I’d requested on the work order. Florina Morales smiled as I walked over and held out a pair of under-gloves. “Good morning. How was Earth?”
“Hectic.” I took the thin, warm wool, which would protect my hands inside the suit, and answered the question she was really asking. “I saw your husband at the Astronauts’ Husbands Club. He’s doing well.”
“He got a promotion!” She smiled, cheeks glowing with pride. “Project lead.”
“Splendid!” Her husband had been there the night Nathaniel was poisoned. Did that mean I needed to suspect her, too? Mr. Morales was an engineer with access to the rockets. Potentially, he had fallen in with the wrong crowd because he wanted his wife home. Or perhaps I could go an hour without suspecting the entire Moon. “You’re heading downplanet on the next rocket, aren’t you?”
“Depends on how quickly they decontaminate the spaceport.” She glanced across the room to where Frisch was pulling on his own set of gloves. “Have you heard anything?”
So many things. “Not really.” The fabric glove was snug going on over my cast. Fortunately, the IVP gloves and boots were modular so you could swap them out depending on activity. “Did you put the extra-large glove on the left?”
“Yes, why did you—” She did a double take at my cast and beckoned for the under-gloves. “No. Absolutely not.”
“It’s the same connector.”
“No.” Stepping forward, Florina took my cast in hand and worked the cloth glove backwards as if I were a child. “First of all, did you clear flying with medical?”
I had not, but neither had they told me that I was grounded. “I’m flying with LCA Frisch.”
“Mm-hm. Second. The suit is not rated to have hard plaster inside it.”
“There will be wool between me and the suit.”
“No. It’s not rated to have anything rigid inside it. At all. No. Absolutely not.” She stepped between me and the suit, arms crossed, as if I were going to push her down and get into it anyway.
I pivoted, looking for Frisch. The BusyBees were rated as a shirtsleeve environment for passengers. Even the pilots flew with helmets open, so perhaps I could go without a suit. Even as I thought that, the smarter, more professional part of my brain told me that this wasn’t a problem that I could solve. Space was dangerous. It was easy to get complacent with shirtsleeves and cafeterias and movie nights, but we were still in space.
Vacuum was just outside these walls.
Frisch had zipped the front of his suit. His tech stood by with outer gloves ready. Taking the gloves, Frisch looked past the tech to me. He cocked his head to the side in question.
Grimacing, I lifted my cast. His gaze went from it to the suit to the gloves. His head dropped back to stare at the ceiling. With a sigh, he handed his gloves back to the suit tech and beckoned me.
Swallowing, I arrived at his station as he undid the outer zipper on his suit. My cheeks felt like a plasma field on reentry. “I’m sorry, I’ll find another pilot for you.”
He undid the inner zipper, looking over my shoulder at the clock on the wall. “I’m going to my office. If they can get someone suited up by noon, then we’ll reverse the planned order, starting with the near outpost first.” Shrugging the suit off his shoulders, he squinted at the floor. “Failing that, we’ll reschedule for Monday.”
That was three days away. “Perhaps tomorrow would—”
“I have explained my restrictions and am uninterested in discussing this here.” Frisch stepped out of his suit, leaving the tech to gather the heavy thing from the floor. “If going today is advisable, then find me a pilot who can actually fly.”
* * *
I climbed the spiral stairs into the common area of the married couples quarters. It had fewer doors, as each cubby was a double-wide. The floor outside the Lindholms’ had a welcome mat that Myrtle had crocheted from strips of discarded crewlock bags. I stood on it, raised my hand to pat the plastic sheeting, and hesitated. It was so early. They might still be asleep.
I patted the door. Through the thin plastic, Eugene said, “Who is it?”
“It’s Nicole.”
Myrtle murmured, “Isn’t she supposed to be flying?”
I heard cloth rustle and the bed creak. A moment later, belting a bathrobe, Eugene pulled the sheeting open and looked out. “What’s wrong?”
Holding up my cast, I tried to be as clear and direct as possible. “I can’t wear a suit. Frisch needs another pilot by noon.”
He straightened, pulling his head back with under
standing. “I’m cleared to return to duty, but medical won’t clear me to fly until next week.”
“Sorry—I wanted to know if Myrtle was available.”
Inside their cubby, the bed creaked again and a pair of feet slapped against the plastic floor. Myrtle rose to stand behind Eugene, a scarf knotted around her hair. “What do you need?”
“Frisch needs a pilot to take him out to the mining outposts.”
She shrugged and nodded. “Sure. Give me a minute.”
Eugene frowned and put his hand on her shoulder. “There are other pilots on the roster … What are you asking her to do, really?”
She raised her brows at him. “Are you trying to make a decision for me?”
“I’m just asking a question.”
Myrtle snorted and glared at him, tugging the strap of her negligee up on her shoulder. Pursing her lips, she still wore the remnants of that glare when she faced me and I nearly took a step back. Honestly, I was surprised that Eugene hadn’t been incinerated.
“Give us a minute.” Myrtle pulled the plastic sheeting closed.
Through the door, I could hear furious, hissing whispers. I stepped back, crossing the room to one of the plastic chairs on the far side. Sitting down, I looked at my cast, running my fingers over the plaster. Names covered it in loops of cursive Roman alphabet, flourishes of Arabic, and intricate hashmarks of Chinese. I still needed to talk to Kadyn, Imelda, and Luther. Maybe I really should throw a bridge party. I could ask Myrtle if she’d host with me. We could use one of the common rooms or perhaps I could host a small fête at the gallery.
The plastic sheeting slid open. I stood, and walked back, meeting Myrtle as she stepped out into the common room. She carried a CPK bag in one hand, and shook her head, lowering her gaze to the floor. “I have guesses about why you’re asking and I resent the hell out of you for not telling us. But I acknowledge the necessity.”
“We haven’t finished discussing this.” Eugene stepped out, zipping up a flight suit as if he were going to fly in her place. “Who wears the pants in this family?”
“On the Moon?” Myrtle shouldered her CPK bag. “We both do.”
* * *
I hurried down the corridor in the AdminMod and dashed through Frisch’s outer office. “I’ve got a pilot for you—Sorry.” I stopped just inside his door. Ana Teresa sat in the chair opposite Frisch’s desk and her shoulders were turned down as if she were exhausted. “Myrtle Lindholm is heading to the airlock to meet you.”
Frisch looked up from his desk, where he was reading a sheet of paper. He checked his watch and sighed. “Dr. Brandão, I’m sorry but I have another engagement.”
Ana Teresa lifted her head, eyes narrowing. “This cannot wait.”
“I understand that.” Frisch drummed his fingers on the desk next to a stack of teletype pages still in their accordion fold. “You have my approval to proceed as necessary, but use quarantine protocols as the last resort. The short-timers whose tour is up are already delayed because of the crash. Wargin will help you with requisitions and deconflicting the schedule.”
Quarantine? I knew there were some people who were under the weather, but I had no idea that it was something serious. “Certainly. We can sit down and go over that after the administrator leaves.”
Ana Teresa’s nose pinched with displeasure. “This needs to take priority.”
Sliding his chair back, Frisch stood with the careful grace of a long-timer. “I should be back from the outposts Sunday, but will be in radio contact if anything needs my immediate attention.”
I stepped back, out of the tiny office, to give him space to exit. “I will keep you informed.”
“Stop.” Ana Teresa stood, more awkwardly than Frisch, pushing off just a little too much and rising onto her toes with the force of acceleration. “You’re going to the outposts?”
“Yes … Are you thinking the flu is coming from there?”
“No. Did you not read— Flu-like symptoms, not the flu. High fever. Stiff neck, cramps in the legs.” She leaned over the desk and flipped to a page deeper in the report Frisch had been reading when I arrived. “There is a significant chance that this is polio.”
The room seemed to flash hot and cold. Polio. The numbers rose every year. What had been a childhood disease now took older and older people. Everyone knew someone who had been hit by it. Except … “We were vaccinated.”
Scowling, Frisch sat back at his desk, scanning the page. “Not those of us on the Moon.”
“No one? How is that possible?”
“For accuracy: fourteen people on the Moon have been vaccinated.” Ana Teresa’s exhaustion seemed to deepen. “Dr. Sabin’s vaccine is so new, supplies are limited, we were vaccinating based on launch schedule—the original launch schedule. The new hires have not been vaccinated yet and the vaccines intended for lunar residents were on the rocket that we lost.”
“Have you—Tell me that they at least vaccinated the medical staff.”
Even her scowl was tired. “I was vaccinated before we left. The other medical staff up here … It is a problem.”
Frisch turned another page of the document. “You say the early cases were all people who were on your ship followed by people who had contact with them?”
“Correct. The virus is spread through the alimentary tract—the gut—and with Eugene’s illness on the ship, our containment was not as good as it should have been.”
“Wait. I thought you said Eugene had food poisoning.” I had been so certain that someone had poisoned him. If he had been ill with polio, that changed the navigating conditions.
Ana Teresa stared at the pages in Frisch’s hand and looked uncertain for the first time, possibly ever. “Illnesses express differently in zero-g, so I might be wrong, but … the larger issue is that Dr. Sabin’s vaccine uses a live virus. It sometimes—rarely—stays alive in the gut for two weeks. If we had stuck with the original launch schedule, that would have all happened on Earth.”
I wanted another chair to appear in the office so I could drop into it. “So, anyone who got the vaccine might infect people?”
She held up her hand. “No. The vomit created the potential vector. My actual concern is with unvaccinated individuals, like the LCA, who had direct contact with Eugene after landing.”
Frisch pulled his head back like a stork that had eaten something distasteful. “Me? But I’m not sick.”
“You don’t have to be sick to be a carrier.” Ana Teresa spread her hands. “In fact, you’re at your most contagious before symptoms express.”
Slumping in his chair, Frisch stared at the doctor. “Mein Gott…” The pages seemed to wilt in his hands. The administrator licked his lips and lowered his gaze to the report. “There have been no cases at the outposts?”
“Not yet.”
He nodded, and I knew what was coming before he said it. I couldn’t even argue with him. “Then I cannot go.”
TWENTY-ONE
NEW APPROACH TO HOUSING IS WEIGHED IN CAPITOL
Subsidies for Rehabilitation of Rundown Buildings and for Rent Proposed
KANSAS CITY, April 19, 1963—President Denley’s housing advisers are studying two significant departures from past Meteor-relocation policy in the continuing effort to help needy families find decent homes.
Comms was part of the admin module, housed down the hall from Frisch’s tiny office. While they could patch through, they couldn’t guarantee a secure line into his office, which meant that we had to go to them. The small chamber at the front of comms had a few people waiting in chairs for a call home. Most of them were from one of the European contingents, since the time zones for that worked out best for a day call by Kansas time.
Frisch walked to the receptionist’s desk and loomed over her. “I need the IAC secure line, stat.”
She didn’t blink. “Yes, sir.”
“Two headsets.” I ignored Frisch’s double take; I was not letting him do this call alone because he would minimize everything.
“Yes.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Two headsets, please.”
“Of course. And Mrs. Wargin, there’s a letter for you in your box.” Turning to her roster, she drew her finger down the list. “That booth is in use. One moment while I clear it.”
While she went to boot someone out of the secure booth, I could feel the room behind me shift as people realized that something was up. The last thing we needed was for news about polio to get around the colony without being pitched correctly. It could cause panic. I kept my body language as relaxed as I could, but Frisch’s shoulders were hunched around his long neck. As much as I wanted to retrieve the letter from my box, I did not want to leave him unattended.
While we waited, I murmured, “What if Eugene goes with Myrtle? They could stay suited.”
He pursed his lips and shook his head, voice as low as mine. “I want to speak to the director and see how urgent the matter is.”
A scream of frustration built in the back of my throat, but we were going to have Clemons on the line in the next five minutes. I could wait that long. Assuming he was in the office. My smile was placid and encouraging. “That’s a prudent course.”
“LCA Frisch?” The receptionist reappeared with a group of engineers trailing her. “Your booth is ready.”
I followed Frisch to the booth, hearing bits of conversation in French, Swiss-German, and Spanish as we went down the little hall. Regardless of language, the patterns sounded like any call home. Recipes, birthdays, and expressions of longing.
Frisch opened the door and stepped into the secure booth. It was larger than the others, designed to have room for key personnel to make conference calls with the IAC on Earth. I shut the door—an actual door—sealing out sounds of the colony except for the ever-present hum of the fans. I picked up the second receiver and waited with Frisch as we were patched through Lunetta to Earth to Clemons’s secretary and finally to him.
The Relentless Moon Page 19
