by Joe Haldeman
That would be true in an airplane, too. I told myself not to panic. I considered taking one of the pills, but instead just closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths.
When I opened my eyes, the gravity had fallen to 0.99. I'd lost a pound already, on the Space Elevator Diet. (Money back guarantee—in one week, your weight problem will be gone!)
That was one advantage we had over the old astronauts. They went straight from one gee to nothing, and about half of them got sick. We had a week to get used to it gradually. But we did have barf bags, too.
That made me glance down to the pocket on the side of the chair. I did not count the number of bags in the stack, but rather pulled out the magazines.
We didn't get paper magazines at home. These felt funny, kind of heavy and slippery. I guess that was like the clothes, nonflammable paper.
One was the Space Elevator News, with a sticker on it that said "take this copy home with you." Not to Mars, I think. The others were the weekend edition of the International Herald Tribune, which I'd read back at the hotel (for the comics), Time,International Photography, and Seventeen.
"God, you're reading a magazine?" Card said. "Look, South America!"
"I saw it miles ago," I said. But Earth really was starting to look like a planet, and we were only thirty miles up. I'd thought it would take a lot longer than that.
"You're free to unbelt now and walk around the carrier," Dr. Porter said. "Sometime before six o'clock, check off your dinner preference, and I'll call for you when it's ready." Doctor, chef, and waitress all in one, impressive. Though I suspected there wouldn't be much chefing involved, and I was right.
Once you got over the novelty of seeing the Earth out there, it was kind of like watching grass grow. I mean, it wasn't like low Earth orbit, where the real estate rolls along underneath you, constantly changing. I figured I could check it out once an hour, and tried the keyboard.
It worked pretty much like the console at home. Bigger picture and more detail. Out of curiosity I typed in a request for porn, and got an alphabetical menu that was a little daunting. I knew that Card would get ACCESS DENIED, which made me feel mature and privileged. (He'd probably devise a workaround in a couple of hours, but he could have it. I don't really get porn. After the first couple of times, it sort of looks like biology.)
There were a couple of thousand video and virtual channels, but unlike home, the console didn't know what I liked; there was no SUGGEST button. But I could goowiki anything.
The word "menu" started blinking in the corner of the screen, so I clicked on it. There were twelve standard choices for dinner, mostly American and Italian, with one Chinese and one Indian. Then there were ten "premium" meals, with wine, which had surcharges from $40 to $250. Some of them were French things I'd never heard of.
I clicked on beef stew, safe enough, and wondered whether Dad was going to rack up a huge bill ordering French stuff made of unspeakable parts of various animals. Mother would probably rein him in, but they both liked wine. There goes the family fortune.
You could toggle and zoom the window. I put the crosshairs on Puerto Villamil and cranked it up to 250X, the maximum. The image wobbled and vibrated, but then cleared up. I could see our hotel, and people walking around, the size of ants. With careful toggling, I found the rocky beach where I'd spent my last time actually alone.
"Hey," said a voice behind me, "that's where we met?" It was the pilot, of course, Paul Collins, crouching down so he could see what was on my screen. Was that impolite?
"Yeah, where you nailed that iguana with a rock. Or am I imagining things?"
"No, your memory is perfect. I wondered if you wanted to play some cards. We're getting a game together before anyone else claims the table upstairs."
I was flattered and a little nervous, that he had come down to find me. "Sure, if I know the game."
"Poker. Just for pennies."
"Okay. I could do that." The kids in high school had stopped playing poker with me because I always won, and they couldn't figure out how I was cheating. I wouldn't tell them my secret, which was no secret: fold unless you have something good. Most of the other kids just stayed in the game, trusting their luck, hoping to improve their hands at the last minute. That's idiotic, my Uncle Bert taught me; only one person is going to win. Make it be you, or be gone.
I got my purse out of the little suitcase and glanced at Card. He was wrapped up in a game or something, virtual headset on. Mental note: that way nobody can sneak up behind you and see what you're doing.
Upstairs, there were five people at the table, including Dad. "Uh oh," he said. "Might as well just give her the money."
"Come on, Dad. I don't always win."
He laughed. "Just when I'm in the game." He actually was a pretty bad poker player, not too logical for an engineer. But he played for fun, not money.
We spent a pleasant couple of hours playing Texas hold ‘em and seven-card stud. I dealt five-card stud a couple of times, the purest game, but that wasn't enough action for most of them.
Dad was way ahead when I left, which was both satisfying and annoying. I learned that pilot Paul plays pretty much like me, close to the chest. If he stayed in, he had something—or he bluffed so well no one found out.
I went in with ten dollars and left with twenty. That's another thing Uncle Bert taught me: decide before you sit down how much you're going to win or lose, and stop playing at that point, no matter how long you've been in the game. You may not make any friends if you win the first two hands and leave. But poker's not about making friends, he said.
The gravity was down to 0.95 when I went back to my chair, and I could almost tell the difference. It was a funny feeling like "Where did I leave my purse?"
I could just see North America coming up over the edge of the world. Zoomed in on Mexico City, a huge sprawl of places you probably wouldn't like to visit without an armed guard.
Card was still in virtual, doing something with aliens or busty blondes. I put on the helmet myself and chinned through some of the menu. Nothing that really fascinated me. Curious, I spent a few minutes in "Roman Games: Caligula," but it was loud and gory beyond belief. Settled into "midnight warm ocean calm," and set the timer for six, then watched the southern sky, the beautiful Cross and Magellanic Clouds, roll left and right as the small boat bobbed in the current. I fell asleep for what seemed like about one second, and the chime went off.
I unlocked the helmet and instantly wished I was back on the calm sea. Someone had heard the dinner bell and puked. They couldn't wait for zero-gee? There went my appetite.
After a few minutes there was a double chime from the monitor and a little food icon, a plate with wavy lines of steam, started blinking in the corner. I went upstairs to get it, hoping I could eat up there.
I was the second person up the ladder, and there was a short line forming behind me. They said they would call ten people at a time for dinner, I guess at random.
There were ten white plastic boxes on the galley table, with our seat numbers. I grabbed mine and snagged a place at the center table, across from the rich kid, Barry.
He had the same thing I did, a plate with depressions for beef stew with a hard biscuit, a stack of small cooked carrots, and a pile of peas, all under plastic. Everything was hot in the middle and cool on the outside.
"I guess we can say good-bye to normal food," he said, and I wondered what dinner normally was to him. Linen and crystal, sumptuous gourmet food dished out by servants? "Water boils at 170 degrees, at this pressure," he continued. "It doesn't get hot enough to cook things properly."
"Yeah, I read about coffee and tea." All instant. The stew was kind of chewy and dry. The carrots glowed radioactively and the peas were a lurid bright green and tasted half raw.
Funny, the peas started to roll around on their own. A couple jumped off the plate. There was a low moan that seemed to come from everywhere.
"What the hell?" Barry said, and started to stand up.
&
nbsp; "Please remain seated," Dr. Porter shouted over the sound. The floor and walls were vibrating. "If you're not in your assigned seat, don't return to it until the climber stops."
"Stops?" he said. "What are we stopping for?"
"Probably not to pick up new passengers," I said, but my voice cracked with fear.
Dr. Porter was standing with her feet in stirrup-like restraints, her head inside a VR helmet, her hands on controls.
"There isn't any danger," her muffled voice said. "The climber will stop for a short time while the ribbon repair vehicle separates to repair a micrometeorite hole." That was the squat machine on top of the climber. It separated with a clang and a lurch; we swayed a little.
I swallowed hard. So we were stuck here until that thing stitched up the hole in the tape. If it broke, we'd shortly become a meteorite ourselves. Or a meteor, technically, if we burned up before we hit the ground.
"I heard it happens about every third or fourth flight," Barry said.
I'd read that, too, but it hadn't occurred to me that it would be scary. Stop, repair the track, move on. I swallowed again and shook my head hard. Two children were crying and someone was retching.
"Are you all right?" Barry asked, a quaver in his voice.
"Will be," I said through clenched teeth.
"How about them Gators?"
"What? Are you insane?"
"You said you live in Gainesville," he said defensively.
"Don't follow football." An admission that could get me burned at the stake in some quarters.
"Me, neither." He paused. "You win at poker?"
"A thousand," I said. "I mean ten bucks. A thousand pennies."
"Might as well be dollars. Nothing to spend it on."
Interesting thing for him to say. "You could buy stuff when we stop at the Hilton."
"Yeah, but you couldn't carry it with you. Unless you have less than ten kilograms."
Maybe I should've saved a few ounces, bring back an Orbit Hilton T-shirt. Be the only one on the block.
The pilot Collins sat down next to Barry. "Thrills and chills," he said.
"Routine stuff, right?" Barry said.
He paused a moment, and said, "Sure."
"You've seen this happen before?" I said.
"In fact, no. But I haven't ridden the elevator that many times," He looked past me, to where Dr. Porter was doing mysterious things with the controls.
"Paul ... you're more scared than I am."
He settled back into the chair, as if trying to look relaxed. "I'm just not used to not being in control. This is routine," he said to Barry. "It's just not my routine. I'm sure Porter has everything under control."
His face said that he wasn't sure.
"You're free to walk around now," Dr. Porter said, her head still hidden. (I suppose pilots can walk around all they want.) "We'll be done here in less than an hour. You should be in your seats when we start up again."
Barry relaxed a little at that, and turned his attention back to dinner.
Paul didn't relax. He stood up slowly and took the vial of white pills from his pocket. He shook out two into his hand and headed for the galley, to pick up a squeeze-bottle of water. He took the pills and went back to his seat.
Barry hadn't seen that, his back to the galley. "You're not eating," he said.
"Yeah." I took a small bite of the beef, but it was like chewing on cardboard. Hard to swallow. "You know, I'm not all that hungry. I'll save it for later." I pressed the plastic back down over the top and went over to the galley.
The refrigerator wouldn't open—not keyed to my thumbprint—so I took the plate and a bottle of water back down to my seat.
Card was reading a magazine. "That food?"
"Mine, el Morono. Wait your turn." I slid it under my seat but kept the water bottle. The pilot had taken two pills; I took three.
"What, you scared?"
"Good time to take a nap." I resisted telling him that if the Mars pilot was scared, I could be scared, too, thank you very much.
I pulled the light blanket over me. It fastened automatically on the other side, a kind of loose cocoon for zero-gee.
I reached for the VR helmet, but it was locked, a little red light glowing. Making sure everyone could hear emergency announcements, I supposed. Like "The ribbon has broken; everybody take a deep breath and pray like hell."
After about a minute, the pills were starting to drag my eyelids down, even though the anxiety, adrenaline, was trying to keep me awake. Finally, the pills won.
9
Losing Weight
I slept about ten hours. When I woke up it was right at midnight; the elevator restarting hadn't awakened me. The window said we'd gone 2250 miles and we were at 0.41 gee. You could see the whole Earth as a big globe. I took the pen out of my pocket and dropped it experimentally. It seemed to hesitate before falling, and then drifted down in no hurry.
It's one thing to see that on the cube, but quite another to have it happening in your own world. We were in space, no doubt about it.
I unbuckled and pointed myself toward the john. Walking felt strange, as if I was full of helium or something. It was actually an odd combination of energy and light-headedness, not completely pleasant. Partly the gravity and partly the white pills, I supposed.
I went up the ladder with no effort, barely touching the rungs. You could learn to like this—though we knew what toll it eventually would take.
Probably the last time I'd sit on a regular toilet. I should ask the machine when we were due to hit a quarter-gee and switch to the gruesome one. Go join the line just before. Or not. I'd be living with the sucking thing for months; one day early or late wouldn't mean anything.
My parents were both zipped up, asleep. Several people were snoring; guess I'd have to get used to that.
There were four people I didn't know talking quietly at the table. Downstairs, two people were playing chess while two others watched. I took the copy of Seventeen from my chair and walked over to the bike machine. Might as well get started on saving my bones.
The machine was set on a hill-climbing program, but I really didn't want to be the first person aboard to work up a sweat. So I clicked it to "easy" and pedaled along while reading the magazine.
So little of it was going to be useful or even meaningful for the next five years. Hot fashion tips! ("Get used to blue jumpsuits.") Lose that winter flab! ("Don't eat the space crap they put in front of you.") How to communicate with your boyfriend! ("E-mail him from 250 million miles away.")
I hadn't really had a boyfriend since Sean, more than a year ago. Knowing that I was going to be on another planet for five years put a damper on that.
It wasn't that simple. The thing with Sean, the way he left, hurt me badly enough that the idea of leaving the planet was pretty attractive. No love life, none of that kind of pain.
Did that make me cold? I should have fallen helplessly in love with someone and pined away for him constantly, bursting into tears whenever I saw the Earth rise over the morning horizon. Or did I see that in a bad movie?
There weren't any obviously great prospects aboard the carrier. They might start to look better as the years stretched on.
I did start to cry a little and the tears just stayed in my eyes. Not enough gravity for them to roll down your cheek. After pedaling blind for a minute, I wiped my eyes on a nonabsorbent sleeve and cranked on. There was an article on Sal the Sal, a hot new cube star that everyone but me had heard of; I decided to read every word of that and then quit.
He was so sag beyond sag it was disgusting. Fascinating, too. Like if you can care little enough about everything you automatically become famous. You ask him for an autograph and he pulls out a rubber stamp, and everybody just comes because it's so sag. Forgive me for not joining in. I bet Card knows his birth date and favorite color.
Pedaling through all that responsible journalism did put me on the verge of sweating, so I quit and went back to my seat. Card had put aside th
e helmet and was doing a word puzzle.
"Card," I asked, "what's Sal the Sal's favorite color?"
He didn't even look up. "Everybody knows it's black. Makes him look 190 pounds instead of 200."
Fair enough. I handed him the magazine. "Article on him if you want to read it."
He grunted thanks. "Five letter word meaning ‘courage'? Second letter P, last letter K?"
I thought for a couple of seconds. "Spunk."
He frowned. "You sure?"
"It's old fashioned." Made me think of the pilot, who seemed to have "spunk," Space Force and all, but was scared by an elevator incident.
I sat down and buckled in and got scared all over again myself. He had a point, after all. Accidents could happen on the way to Mars, but nothing that would send us hurtling to a flaming death in Earth's atmosphere.
Don't be a drama queen, Dad would say. But the idea of dying that way made my eyes feel hot and dry.
10
Social Climbing
The fear faded as we fell into routine, climbing up toward the Hilton midpoint. We grew imperceptibly lighter every hour, obviously so day by day. By the sixth day, we'd lost 90 percent of our gravity. You could go upstairs without touching the ladder, or cross the room with a single step. There were a lot of collisions, getting used to that.
It was getting close to what we'd live with on the way to Mars. We wore gecko slippers that lightly stuck to the floor surface, and there were gray spots on the wall where they would also adhere.
The zero-gee toilet wasn't bad once you got used to it. It uses flowing air instead of water and you have to pee into a kind of funnel, which is different. The crapper is only four inches in diameter and it uses a little camera to make sure you're centered. A little less attractive than my yearbook picture.
I hope Dr. Porter gets paid really well. Some of the little ones didn't climb the learning curve too swiftly, and she had to clean up after them.
It didn't help the flavor of the food any to know where the water came from. Get used to the idea or starve, though. I found three meals on the menu I could eat without shuddering.
