by Allen Steele
“Uh, ah, yessir. My name’s…”
“Shut up. My name’s Bruce. Like it says here.”
He pointed to a tattoo on his left bicep, just under the T-shirt’s sleeve. Harris stared at it; it was a heart with a dagger thrust through it. A scroll underneath read “Virgin Bruce.”
Virgin Bruce grinned, displaying a gold-capped front tooth. The rest of his teeth looked as if they had been kicked at, many times. “Ain’t it pretty? What’s your name, kid?”
“B-Bob Harris. I…”
“I don’t give a shit. Where’re you from, B-Bob Harris?”
“San—California—I mean, San Francisco…”
“San Francisco!” A wide grin suddenly spread beneath the spade beard. “That’s the Grateful Dead’s town. You know the Dead, Harris?”
Harris swallowed. He was familiar with the Grateful Dead, even if it was only from listening to his father play their old records every night of his childhood. Once the old man had taken him to a Grateful Dead concert, to see the band—which now included younger musicians teamed with the graying survivors of the original group—but the music had never stuck on him as it had on his father.
“Yeah,” he quickly agreed. “I, uh, really like the Dead… man,” he added. This guy couldn’t be as old as his father, though, could he…?
The grin stayed on the beamjack’s face. “Yeah. You’re awright. Shit, you couldn’t live in Frisco without liking the Dead…”
He gave Harris a slap on the arm, which almost sent him sailing into the wall again, and unexpectedly began to sing. “Red and white… do, dooh … blue suede shoes… do, dooh… I’m Uncle Sam… do, dooh… how do you do do?… doom-da-do-de-doom…”
It was a Grateful Dead song. For the life of him Harris could not recall the title or the way it went, yet Virgin Bruce was clearly trying to get him to sing along. Harris flashed onto the absurdity of his situation: confined with a madman in an airlock thousands of miles from Earth, his life dependent upon remembering the lyrics to an old rock and roll song.
Virgin Bruce, in the midst of singing, thrust out his hand, palm spread upward. “So gimme five!” he sang.
Five? The beamjack was staring at him expectantly, waiting for something. Harris thrust his hands into his coverall pockets, searching for a nickel, and found he didn’t have any change with him.
“Umm…” He swallowed what felt like a rock. “I… don’t got any change, uh, man….”
The light in Virgin Bruce’s eyes disappeared as if it had been cut off by a switch. He glared at Harris and the younger man suddenly pictured himself being thrown out, screaming, through one of the nearby airlocks. Virgin Bruce himself looked tough enough to endure a few minutes of exposure to hard vacuum.
“Never mind,” he grumbled instead, looking disappointed more than anything else. “No one can remember all the songs all the time.”
He grabbed the wires dangling from the snoopy helmet he had hurled at Harris and wrenched the helmet out of the crewman’s grasp. As it floated in front of Harris’ face like an Indian’s captured scalp, Bruce said, “You know what really pisses me off, though?”
“N-no, what… the helmet?”
“No, goddammit! The Muzak!”
“The music? The Dead?”
“Fuck, no, not the Grateful Dead! The Muzak!” His mouth stretched into a grimace. “Man, if they piped the Grateful Dead into my earphones I wouldn’t be over here! I’d love hearing ‘Truckin’ or ‘Hell in a Bucket’ while I was out there pushin’ girders around. I’d be the happiest dumb son of a bitch they got hired on this orbiting funny farm!”
He hurled the helmet across the compartment. It bounced off a locker with a dull thump and drifted in midair near the empty spacesuit he had cast aside, looking like a decapitated head. “But, oh no, Cap’n Wallace decides that if he’s going to give any music to us hardworkin’ Joes spending eight hours every day shoving around beams and welding cross sections with our feet, it’s gonna be music that he likes… dentist chair music!” His voice rose to a scream. “Bullshit guaranteed to drive us out of our fuckin’ minds!”
“Yeah,” Harris mumbled hurriedly, “I can understand…”
“Understand?” Virgin Bruce shouted. “You can understand? Do you know what it’s fucking like? Christ! You’re out there sweating out trying to hold two beams a hundred feet long together with those claws and weld ’em together before they both drift off to Mars, getting that sweat frozen on your forehead ’cause the heater’s on the blink again and it’s twenty degrees inside that thing, and one of your buddies is on the radio having apoplexy ’cause he can’t do what he’s gotta do till you’re done and out of the way, and Wallace and Luton are giving everyone hell ’cause the whole project’s four months behind schedule… and what do you hear in the background on your headset, some faggot string section playing ‘Born Free’! Don’t tell me you can understand, kid…”
“Uhhh…”
“And you know why Wallace wants that crap piped all over the station, on the main comlink channel for the beamjacks? It’s supposed to be calming, and to make us more efficient!”
“Ahhh…”
Whatever reply Harris might have managed was interrupted by the compartment hatch being unlocked and swung open. He and Virgin Bruce looked around to see two men pulling themselves through the hatch. One wore a uniform coverall bearing the shoulder insignia of Skycorp; on his breast was a patch that read “Security.” A taser was strapped to his belt. He was also the biggest crewman on Olympus, and probably the biggest Navajo anyone on the station had ever met. Phil Bigthorn, a.k.a. “Mr. Big,” had biceps the size of some guys’ thighs.
The other newcomer wore a golf shirt and raggedy Bermuda shorts and, while not quite in Mr. Big’s class, had a large, muscular build. Doc Felapolous’ hair was prematurely gray, as was his mustache, which he kept waxed so that it tipped upward at the ends. In his early fifties, his age pushed the limit for Skycorp’s space employees. His darkly tanned skin and deep wrinkles gave him the appearance of a desert rat, which fitted in with his Arizona upbringing.
Grasping a rail with one hand Mr. Big immediately started pulling himself toward Virgin Bruce. His other hand was reaching for his taser unit. Bruce grabbed for a handhold and swung himself around, bracing himself. Between them, Bob Harris looked as if he were trying to melt into the compartment wall.
Felapolous lightly grabbed Bigthorn’s arm. “Hold on, Phil,” he said calmly. “Let’s just let ol’ Bruce get a chance to explain himself.”
His gaze went to the beamjack. “Now, Mr. Neiman, would you kindly explain to us just what in the blazes you’re trying to prove?”
Virgin Bruce, meeting the security officer’s cold stare, replied, “Would you explain to me what ape-shape is doing here?” A corner of his mouth twisted up as his eyes locked with Mr. Big’s. “What’s the matter, Phil? Looking for another dance like our one in the wardroom last month?”
Mr. Big smiled a smile completely devoid of any humor. “You want a fight, Brucie, you got a fight. This time you don’t get a tray to bash me with….”
“Gentlemen, you’re beginning to behave like my nephews,” Felapolous said, still as calm as an afternoon in the Sonora. “Besides that, you’re about to give our friend here an anxiety attack.” He looked at Bob Harris. “Son, unless you’d like to learn what it’s like to be caught between two mad dogs, my advice to you as a physician is to get the hell out of there.”
Harris glanced at the men on either side of him, then grabbed for a rail over his head and squirmed from between them. Doc Felapolous looked at Virgin Bruce, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. “To answer your question, Mr. Neiman, I suggest that you examine your own actions. You come blasting in here in a pod, against regulations, demanding docking space and turning the channel blue with your language. You threaten the traffic control officer and tell the com officer to send Mr. Wallace up here so you can ‘have words with him.’ When you get here, you pin the first person you s
ee against the wall….”
“Hey! I never touched him!” Virgin Bruce looked at Harris. “You tell him! I never laid a head on you!”
Harris shook his head vigorously. Felapolous barely gave him a glance. “All right, I’ll take that back, although you did seem to be a bit intimidating when we came in here a second ago. At any rate, you’ve managed to create quite a stir. Considering your reputation…”
“Reputation!” Bruce shouted. “Listen, Doc, lemme tell you about my reputation. Check my record. Who pulls more double shifts than any other beamjack? Who manages to get four hundred square feet of that powersat built every three days? Who went out and rescued Jobe’s ass when his tether broke?”
“Who did we catch trying to smuggle a case of beer up by bribing a shuttle pilot?” Mr. Big said. “Who once tried to hook into a comsat and attempted to transmit an obscene birthday message to the chairman of the board of Skycorp?”
Virgin Bruce started coughing, putting his hand over his mouth. Felapolous noticed the snoopy helmet with the torn out wires floating nearby. “Despite your propensity for sophomoric antics, I’ve never recalled an instance of you damaging equipment before,” he said. “You want to tell me about it?”
“Well, yeah,” Virgin Bruce said. “That’s why I’m here, Dr. Feelgood. See…”
Felapolous raised a finger admonishingly. “Bruce, I would appreciate it if you didn’t use that nickname someone has managed to pin on me. I may be known for dispensing various and sundry painkillers, but as a licensed physician and member in good standing of the AMA, I prefer that you call me ‘Doctor’ or ‘Doc’ or ‘Felapolous’ or ‘Edwin’ or any combination of the aforesaid. ‘Dr. Feelgood’ makes me sound like the guy who used to be the President’s personal physician.” He paused, gasped hugely, and sneezed into his palm. “You may continue. And please hurry; this place is cold.”
Mr. Big’s eyes rolled upward for a moment. Dr. Feelgood had never been known for brevity of speech. Harris hung from a rail and stared at them all. Trapped in an airlock with three guys called Mr. Big, Dr. Feelgood, and Virgin Bruce. What had ever compelled him to leave San Francisco?
Virgin Bruce continued. “What I was coming to, uh, Doctor, is a case of the crazies from having to hear that damn dentist-chair music—no offense—being piped into my helmet while I’m trying to work.”
Felapolous wiped his hand on his shorts and touched a finger to his lips. “Ah. You refer to the Muzak.”
“Yeah, I mean the Muzak. I hate hearing it in the station, I hate hearing it when I eat, when I’m trying to sleep, and I especially don’t like hearing it when I’m trying to do my job.”
“So you decided to take it up directly with your project supervisor, correct?”
“Damn straight. It’s his idea, after all. I got mad and took off my helmet and ripped out the wires, but then I had to hear communications over the pod speakers, which aren’t worth a damn. So I decided to come over here straightaway and, uh, take this up with Wallace himself.”
Doc Felapolous shrugged. “Somehow I can’t argue with the principle of the idea, to tell you the truth. I don’t particularly like that stuff myself. That’s why I have a tape deck in my office, so I can play my Mendelssohn and Mozart tapes. I have my wife send up cassettes every month or so.”
“Yeah, good idea. Except my weight allowance when I came up here wouldn’t let me bring up a deck. So I gotta listen to this wimpy stuff all the time.”
“Hmm. Yes. I suppose I can see your problem.” Felapolous stroked one waxed end of his mustache. “All right, Mr. Neiman, I’ll give you your choice of prescriptions.”
He had been holding his left hand close to his body throughout the conversation. Now he raised his hand, displaying the syringe he had kept hidden in his palm. “This is filled with enough happy juice to keep you sedated long enough for Phil to get you to a restraining bed in sickbay. I ought to give you that prescription, considering that our friend here doesn’t seem too happy with your attitude or your previous assessment of his physique.”
Mr. Big smiled humorlessly again; his expression tacitly said that he would have liked nothing better but to have a doped-up Virgin Bruce strapped down on a couch for a couple of hours, at his disposal.
“The alternative,” Felapolous went on, “is for you to get another helmet from a locker, have this poor fellow whom you’ve frightened half to death refuel your pod, and go back to work at Vulcan, where by your own account you’re too valuable to have missing for very long.”
“Yeah, uh-huh.” Virgin Bruce crossed his arms. “And what about my complaint?”
Felapolous gave a little smile. “My profession decrees that I must remedy pain, so I’ll take your complaint into consideration. I have an extra cassette player in sickbay, a small pocket version which was supplied to me so that I could take verbal notes. Since I generally write everything down, I wouldn’t miss it. I could give it to you on an indefinite loan. You may install it in your pod. You’d have to find your own tapes, though. I won’t lend you mine, and besides I rather doubt you’d enjoy listening to Italian opera or ‘Tales From the Vienna Woods.’”
“Uh-huh, I see.” Virgin Bruce nodded his head slowly. “And about my idea to take this up with Wallace?”
“Not part of the prescription, sorry. I never recommend that my patients attempt to treat themselves for their complaints.” He cocked his head toward Mr. Big. “Anyway, the difficulties you might have in that treatment could be detrimental to your health.”
Virgin Bruce glared at Mr. Big. “I doubt it.”
Mr. Big spoke up. “Hey, listen, Doc, I was told to…”
Doc Felapolous silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Mr. Bigthorn, concerning matters medical, I have the last word on Olympus, not the Project Supervisor. You’ve just heard me give Mr. Neiman treatment for his complaint.”
“Yeah? I haven’t seen you give him any medicine.”
Felapolous reached into a pocket of his shorts, fished out a tin of aspirin and opened it. He handed two tablets to Virgin Bruce. “Take these with water and get out of here,” he said. “Come back for a checkup when you get off your shift and I’ll fill out the rest of your prescription for you.”
He turned to Bob Harris. “Son, if you can quit grinning like a jackass, you can get Bruce’s pod refueled and ready to go. Also, please have Mr. Chang come to see me about his back problems.” He turned to leave. “I think he’s missing a spine. Come along, Phil.”
5
Tall Tales
EVERY JANUARY 28TH AT about 11:30 A.M. EST, regardless of how much work had to be done, there was always someone in Olympus Station’s hub, watching through the telescope for the reappearance of the Challenger Ghost.
It always appeared at exactly the same time, at 11:44 A.M. off the Florida coast near Cape Canaveral. Whoever was watching through the telescope would see against the dark Atlantic waters a brief bright white-hot flash of light, like an explosion was occurring in the high atmosphere downrange from the Kennedy Space Center. Almost as quickly as it appeared, the flash would fade, leaving the watcher feeling confused, and slightly chilled.
Undoubtedly, what one had seen was the explosion of an airborne object in the vicinity of Cape Canaveral. The logical explanation, given the apparent altitude and bearings of the flash, was that a spacecraft just launched from the Cape had exploded over the Atlantic. However, in a sacred tradition dating from 1986, no manned or unmanned rockets were ever launched from the Kennedy Space Center on January 28—the anniversary of the Challenger disaster.
When the phenomenon had first been noticed, no one on Olympus Station recognized the significance of the date or time. An urgent radio message to the Kennedy Space Center was made by Olympus Command, inquiring if one of the cargo rockets which regularly lifted of from the Cape had exploded. After a longer than usual delay, the following message had been received:
CANAVERAL 1156 TO OLYMPUS RE LAST INQUIRY: WE NEVER REPEAT NEVER LAUNCH ANY SPACECRAFT ON THIS
DAY. NO EXPLOSIONS HAVE BEEN SPOTTED DOWNRANGE BY GROUND OBSERVERS OR BY RADAR. CAPE WISHES TO INFORM OLYMPUS SOURCE THAT HE/SHE HAS A SICK SENSE OF HUMOR IF THIS IS BULLSHIT AS WE SUSPECT. CANAVERAL OUT.
Later, once Olympus Station assured the NASA administrators at the Cape that a nasty joke was not at the heart of the matter, both Skycorp and NASA began quiet investigations of their own. Yet nothing could be definitively proved or disproved until a year later, when January 28 rolled around again. On that day, a team of photographers, space historians, and scientists—including a couple of parapsychologists—were gathered at the Cape, monitoring by both optical telescope and by cameras sent aloft on Air Force planes the area of airspace nine miles down-range from the Cape where the Challenger had been destroyed by a malfunctioning solid-rocket booster. At the same time, a small group of Olympus crewmen gathered in the Meteorology compartment of the as-yet uncompleted space station to watch the event. A third group of observers were aboard the airplanes circling the area of the Atlantic Ocean where the sighting had been made. All three groups were recording the event with video cameras—and one of the parapsychologists was an esper who concentrated her thoughts on the approximate area of the explosion.
Nothing was seen from the ground or from the sky, or was registered by any of the cameras, but the flash was seen from space, at exactly the same historical moment when the Challenger was consumed in a ball of fire. A weather satellite’s pictures confirmed the eyewitness reports of the Olympus crewmen, and subsequent computer enhancements of those pictures showed a definite explosion, down to faint streaks showing what appeared to be two solid-rocket boosters beginning to arch away from the center of the explosion. But no one on the ground or in the air saw anything unusual; that information was confirmed by the camera footage. The parapsychologist who was attempting to gather an ESP impression at the crucial moment had to be told when the event had occurred; she registered nothing in her mind.
