Walking on the Sea of Clouds
Page 35
“Got confirmation yet on the power beams, Gabe?” Bruce asked.
“Not yet. All the working scavengers are accounted for and moving to safe locations. The station estimates fifteen more minutes until the beams are off.”
Since the crater floor stayed perpetually dark, the power system for the scavengers was based on solar collectors on Faustini’s rim. The collectors tracked the Sun as it traversed around the pole; they had the Sun in view ninety percent of the time. The energy produced was converted to microwaves and beamed to the scavengers as they moved about on the crater floor, but the beams had to be shut down before the team was allowed to drive the truck into the crater.
“Okay, Bruce, we just got the green light.”
“Roger that, Gabe. You feel comfortable about taking us down?”
“Sure, as long as the route is marked.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s clear, especially the places we had to blast out to make the path. Once you’re at the bottom, just follow the arrows and keep the centerline on the stripe. Pretend you’re driving one of the big floats in the Rose Parade. The line will take you around to the loading area. You won’t even have to back up the trailer.”
It took over an hour to get down the hill and into position; the LICEOM was a third of the way into the center of the crater. By the time they stopped at the loading zone, Stormie and the others were suited. They piled out of the airlock into the blackest darkness Stormie had ever seen. Even the partial Earth was hidden by the crater wall, and the only light came from the Turtle’s headlights. Outside the glare of the lights, with her internal displays dimmed, the stars seemed tiny, and distant, and cold.
Once they unhooked the trailer, Bruce directed Gabe to pull the truck over closer to the ice plant itself, where he could hook up work lights to ground power. Like the ROPS oxygen plant at the Halfway House, the LICEOM was powered by its own ARG, much bigger than the Turtle’s. Only the scavengers ran off beamed solar power; the ice plant required so much power that it couldn’t spare any to run the robots, but it wouldn’t be operating at full capacity while they were there.
“Okay, everybody, back in the truck,” Bruce said. “Mandatory rest period. We’re behind schedule, but we can afford to take a couple hours, just not the full four. Then we need to get started.”
* * *
The first hour after their rest interval, they unloaded and checked out the scavenger robot they’d brought from Mercator. They put it through a last function check, then sent it to the holding area until the power beams were turned back on.
Once that was done, they started collecting the ice.
The ice plant processed the soil the scavengers collected into blocks about forty centimeters on a side. They were grimy—the plant stripped off most but not all the lunar dust as it melted, formed, and refroze the water—but they were ice.
Stormie chuckled a little at the uniform blocks the plant produced. The ice harvesting wasn’t quite as simple as scratching the soil and digging up cubes, but the scavenger-bot-and-ice-plant setup made it seem almost that easy. Still, the supply was limited both in absolute terms and in terms of extraction efficiency; they needed to make the most of everything they had. With the asteroid mining operation in full swing and finally making money, they might be able to build more scavengers and increase the ice production within the next year, but unless the colony became far more efficient it would run out of water before then.
For now she, Capell, and Gabe sweated and grunted and moved the ice block by block into place on the trailer. They slid the blocks down an adjustable ramp from the holding area, then maneuvered them into place using old-fashioned ice tongs; it was an overprecaution, since everything stayed super-cold in the lunar night, but having a block of ice freeze to a glove or part of a suit would cause problems.
Stormie had already lost count of how many blocks they had moved when Capell radioed, “Hey, Bruce, how long until we get a tanker trailer and just haul back liquid water instead of ice?”
Bruce replied from over by the Turtle. “Don’t think I’ve seen any kind of timeline for that. Have to install tankage and plumbing here, first. A tank to fit on the trailer wouldn’t be too hard, though it would have to be baffled for slosh … a lot of momentum in moving liquid. And the CG would be higher, that might be a problem.”
Stormie sipped some of her suit water and nodded, thinking of some of the turns she had made during the drive south. A high center of gravity might make some maneuvers pretty precarious, and maybe even require a new route.
She was about to comment when Gabe said, “Yeah, hate to have a rollover out here. No way to call triple-A, that’s for sure.”
Shifting the ice blocks around was fairly easy—owing to lunar gravity, each block could be carried by one person—but their mass still gave them considerable momentum. They took their time, to avoid any accidents: about ten minutes moving and placing each block. They worked in pairs while the third rested; nominally, they got four hours’ rest for each eight hours’ work. They could have worked in two pairs, except that Bruce was busy examining the Turtle. He slept little and cursed a lot.
Stormie was exhausted by the tedium as much as the exertion and lack of sleep. She could tell how tired she was every time she took a break to recharge her suit’s oxygen supply: she dozed on her feet until the chime rang in her helmet. So when Gabe radioed, “That’s the last one,” close to the end of her third eight-hour shift, she almost shouted in relief.
Until she realized the trailer was only two-thirds full.
She was about to ask when Bruce did. “What do you mean, that’s the last one?” He was bounding over to the loading area, hopping in big Apollo strides.
Gabe said, “I mean, that’s the last one.” Stormie could almost hear a shrug in his tone of voice. “I don’t see any more in the hold.”
Bruce skidded to a stop with a practiced turn. “That can’t be right,” he said. “You’ve only been loading for what, thirty hours or so? How many blocks have you loaded?”
Stormie had lost count. Gabe said, “That last one should be 212.”
Bruce swore. “Supposed to be more like 240 or 250. Last October we only got 235, but 212 is down to about what the setup teams got on the first couple of runs, before I even got here.”
Stormie asked, “Is the plant working right?”
“Seems to be,” Bruce said. “It’s probably that bad ’bot, plus there’s always some variation in the output. The ’bots come back with more dirt than ice sometimes. They’re smart little things, and they have detectors on them, but they don’t each carry a mass spec.”
Gabe said, “Maybe this crater is all fished out.”
Static buzzed in Stormie’s ear for a few seconds. Her mouth suddenly very dry, she said, “Don’t even think that.”
Bruce cut in. “No, Gabe, even though there’s not as much ice as we’d like in this crater, it’s still close to two hundred square kilometers. It’ll be a while before we scavenge the whole thing.
“But if that’s all for this trip, then that’s all—can’t make ice out of vacuum. At least this should put us back close to our original schedule. The bad thing is, we get paid by the ton and we’re not bringing back the usual tonnage.” He paused, then said, “Go ahead and get that block in place, then start putting up the frame. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll get this thing tarped.”
Stormie and Gabe stowed the ice ramp before they put the poles in place for the frame around the ice blocks. Bruce came back and helped install the aluminized Mylar tarp over the frame. They ensured that no part of the frame or tarp touched any of the blocks. The ice already sat on insulation that blocked heat from the trailer bed; by keeping the ice in shadow and limiting the heat conducted into it, the blocks would mostly stay frozen while they drove back to the colony.
As they were finishing up, Capell came out of the Turtle to start his shift. He wasn’t happy when they told him what had happened, but there was nothing he could do.
They rested for a few hours and started back early Wednesday morning almost exactly a week after they left. Bruce drove the Turtle to the top of the crater and ran the checklist to switch the power beams back on, then he consulted his trip plan and decided that the regular rotation would continue, with Stormie in the driver’s seat for the first shift back. Gabe spoke up and pointed out that he and Stormie had driven an extra shift each on the way out, but Bruce stuck with his decision. Stormie was too tired to argue; she just decided to log the extra hours and bill the Consortium later.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Mayday
Thursday, 17 January 2036
Barbara doubted the smell would ever be purged from the colony.
So many people had been sick in so many places that as she walked through the facility wafts of stench would attach themselves to her with an almost physical sensation, as if noiseless insects had landed and tickled the back of her neck. It didn’t help that many of the victims had developed diarrhea in addition to nausea. It was especially bad if she had just walked through one of the garden tunnels, where the plants and the bubbling water kept the air much fresher, into one of the residential habitats. Even after they’d been cleaned as thoroughly as possible, in places they still stank.
Oh, how she longed for the open sky at the ranch, where at least she could go upwind from the cows.
She carefully slid her way into the Bio laboratory, and put the little metal basket on the worktable. The sample vials sounded like ice cubes clinking inside a glass. “Here’s the latest batch,” she said.
The way Frank turned, she thought he’d aged ten years in a day. But he smiled as he thanked her again for her help.
“How’s your analysis going?” she asked.
“So far I have not detected any evidence of contamination,” he said, “which is a good sign. I do not know what Yvette has found using the other equipment, but her specialty is radiographic inspection, not chemical analysis. I regret that Marilyn Chu was unable to join the colony. I do not know when we will have a real analytical chemistry capability.”
“Do you need anything else from me?”
Frank shook his head. “Not at this time. You have been very helpful, and I appreciate all you have done. It was good for me to be able to concentrate on analyzing samples instead of having to take the time to collect them.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Barbara said. “Call me if you need anything else.”
It was late enough in the afternoon that Barbara decided to go ahead and get something to eat. She made her way from Frank and Stormie’s little laboratory north to Grand Central, where Maggie had set up a temporary cafeteria. Because they suspected an issue with the food supply, Gary had decreed that independent cooking would not be allowed until everything was verified safe. They had moved the temporary sick ward out of Grand Central and into the adjacent habitats—except for the Gateway habitat—and Gary himself along with Chuck Springer had moved some kitchen equipment from the 500 block of Second Avenue into the southwest corner of Grand Central, where BD’s group usually played bridge. Barbara didn’t mind the new arrangement; she liked cooking, pretty much, but she’d let someone else cook for her anytime.
Grand Central seemed crowded; most of the incapacitated were ambulatory again, and the cafeteria arrangement was showing signs of strain. But at least they’d cleaned it well, so all she smelled here was the food. Barbara got in line behind Rosaria Morera and asked if she had heard from Gabe. “Oh, yes,” she said, “they’re on their way back. He said they picked up less than they thought they would, but they should be back on Sunday as scheduled.”
Barbara smiled, and dished herself out some sad-looking vegetables. At least something was going right somewhere.
* * *
Saturday, 19 January 2036
Shift after shift, day after day, they crept closer to home. After the first day, the mood relaxed a little: the truck was running fine—though still nursing the number two wheel along on two circuits—and everyone had accepted the fact that this trip would not pay as much as previous trips. Plus, they were driving in the right direction: back to Mare Nubium.
They were only six hours late to the Halfway House, arriving on Friday in the early afternoon. They made up a little time during the oxygen transfer.
Saturday was the eleventh day out from the colony. Stormie was engrossed in more work for Frank, which she didn’t mind since he was dealing with his own problems. She was evaluating the air balance plan for expanding into the freshly dug tunnels in the wall of Mercator Crater, and didn’t notice until twenty minutes into her driving shift that Capell hadn’t come back at the end of his turn. It was unusual for someone to lose track of the time, with the big chronometer displayed in the cab; if anything, most of the time they stopped the truck with a few minutes left in their allotment. She considered calling him on the intercom, but Bruce was asleep and Gabe was reading. She put her suit on and went through the hatch into the neck, and from there into the cab.
She took off her helmet just before she went through the open hatch. Capell’s bushy black hair stuck up above the back of the control chair. “I thought you’d never get here,” he said.
“I wondered if you fell asleep,” Stormie said, “or got sick.” Once in the cab, she moved to the right and pulled down the jumpseat from the bulkhead. She started to sit, but paused halfway when she glanced around the control chair.
Oh, tell me he’s not really naked. Stormie looked up into the left corner of the cab, then glanced down at Capell’s bare arm and hairy shoulder. She looked up again, and closed her eyes.
“Sorry, Karl, you want some privacy? I’ll come back in fifteen minutes, if you like.” With a towel. And some disinfectant.
He shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Don’t you mind how hot it gets in here?”
“That’s what the vent system is for,” she said, automatically touching the port on her suit that would hook to the hose.
“That doesn’t work well at all. Anyway, I was waiting so we could talk.”
“I think Nadia might have a problem—”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Capell interrupted. “First, you’re not my type. Second, Nadia wouldn’t care if you were. We’re not that committed. Married just to meet the Consortium’s regs. Third,” he slapped his bare chest, “this is for comfort, that’s all.”
So you’re just inconsiderate, instead of irresponsible. Or in addition to?
Stormie finished sitting down in the jumpseat. The cab seemed extra cramped. “Okay, then, what are we going to talk about?”
“Jeez, you are a dumb bunny. I’d think that was obvious.” He reached to his left and adjusted the Sun shade, then put his hand back down. The distinctive crinkle of hair and the scritch of fingernails on skin made her wince.
Capell said, “I just want to know if you plan to report me moving the truck while you were under it.”
“I’d have thought Bruce already did, in his daily report.”
“I think he noted it, but didn’t make a big deal of it. He and I talked about it, and agreed it wasn’t that serious.”
Stormie closed her eyes and put her head back against the bulkhead. Not that serious? She couldn’t believe it. For endangering her life, he deserved to have his certificate suspended.
When she opened her eyes, the little man with his mass of black hair and ten days’ worth of beard was looking back at her. “Watch the road, Karl,” she said. “And strictly speaking, I already reported it. I transmit my logs and other work on every satellite pass.”
Capell frowned. “Damn it, Stormie, I wish you hadn’t done that. I was going to offer you h
alf my bonus money to keep quiet about it.” He swung the control chair around to the front. During the interval, the path had curved right and the truck had tracked a little off to the left. Capell pulled it slowly back to the right, and as it got back on track the truck bucked and shivered. Stormie grabbed the jumpseat frame and looked over Capell’s shoulder at the system displays: nothing seemed wrong, but the control yoke was oscillating in Capell’s hand.
“Did we hit something?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. Feels like we’re dragging. But I’ve got green lights on all wheels.”
Bruce’s voice blared from the intercom. “What’s going on up there? Stormie?”
“I’m driving, damn it,” Capell said. “But I’m stopping at the moment.”
Stormie exited the cab and went back to the others. Since she was already suited, she would go out and check. Plus, she wanted to give Capell plenty of room to get his suit back on.
* * *
Bruce Lindsey ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed his eyes. “I don’t see much choice but to call in a mayday,” he said.
The dragging had been the trailer itself. The trailer sat lower than the truck, and it snagged a rock when it off-tracked behind the LVN. The rock, which looked as if it massed a couple hundred kilograms, was jammed under the suspension of the trailer’s leading left wheel.
When Stormie reported the obstruction, Bruce and Gabe had joined her outside. They talked briefly about prying away the rock, but were afraid pry bars would damage the suspension even more. They had Capell back up to see if that would do anything; at first the rock continued to drag, but then it broke free. The trailer rolled another couple of meters and stopped. The leading suspension collapsed and the trailer settled down, crooked.