by Gary Tarulli
“That dog follows you pretty much everywhere.”
“Can you blame her?”
“Her ears are slightly asymmetrical; her tail was docked too long.”
“Perhaps she wouldn’t win best in show.”
“Coincidentally, Kyle, neither would you.”
“You and she have something in common,” I said, “You both don’t shed.”
I was trying to redirect the spotlight onto Thompson’s shiny shaved head. Like housepaint, the sheen could vary from matte to satin to gloss, depending on lighting and the closeness of shave. Today it was semigloss. Highlighting that feature had become my sworn duty, but it was by choice that Thompson kept his head shaved: He couldn’t be bothered having a head of hair. A smooth head was simpler. Washing, combing, vanity, all neatly dispensed with. After three months, though, I was running out of bald jokes. Thompson’s other features were relatively immune to criticism. As on most occasions, he got in the last word.
“Sit! Stay!” he barked, commanding me to an empty chair. “We’re about to begin.”
While I obeyed, Angie went sniffing about the floor searching for breakfast crumbs.
Seated at the conference table, consuming what passed for breakfast, were Commander Bruce Thompson, Ph.D., Geology, Engineering; Kelly Takara, M.D.; Diana Gilmore, Ph.D., Marine Biology, M.S., Astrobiology; and Paul Bertrand, Ph.D., Climatology.
The final member of the crew, Larry Melhaus, Ph.D., Physics, Mathematics, M.S., Chemistry, was, as usual, in his cabin, almost certainly in the throes of solving an advanced problem in mathematics or particle physics. A moment later he strode in, grabbed some coffee, and without uttering a word, sat at the far end of the long table.
Thompson couldn’t let it pass. “Good of you to join us.”
“Yes,” Melhaus said without a trace of sarcasm. During the last three months we had all learned he was several orders of magnitude more proficient at solving equations then he was at interrelating with people.
“With your permission, Bruce, I’ll start,” said Paul.
Thompson nodded.
“We approach one million kilometers of P5, enabling partial verification of meteorological data collected during the abbreviated first expedition. The planet’s elliptical orbit produces winter and summer seasons of nine-month duration. Transitional seasons, within close approximation, are six months each. I can reconfirm that the prior expedition had the bad luck to emerge from the wormhole and discover the planet at the most inopportune time, midwinter, thereby preempting a complete survey. Average surface temperatures were hovering—bad word—at minus thirty degrees Celsius. You might say conditions have improved. Long-range scans indicate midsummer temperatures are averaging a balmy plus thirty degrees. After we enter orbit I’ll be better equipped to assess localized weather conditions. Within a few days of landing I’ll have a detailed picture of extended climatology.”
“Nothing further? You’re only able to verify what the first mission previously surmised?”
Thompson was being blunt, not rude. We expected as much. It was his way of keeping us focused. The crew, all in their early forties, except Dr. Takara, who was thirty-five, were far too self-assured to be offended or put-off.
“I’m not finished,” Paul said. “I have some preliminary readings on the ocean, which covers ninety-six percent of the planet’s surface. The previous expedition encountered ocean ice three meters thick at the equator. That ice, except for the extreme poles, has completely melted. Given the planet’s elliptical orbit, the melt was anticipated, but never considered a sure thing.”
Paul’s pronouncement elicited a buzz of excitement from the crew. The abundance of available water was an exciting development, dramatically increasing the probability of finding complex life-forms. Even Angie, having sensed the rapid change in mood, responded with a couple of delighted yips.
We were familiar with the reports compiled by the first expedition’s scientists. Their typically sterile technical language could not hide disappointment that life went undetected on the small islands dotting the planet’s surface. Nevertheless, core samples of ocean ice were found to contain abundant numbers of frozen plankton-like organisms. This was the third time a life form had been discovered beyond our home world, and the most complex yet. Far more intriguing than the primitive microorganisms discovered on Mars and 106-P3.
“Larry, your comments?” Thompson asked.
The physicist, choosing to avoid eye contact, answered while staring into the 3-D images floating within the AI Device (AID) unrolled on the table in front of him.
“I’ve extrapolated existing data concerning the quantity of dead phytoplankton found per unit volume of ice. By estimating the organism’s theoretical ability to produce oxygen during the planet’s cyclical warm season, I have calculated that they are responsible for producing and, more important, maintaining P5’s breathable oxygen atmosphere. As for Doctor Bertrand’s report pointing out that the ocean ice has melted? That eventuality was predicted by the separate set of calculations I performed using orbit projections, availability of solar energy, atmosphere composition, and other factors.”
Melhaus’s certitude, his unflinching, self-assured phrasing, had me wondering: If he had not dutifully performed his calculations, would the ice have actually dared to melt?
“Let me know if your conclusions change,” Thompson remarked.
“It is unlikely.”
“Humor me. Presumably we’ll soon have sufficient quantity of living phytoplankton to precisely measure their rate of oxygen production. And how about you, Diana? Anything to add to this discussion? Anything new, that is?”
“When’s the last time any of you have had a wet dream?”
That was new, I thought. At least nobody volunteered an answer. Thompson, a bemused look on his face, waited her out.
“That long?” she said. “Pity. Well I’m having one now.”
“Care to share with us?” Thompson said.
“OK. Just this once. Ninety days getting here. One day till we enter orbit. Awaiting us is the potential of discovering specialized life forms on an Earth-sized planet that is covered in water. Can you possibly imagine anything more apropos of a marine biologist’s wet dream?”
“Do you always blurt out whatever pops into your head?” Thompson asked, amused.
“Why? Diana responded, “Doesn’t everybody?”
“Has this verbal ejaculation reached a climax?”
“I’m sure it has.”
Thompson had to laugh. Diana’s outburst and other like-spirited remarks she made from time to time was somehow made even more diverting when you considered how out of place they were emanating from a person who had garnered a closet full of prestigious awards in the fields of marine and astrobiology. Yeah, she could sometimes be a bit of wiseass, but she certainly gave the word a fuller meaning.
The crew had need of her irreverent comments. Anything that could elevate our individual and collective moods was welcome. Months ago we were counseled to expect exploration this remote from Earth to be a tough business. At the time, we thought we were properly prepared. We were not. Not by a long shot. The extended period living in deep space had brought about mild bouts of depression and increasing feelings of isolation. This despite six people and my pooch sharing quarters not much bigger than a small-sized house.
As I was mulling this over, I looked across the table at Angie. Paws in the air, she was laying stretched out on her back across Kelly’s lap, happily getting her belly stroked. It’s quite possible Angie did more than any one person or thing to keep us entertained. She had become a favorite of the crew. I had the additional benefit of receiving from her unconditional affection. Glancing up from her to Kelly’s smiling face, I found myself wishing that human interaction was as simple and easy to understand. Kelly and I occasionally shared a cabin. Our relationship, starting as friendship during mission training, had developed into something more. How much more was a question I was finding difficul
t to answer.
Thompson broke my reverie by asking her a question.
“And, doctor, your report on the physical condition of the crew?”
Thompson wasn’t just looking for generalities here. Given the closeness of quarters, and how interdependent we were for survival, there was necessarily no doctor-patient privilege. An exception to the rule could be invoked by Kelly, and even then she was not permitted to withhold patient information from Thompson. Once medical information was in his hands he had sole discretion as to whether the crew needed to be apprised.
“Under the circumstances,” Kelly began, “we are in good health. Larry was complaining of mild insomnia. Since he wasn’t responding to non-pharmaceutical alternatives, I issued him a mild sleep aid. Time-released liposome capsules with a short warning label. You know the type: Do not take if you are nursing, pregnant, might be pregnant, want to become pregnant, know someone who is possibly pregnant…” her voice trailed off.
“What if you inflect a sentence with a pregnant pause?” the writer in me asked.
“Is it working?” Thompson asked, ignoring me.
“Too soon … to tell,” Melhaus answered. His timing was pretty good. He had paused mid-sentence to get an easy laugh. I was glad to see he could, on rare occasion, interact with the crew.
“We haven’t heard from you, B.A.,” Thompson said, centering his attention on me.
“B.A.?” I inquired. I should have known better.
“Bachelor of Arts. The rest of us have useful science degrees.”
I had taken up writing as a career a dozen years ago. My educational background, as the crew well knew, was in communications. I had also completed some limited coursework in psychology.
“Somebody,” I answered back, “has to rein in you mad scientists.”
“And just how do you propose to do that?” Thompson inquired.
I considered for a brief moment. “Shall I entertain you with a short story?”
“You have the ultimate captive audience,” Thompson replied. “Make the most of it.”
“I intend to. Have you heard the tragic tale of the Mars Climate Orbiter?”
“Can’t say I have,” Thompson said.
“Good, because it’s the only pertinent nonfiction story I know. By way of introduction—minus some slight literary embellishments I’ve added to help hold your interest—this story was passed on to me by an old college communications professor.”
“I love a good story,” Diana said. “Any sex?”
“No. A long time ago, in a land far away … Earth … humankind explored the nearby planets using unmanned spacecraft. One of these craft was Mars Climate Orbiter. In a moment you’ll appreciate why it was a very good thing it was unmanned.
“The objective was to journey to the Red Planet, enter into orbit, then collect and transmit climate data back to a waiting Earth. The brightest scientists and engineers labored years designing and building the mission and he cost was, forgive the pun, astronomical. On launch day all involved watched the intrepid little spacecraft as it ascended through the clouds to speed off on its year- long, seven-hundred-million-kilometer journey. Can imagine the excitement, the nervous anticipation when, twelve months later, it finally approached Mars? When all that remained before obtaining a treasure trove of information was an orbital maneuver? As planned, there was a short engine burn and the Orbiter passed behind the planet. I ask you to picture hundreds of scientists and engineers on the edge of their seats waiting for the craft to signal its reappearance.”
I paused briefly. For effect.
“Only the signal never came! All contact was lost!”
“Saw that coming,” Diana interrupted.
“The scientists were devastated. ‘We must have answers,’ they cried.
“What, you may want to ask, could cause such a calamity? Computer glitch or thruster failure? Breakdown of complicated electronic components?”
“Micrometeor?” Paul suggested.
“Good guess, but no. It was a gross misapplication of thruster force that sent the Orbiter closer to the planet than intended—near enough to become compromised by the planet’s atmosphere and send it crashing to the surface. And here is where the tale gets interesting.”
“I was wondering when,” Diana said.
“The misapplication of thruster force had nothing to do with computer or equipment failure. It was human error. The team who designed the computer-operated thrusters had programmed them to receive commands in the metric system, specifically in Newtons. A second, independent, team of scientists had programmed software to send commands to the spacecraft thrusters in the old English system, pounds of force. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that won’t work, that a fourfold misapplication of thruster force was the technical reason for mission failure.
“Blatant incompetence,” Melhaus commented, a bit irritated. “Your point being?”
“I’m getting to that. The Space Agency conducted a thorough investigation. Their report stated that blame, if you want to word it as such, could be shared by several of the scientists and engineers involved in the mission. The report emphasized that the crucial navigational commands had been handled by two separate teams and it was their failure to communicate which was ultimately responsible for the Orbiter’s destruction. And that, boys and girls, is why my professor told this story.”
I didn’t expect a standing ovation and I didn’t get one. Then again, it didn’t look like I put anyone to sleep either.
Thompson, who had listened with an impassive expression, chose to speak up.
“Interesting story,” he said. “Really brought us scientists back to Earth.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or sarcastic. Sometimes he was real good at being both at the same time.
Kelly Takara
AFTER THE MORNING meeting and the informal discussions that followed, I headed back to my cabin to record my thoughts. Naturally I was accompanied by Angie. Sporting what can only be described as a happy face, she had unilaterally decided it was playtime, whipping her head back and forth to throttle her stuffed toy duck, and then ceremoniously dropping it at my feet.
There was no denying her. Sitting on the floor, my back to the bulkhead, I threw the toy out the open cabin door and into the corridor. Anticipating, she emitted a short, excited yip, ran, caught the duck in her mouth, throttled it anew, then trotted back to dump it in front of me. Jubilant, eyes glistening, she gazed up expectantly. Long ago I learned that this sequence could be repeated three times or three hundred, all depending on her mood. Funny thing is neither of us tired of this game, simple as it was.
She and I were an unbreakable pair, discovering each other three years ago when I decided to take on the responsibility, not to be taken lightly, of caring for a puppy. And so I headed to a reputable breeder who had a litter of miniature poodles that were somewhat larger and sturdier than most—exactly what I wanted, since I had no intention of raising a lap dog.
I had been forewarned by an acquaintance, a veterinarian, that a puppy displaying an overtly aggressive temperament would be harder to raise. One puppy frolicking in the litter stood out as being a bit more playful; rambunctious, but not belligerent. I snatched her out of the pen to play with and we connected. What happened next I didn’t see coming, but probably should have. The breeder subjected me to an extensive battery of questions that, in retrospect, was good preparation for the psych profile testing I endured at the hands of the Crew Selection Committee. Long story short, with the help of Angie vouching for my character, and with a significant damage to my dwindling bank account, I was allowed to take her home.
Of course neither of us suspected what would come to pass, the environs that would masquerade as a home. Nevertheless, she had adjusted well.
After nearly an hour of bolting back and forth, and no indication that she was tired except a sloppy wet tongue hanging loosely from the side of her mouth, Angie decided it was time to quit playing. I was just
about to settle at my workstation when I heard a quiet rap on the door. An obligatory bark from Angie told me she was on alert.
Kelly.
“Would you like company?” she asked from the doorway.
“What do you have in mind?” I said, pretending I didn’t know.
“You’re way overdue for a routine physical exam,” she responded, pushing inside and closing the door behind her.
“So you’re making house calls now?”
“Lie down,” she ordered, shoving me backward onto the bed. “Try to relax. This won’t hurt … much.”
“Maybe I want it to hurt,” I responded. There was a better than even chance that I was going to respond a good deal more: Somehow I was flat on my back, straddled, with a shirt being pulled over my head. Damn, she was quick.
“Good muscle tone,” she breathed, skilled hands moving slowly over my bare shoulders and onto my chest and stomach. “Shall we proceed?”
“Let’s.”
“Ears,” she said, gently biting my earlobe, then tugging slightly. “Normal.”
“This is your routine exam?” I asked, caressing the small of her back.
“Eyes,” she answered, kissing each lid. “Normal.”
“I don’t have medical coverage…”
“Mouth,” she said, kissing me softly, then hard. “Normal. Now open.” Her tongue touched mine.
I began unbuttoning her clothes. “Doctor,” I managed to say, “I have these two lumps … one’s in my throat, the other, lower, much bigger…”
Trying hard not to laugh, continuing the game’s pretense, she flattened her body against mine and pressed a delicate ear against my chest. A tumble of long, straight, silky jet black hair cascaded unto my bare skin.
“Hmm. I detect an elevated heart rate,” she said. “Perhaps you are a bit anxious, afraid of doctors.” Clasping my hand, she slid it slowly down her stomach, slipping it below the unbuttoned waist of her pants to where she was wet and warm.
