by Gary Tarulli
“Understood, but do you believe for a minute the psych minor went unnoticed when the Selection Committee worked through the complicated process of choosing a crew for this ship?”
“At the time I didn’t give it much thought.”
“Recently, I have. I’ll answer the question for you: Not a chance in hell. In my twenty years’ experience with the CSA I have reluctantly come to accept that very little gets by them. On board the Desio, I consider it my duty to see that nothing gets by me. I vaguely remember you saying that your being picked for this mission was as much happenstance as anything else.”
“I said that?”
“Yeah, you did. I didn’t believe it then, I believe it less now. I suspect your credentials were exactly what the Committee was searching for. Precisely why I have come to this conclusion may best be served by asking you a question or two.”
“You have my undivided attention.”
“Do you know the number of CSA ships, other than ours, that have artwork decorating their bulkheads?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“I can. There are none.”
“Pity.”
“Do you have any idea how many ships are designed with separate sleeping quarters for each and every member of the crew?”
“Don’t know. Will these all be rhetorical questions?”
“With you, might as well be, but I’m going to ask them anyway. The answer is none. Do you have any idea how many ships have Vivaldi, Schubert and Mozart wafting over their intercom systems?”
“Same answer?”
“Right,” Thompson said, scowling, but not really expecting much in the way of an informed response. He then gestured over his shoulder. My gaze followed.
“You see that hunting bow I have mounted over my workstation?”
I nodded. “If there’s a story behind it, which seems pretty damned likely, I want to hear it.”
“Just shut up and listen. That bow is on a list of personal items that mission engineers gave a derisive name: “Nonessential mass.” Perhaps you can guess some other items on their list: Kelly’s violin (she was an accomplished violinist, from time to time playing for the crew), Diana’s houseplants, Paul’s antique barometer collection. The only person with no items on the list is Melhaus. You can call your dog “nonessential mass,” too, though I doubt she’d come. Have you ever known of a crew being allowed to encumber a ship so? Do you realize how prohibitively expensive extra weight is?”
I admitted I hadn’t and didn’t. I still wasn’t exactly sure what Thompson was getting at but despite receiving no answers to his questions, he seemed to be gaining momentum.
“Just as I expected, you’re batting a thousand. To go on. A month prior to our departure I thought it useful to have a chat over a couple of drinks with the commander of the previous expedition to P5. By the third drink he informed me that elevated levels of stress had led to a serious morale problem during his voyage. By the fifth drink he let on that a violent argument erupted between two members of his crew. He grumbled about having been ordered to keep what happened under wraps. The Agency told him they had more than enough difficulty funding deep space missions. Said they didn’t need a private matter turned into a public distraction.”
“Interesting,” I said.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Thompson said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll say one thing, a fight during a mission is almost unheard of.”
“I think I’m finally starting to catch on,” I said. “But wouldn’t you agree that the CSA, in addition to taking the remedial steps you pointed out, repeatedly informed us that we’d be exposed to stressful situations; that they warned us—in fact, trained us—to identify the obvious causes?”
An expression of doubt passed over Thompson’s face. “Of course they warned us, but I suspect the Agency was also reacting to something they could not put their finger on. And I’ll tell you what else I think. I think the Agency believed your psych minor would be an additional benefit to this mission. Especially so when coupled with your communications training and your ability as a writer to make observations about human behavior. Am I not right? You appear to be proactive in trying to lift the crew’s spirits. Like earlier today.”
“Am I so transparent?”
“Not transparent. Self-effacing perhaps.”
“Careful, there may be a compliment in there somewhere.”
“If there is, it’s the closest you’ll ever get to one. So I ask you, besides the usual reasons, what do you think is contributing to the heightened stress levels on this type of mission?”
I had been considering this very question, even without knowledge of the prior crew’s problems. Still, I hesitated to volunteer an opinion, for when an idea receives a voice it gains a life, one it might not deserve. I didn’t hesitate long. Based on what I knew about Thompson if my idea did not deserve to live, he would be the first, and best, person to kill it.
“I only have a theory of sorts, based almost exclusively on my own behavior and casual study of the crew during the last three months. I can factor in what you just told me. Plainly put, I believe deep space missions carry us too far from Earth for too long.”
“You have my attention,” said Thompson. “Go on.”
“Has there ever been a study of the psychological effects resulting from being outside Earth’s solar system for a protracted period? Of being completely separated from all forms of verbal and visual communication? Has an attempt been made to assess the behavioral changes brought about by being utterly devoid of contact with Earth?”
“Not that I’ve been privy to. There have only been five extrasolar voyages, including ours.”
“Perhaps the crews of extrasolar missions, on a subconscious level, are having problems coping with the realization that the Earth has been completely diminished. By that I mean both in actuality, due to the total lack of communication, and symbolically, by seeing our planet, then our sun, being relegated to seemingly inconsequential and disappearing specks. In a sense, what has been stripped away is the solace of the Earth as a place of refuge, as a sanctuary.”
I thought, for the briefest of moments, I saw a look of sadness register on Thompson’s face. If that look was there, it was soon replaced by one of skepticism as he contemplated what I had proposed. He wasn’t a person to be rushed to judgment. And he rarely equivocated. But he did now. “Must say, I’m torn between thinking that’s a pile of crap or a clever insight. Let’s say it’s the latter, how do we address it?”
“Stress is harder to deal with when the cause is unidentified,” I answered.
“Understood. Go ahead, advance your theory with the rest of the crew. It should make some amusing dinner conversation anyway. Not withstanding your theory, however, there remain the more obvious causes of stress to deal with.”
“Yes,” I responded, “and we have seen everyone onboard affected and coping in different ways … and not coping.”
“Which brings us to our principal concern, Doctor Melhaus.”
“You’ve been speaking to Kelly?”
“She approached me earlier. Said you’re the person that really started her thinking. She wasn’t comfortable with Melhaus’s blatantly antisocial behavior today. I agreed, but let’s face it, he’s always set himself apart. Arguably more now. Kelly believes he is putting too much pressure on himself. Has yet to see any other warning signs of a meltdown—with the possible exception of a sleep disorder—and medication is treating that symptom. She has additional drugs that may provide some relief, but Melhaus would refuse to take anything he felt would even remotely impair his cognitive abilities.”
“And let me guess, he’s not receptive to discussing this topic, is he?”
“No. I already tried. He was in here before you.”
“And so…?”
“…and so for the present we’ll do what we’re doing, which is letting him work his butt off. Keep an eye on him. Anything that represents a change, better or worse, I’ll probably see
it, but keep me informed. As for the rest of the crew, they seem to be doing OK to you? Paul and Diana seem to be rock solid.”
“Seem so.”
“And you and Kelly? Together and separately, that is.”
“Fine,” I responded, electing not to elaborate. I was not surprised that he was aware of our relationship. There was no reason to hide our affection for each other, but we didn’t think it appropriate to flaunt it either.
“Good,” said Thompson, apparently satisfied with my brief answer.
“And now you’ll tell me about that bow?” I asked.
“What makes you believe there’s something to tell?”
“You’re being evasive.”
Thompson gave me a long scrutinizing look. As if he was sizing me up. “You’re a persistent pain in the ass,” he said.
I agreed.
“I have many pressing things to attend to before tomorrow’s set-down. You’ll have to be satisfied with the abridged version.” Thompson, looking down at his weathered hands, made two tight fists. He then slowly unclenched them, staring pensively at palms and fingers, almost as if his hands were triggering a memory or were an integral part of the story he was about to divulge.
“You’ve heard,” he began matter-of-factly, “of the huge wildlife preserve in South Africa known as Kruger National Park. The park was established in 1898 or 1926, I don’t recall the exact date, it’s not important, but anyone living then could scarcely have imagined how the planet would look three hundred years hence, how we would foul our nest so badly that the park would be one of the world’s last remaining sanctuaries for large mammals. In any event, I was afforded the rare opportunity to serve two years as a Park wildlife warden. Little salary, mind you, but I was permitted to hunt game when—and only when—doing so benefited the Park’s wildlife. Sanctioned culling, for example. Or if a veterinarian approved the removal of a diseased animal. But mostly I did a lot of walking and tracking, searching for snares—they’re a cruel business I can tell you—and apprehending the poachers that set them. The state government set a very high penalty for being caught, and poachers were heavily armed. For that reason, and the hunting, I carried a rifle. Nothing high-tech, mind you.
“I was out searching for snares when I stumbled upon three San poachers butchering a Cape Buffalo. You need only to comprehend two things about this: The few remaining San tribesmen are skilled trackers and hunters, often using nothing more than a bow and poison-tipped arrows to kill game; an average Cape Buffalo weighs eight hundred kilograms, stands one and a half meters tall at the shoulder, double that in length, has formidable horns, a thick hide, and a mean, some say vindictive, disposition. In short, you have to admire the San’s nerve.
“I was about sixty meters from the three San and, lucky for me, two of them were busy at the carcass, knives in hand. Before I could react, the third San grabbed an arrow from his quiver, drew back, aimed, and let loose a shot at me. It got my attention. I distinctly remember the whistling sound of the fletching as a poisoned arrow sailed past my ear. In the next instant I had him squarely in my rifle sight but the foolish bastard underestimated me, or didn’t believe I’d fire. Whatever the miscommunication I’ll never know, but he reached for another arrow and wound up shot dead for it. The other two San quickly disappeared into the bush, never to be seen by me again.
“As you probably have surmised, what you’re looking at is the native bow and remaining arrows, albeit the poison removed for safety. Out of admiration for the native’s skill I learned to use that bow. I also learned something about the San. In the process, there was one thing I was forced to consider. A Cape buffalo may take days to die from poisoned arrows, so it is conceivable the animal was hunted onto the park from adjoining lands—lands where hunting was permitted. I don’t much believe in the mystique of the “noble savage” but, looking from their perspective, the San likely believed they were justified in doing what they knew: Hunting bush meat, maybe getting money for the horns. They may have had families to keep alive, who knows, but I’d be lying if I told you what happened doesn’t still trouble me. I mounted the bow as a reminder of a disappearing way of life; a reminder that there can be a heavy price to protect what you believe in, though the San paid a dearer price by far.”
I told Thompson I appreciated hearing the story. I then asked him if he remembered how we felt months ago when we watched as the Earth, then the Sun, were reduced to pinpoints of light, then were gone. I asked him if the emptiness we felt was, in small measure, similar to what the San and other cultures felt as they watched their world disappear. He seemed to have anticipated the question, for he immediately and emphatically replied he believed so, yes.
My question, and his story, put Thompson in a somber mood. I made an educated guess and figured he wouldn’t be entertaining any more inquiries. What helped tipped me off was being told to let the cabin door hit me in the ass on the way out.
Typical Thompson, on the outside coarse as forty-grit sandpaper, ignoring what he felt was the unnecessary encumbrance of verbal niceties. He had an unflagging appetite for dishing out sarcasm and encouraging riposte. It was then (and only then) he deliberately repudiated his status as mission commander. Arguments, you see, when not waged in anger, were great entertainment value to him.
On the inside he was, I had learned, quite a bit smoother. Though he tried to mask it, his concern for each member of the crew was absolute: His cabin door might hit you in the ass on the way out, yet that same door was always wide open if you needed to make your way in.
I thought I saw other contrasts in Thompson. Self-taught in native culture, a hunter, fisherman and geologist; he seemed preoccupied with chipping away at the past. And yet, as mission commander, treading where few, or none, have gone before, he was on the cutting edge of the future. Of these two colliding worlds, I wondered which he was more at home in. Perhaps neither, but if I was to find a common denominator it would be in the pure adventure he sought, and found, excavating the unknown.
He certainly was intelligent enough to confront all the many challenges he set for himself. In his chosen field of geology he was near the top, but unlike Melhaus (and most other scientists for that matter) he didn’t much care for peer recognition. His physical appearance also flew in the face of the stereotypical bespectacled, lanky scientist. He was not overly tall, but broad, heavily muscled in the chest, legs, and forearms—likely due to his dedication to tough field work and the pursuits of bow hunting and sport fishing. Given his physical and mental attributes, if I were in a tight spot, Thompson would be on my A-list to handle it.
At dinner, when everyone was gathered and slightly more receptive to something other than the work they were immersed in, I decided to share the theory I had broached with Thompson; that, in short, leaving Earth behind may have adverse and unrecognized behavioral consequences. Not only was I seeking the crew’s opinion, but I was hoping that verbalizing the idea, especially if it was determined to have some merit, would provide a beneficial effect.
“Help me out with something I’m working on,” I said to no one at particular. “Call it the Sanctuary Theory, if you will.” I explained. “Maybe something in your respective disciplines would be relevant, or perhaps a personal experience. On the other hand, you can diplomatically inform me that the idea isn’t worth shit.”
I was grateful when Thompson, who apparently wanted to give the ensuing conversation some impetus, chimed in first.
“I had the advantage of hearing Kyle’s idea earlier,” he said. “Keep in mind he is singling out a potential source of stress, possibly depression, specifically related to extrasolar spaceflight. I construed this to mean leaving the heliosphere. Two thoughts came to mind. The Sun’s magnetic field extends throughout the solar system and its effect on brain waves is well known. Could the complete absence of this field have a detrimental effect? And what are the effects of exposure to the varying intensities of dark energy? I searched the AI for both these topics and found no completed
studies. Anybody aware of any?”
No one had heard of a study dealing with these matters.
“What interests me,” said Diana, “is not being able to see the Sun. I’m not referring to Seasonal Affected Disorder. The steps taken to address sunlight deprivation on spaceflights aren’t exactly a big secret. Let’s go beyond that, to losing all contact with the Sun. There is some research. A few individuals voluntarily living in caves—and to varying degree they succumbed to depression. Animals observed during solar eclipses exhibit behavioral changes that resemble symptoms of stress. I can add a personal note. The day we lost sight of Earth and Sun, I wept. Why, I’m not really sure. I partially attributed it to hormones, but the feeling has been hard to shake. Personally, I think Kyle’s put a name on it.”
“There are additional studies related to my field of expertise,” Paul added, “that go beyond the sunlight component of SAD. They prove human behavior is also affected by barometric pressure, temperature, wind, precipitation, too many days of identical weather, variation to the length of day, season changes and so on. Since this is true, Kyle, I suggest that the absence of all weather should also influence behavior. This, at best, is a contributory factor to the affliction you are trying to describe. It is not a new phenomenon. After all, extrasolar missions have been preceded by three centuries of intrasolar spaceflights.”
“New or not,” Kelly volunteered, “we cannot underestimate the psychological effect of losing every vestige of contact with family and friends. Whatever the cause, physical or psychological, stress levels onboard are likely to increase. I shouldn’t have to chase after any of you if you are experiencing a problem in this regard.” The admonition was deliberately phrased to be non-person-specific. Nevertheless, I thought I saw Melhaus’s features stiffen.
“In the near term,” Kelly continued, “I want to see each of you, without exception, for a full exam. And I have a question for you, Larry.” (Now, undoubtedly, Melhaus tensed up, relaxing only after realizing the question posed to him was not to be of a personal nature.) “For the next eight days our exposure to artificial sunlight will be lessened, supplanted by the sunlight available on P5. How does that sunlight compare to Earth’s?”
