by Allen Steele
Leamore had a nice, firm handshake.
He helped her remember the computer diskette in her pocket.
Aachener and Talsbach were stiff and overly formal; they stumbled over their English as, one at a time, they shook hands with Ryer. In their mid-twenties, both were almost young enough to be her children; however, if she’d ever been inclined to become pregnant during the time when she pretended to be heterosexual, she would have been appalled to produce sons as colorless as these two. Aachener had light brown hair and Talsbach’s hair was jet black, and Talsbach was slightly shorter than Aachener: beyond that, there was little to distinguish one from the other. Finely chiseled features, good looks, Teutonic demeanor: the last time she’d seen guys this perfect, it was in a New York gay bar, and at least the Village queens had more life to them than these two Aryans….
“Glad to meet you,” she said to Talsbach, hoping that neither of them could guess what she’d been thinking. “So … uh, you’re astronaut-candidates, right? How far along in training are you?”
“Ah … yes, we’re astronaut-candidates,” Talsbach replied haltingly. “We have almost completed our … ah, training program. The final phase, this is.”
He looked nervously at his colleague. “Yes, Captain, this is the final phase of our training program,” Aachener said. His English was a little better. “We have been in orbit before, in our shuttles, but this is the first time we will be going to the Moon.”
“To the Moon, yes, the first time,” Talsbach said.
“And we are looking forward to the voyage … the trip, how you say?” Aachener’s gaze was unwavering; although his mouth was stretched in a smile, the corners of his eyes didn’t crinkle. A cold, false grin. “And how many times to the Moon have you been there?”
“This is my eighth trip … uh, voyage.” Cris hesitated. “But I haven’t been back in four years, so it’s been a long time.”
“A long time, yes.” Aachener nodded his head.
“Yes, a long time.” Talsbach also nodded his head.
Oh, my God, she thought, it’s Hans and Franz….
Cris stepped back from them, trying to find a way out of the conversation. She spotted Jay Lewitt standing alone on the catwalk behind her; catching his eye, she smiled at him, then turned back to the two astronauts. “Well, it’s nice to meet you guys,” she said. “We’ll have to get together again sometime before the flight, okay?”
American colloquialisms seemed to confuse Talsbach. Again he cast an uncertain glance at Aachener, who once more responded with that humorless smile. “Yes, Captain,” he replied. “We’ll get together again soon. Pleasant to meet you.”
Ryer kept a straight face until her back was turned to the Germans, then allowed herself a wry grin as she walked over to Lewitt. The flight engineer stood next to the wall plaque Parnell had been inspecting before Laughlin and the Koenig Selenen team had arrived.
“How did you like the Germans?” he asked.
“They’re great,” she whispered. “They’re here to … pomp … you op!”
“Jesus, Cris …” Lewitt hid a smile behind his hand as he caught the old Saturday Night Live gag. “Better not let Gene hear you say that.”
“Who gives a shit?” She sagged against him for a moment, quivering with barely suppressed laughter. “I mean, these are the guys who are taking over Tranquillity?”
“Cris …”
“‘I’m a Choiyman astronaut in training, yah … to the Moon the first time, I am. Want some schnitzel, yah?’”
“C’mon, Cris … it’s not that funny.”
No, it wasn’t funny, but it was the first good laugh she’d had all day. If Laurell were here, she would understand. But Laurell was probably at work by now, dealing with a dozen lawsuits before she went home to curl up on the couch, devour the rest of the Ben & Jerry’s in the fridge, and watch Seinfeld on TV, while she was stuck up here with guys so straight they couldn’t …
Her eyes rose to the plaque on the wall, and the laughter died in her throat. She had seen it many times before, during previous visits to the Wheel, so it was nothing new. Nonetheless, she felt shame wash over her as she saw the long list of names carved into the slab of lunar aluminum.
Twenty-three men and women, their lives lost during the construction of Space Station One and the establishment of Tranquillity Base. Victims of random EVA accidents, for the most part, although a few had been killed while rescuing other astronauts. One had died during the installation of the Wheel’s nuclear reactor, and three on the list had been incinerated during an uncontrolled Atlas-A reentry through Earth’s atmosphere back in 1961.
She had never met any one of them, but it didn’t matter. Their names were inscribed here, and this was a sacred place; laughing at stupid Kraut jokes was as appropriate as goofing off in Arlington National Cemetery. But for the grace of God, her own name could be on this list….
And it was never too late, because whoever had engraved the names on this plaque had been careful to leave several blank spaces at the bottom.
“Let’s go find something to eat,” she said softly, turning away from the plaque. “I think I need some ice cream.”
It was hard to say why, because she felt very cold just now.
The ATS Evening News; broadcast August 19, 1976
Don Garrett, anchor: Among the items included in the McGovern Administration’s proposed “Big Freeze” federal budget is the gradual reduction of spending for the nation’s space program. Science correspondent Clyde Fuller reports from NASA’s Von Braun Manned Space Center.
(File footage: Neil Armstrong and Alexei Leonov stepping off the ladder of Ares One to plant U.S. and Soviet flags on the surface of Mars; the exterior of the Wernher von Braun Manned Space Center in Texas.)
Fuller (VO): Barely a month after the successful landing of the international mission to Mars, White House sources have told ATS News that President McGovern will soon propose cutting NASA’s budget by ten to twenty percent over the next four fiscal years. Although the President hasn’t yet officially made this announcement, it has been supported by key members of Congress.
(On-screen: Senator Walter F. Mondale, D., MN)
Mondale: The fact of the matter is that taxpayers are sick and tired of throwing away their money in space. If NASA had their way, they’d be building permanent bases on Mars. What about building permanent houses for poor people in America? We’ve got too many problems right here at home that need to be taken care of first….
(Shot of Senator William Proxmire, D., WI, addressing the Senate. Vice-President Jimmy Carter watches from his seat behind the podium.)
Proxmire: We’ve got runaway inflation in this country, government spending is out of control … and NASA wants us to shell out five billion dollars next year to send a space probe to Jupiter! I’ve got a better idea … let’s send a rocket to NASA with a note inside: “Forget it, pal! Show’s over!”
(File footage: Space Station One, Tranquillity Base, the launch of Ares One from low orbit above Earth.)
Fuller (VO): Critics of the space program point to the fact that total costs of the American space effort have exceeded two hundred billion dollars over the last twenty years. This includes the maintenance of the Wheel, the Tranquillity Base lunar outpost, and the American half of the Ares program. They also cite recent Gallup polls showing that fifty-five percent of the American public believes NASA receives too much money. However, NASA supporters disagree with this assessment….
(On-screen: Sidney Brown, president of the National Space Institute.)
Brown: For each tax dollar spent on space over the last two decades, every American has earned two dollars a year from technological spinoffs. Microelectronics, weather and communications satellites, advanced medical technology, even digital watches and household appliances … all are possible because of scientific developments made while we were sending people into space. We can’t just shut off the tap now and pretend that the country will continue to be a wor
ld leader in high technology …
(File footage: President McGovern stepping off Air Force One; the Ares astronauts working on the surface of Mars; Republican presidential candidate Gerald R. Ford shaking hands during a campaign stop.)
Fuller (VO): Several sources at NASA, who declined to be interviewed for this story, charge that the President is trying to win reelection next November by roping NASA into his Big Freeze program. They also claim that the White House leak was timed to correspond with the last few days of the Ares expedition, which so far has failed to find any evidence of life on Mars. This itself is a major embarrassment to the space agency, since it had all but promised discovering extraterrestrial life on the red planet in return for funding the mission. Likewise, the Ford campaign’s support for the space program has been lukewarm at best …
(Shot of Republican candidate Gerald R. Ford, speaking to a reporter’s mike in the middle of a small crowd of supporters.)
Ford: Well, uh … I like space. I think space is good … and, uh, I think the astronauts are doing a swell job, and … uh, I look forward to seeing them come home … excuse me …
(Shot of Clyde Fuller standing in front of the entrance of the Von Braun Space Center.)
Fuller: Although the administration’s proposal is hardly seen as a major issue in this campaign, it is one more sign that neither Democrats nor Republicans are willing to embrace space exploration as much as they did in years past. This can only be seen as an omen for NASA in years to come. Clyde Fuller, ATS science correspondent, reporting from NASA’s Von Braun Space Center in Houston.
NINE
2/16/95 • 2145 GMT
THE QUARTERS HE HAD been assigned were not much larger than the Amtrak sleeper compartment it closely resembled: a narrow metal bed with a thin mattress that folded down from the bulkhead; a small chair, a fold-down desk, a wall phone; a small round porthole in the curved wall. When the lieutenant slid open the door and showed it to him, Dooley’s first impulse had been to ask if anything more spacious was available.
“Not unless you’re the commander, sir.” Lieutenant Hollis was politely amused. “This is one of the VIP cabins … everyone from senators to movie stars has slept here. Come over to the next section, and I’ll show you the bunk I’ve been living in for the last two months.”
“The bunk?”
“Yes, sir. Six and a half feet by two and a half feet, with a locker and a curtain, and it’s all mine.” The lieutenant pointed to the porthole on the far side of the compartment. “Count your blessings, Mr. Dooley. I’d kill to have a window by my bed.”
If Dooley could have given it to him, he would have; as soon as Hollis was gone, he hastily lowered the porthole’s louvered blinds, shutting out the ever-spiraling Earth which threatened to make him spacesick all over again. Then he folded down the bunk, shoved his laptop computer beneath it, took off his sneakers, switched off the overhead light, and did his best to get a little sleep.
As it turned out, he didn’t have to try very hard. It had been nearly twenty hours since he had last slept, and the launch had left him more exhausted than he thought. At some point, he was briefly awakened by Hollis knocking at the cabin door, telling him that it was time for dinner mess. Dooley ignored him, the j.g. went away, and he went back to sleep.
When he finally woke up, he had no idea how much time had passed; with the light switched off and the porthole closed, the cabin was as dark as a tomb. He raised his Timex close to his face and pressed the stud: only five P.M., which confused him until he remembered that he had neglected to reset his watch to Greenwich time. What do you call jet-lag when you’ve been traveling on a spaceship?
The corridor was vacant when he slid open the door and peered out. So far as he could tell, no one else was in the VIP section. It took him another minute to recall the schedule; the ATS reporters were supposed to be doing a live interview with the flight crew at 2200 hours. Naturally, that would be in another part of the Wheel, and since he had already skipped mess, they must have decided that it wasn’t important to wake him up. Just as well; despite almost eight hours of sleep, he was still a little queasy, and he wasn’t quite ready to discover the pleasure of VIP cuisine aboard this tub.
Dooley found towels, a bar of soap, a sponge, a toothbrush, and a small tube of toothpaste in the locker. That was normal enough, but the men’s bathroom just down the corridor was something else altogether. Although its tiny shower stall resembled one in a cheap motel on Earth, there was no shower-head on the plastic-tiled wall; instead, there were a couple of spigots which only allowed water from the waist-level tap to flow when he twisted them and shut off as soon as he let go. A small bubble-meter between the spigots regulated the water supply; just testing the system dipped the meter by almost 10 percent.
A sponge bath for the VIP suites. Of course. Water wasn’t something that was wasted up here; although water tanks lined the station’s inner hull, the liquid they contained was irradiated and unsuitable for either drinking or bathing. The real Dooley would have known this from his training at the Cape and the Von Braun Space Center; once again, the other Dooley was uncomfortably reminded of just how shallow his own preparations had been. His masters had invested countless hours in changing his face and making sure that he looked and talked just like a dead man, but they had neglected to tell him a few simple things, such as that he would likely blow his breakfast within five minutes of leaving Earth or that an evening bath aboard the Wheel amounted to swabbing himself with a wet rubber sponge….
At least the water was warm.
He considered that as he mentally counted the dollars that would soon be deposited in a numbered bank account in Geneva. Gold-plated taps in his bathroom in Argentina: that’s what he would have when it was all over and done with. Gold-plated taps, and a woman to scrub his back for him.
The shower woke him up. He returned to his cabin and zipped into the blue cotton jumpsuit he found in the locker. He was hungry by now, and he briefly considered wandering through the station to find the mess deck, until he realized that dinner was long over by now and the crew chefs probably didn’t keep leftovers for VIP’s who had missed their chance.
So be it. There were more important things that needed to be done.
Examining the wall phone above his desk, he was pleased to see that it had a modem port. The last time the station’s electronic infrastructure had been retrofitted, someone had apparently decided that visitors should be able to plug in laptop computers. After folding the bunk against the wall, he lowered the desk, placed his Tandy/IBM on it, and used a slender cable to hardwire its internal modem to the phone.
A slip of paper concealed inside his right shoe contained the instructions he needed to connect directly with the ATT system. Although it sounded complicated on paper, it was mainly a matter of using the Wheel’s communications system to interface with the Iridium cellular Comsat network, which in turn linked him with Bellcore. The numbers he needed to use to make the connection were already written down; the calls he planned to make would be billed to the real Dooley’s Citibank account.
He picked up the receiver and placed a call to a motel room outside Brunswick, Georgia.
“Hello?” a voice answered.
“First race at nine o’clock,” he said. “Fifty dollars on Jake’s Leg.”
“First race, nine o’clock, fifty bucks on Jake’s Leg,” the voice repeated. “Your name is Good Sex.”
“Good Sex. Got it.” Dooley scribbled the words on a slip of paper. “Thanks.”
The person at the other end of the line hung up without replying. If anyone at Main-Ops had monitored the call, it would seem as if he had placed a bet on a horse race with a bookie in Georgia and, in return, had received a code name by which he could later confirm the bet.
He switched on the laptop computer, typed LEM, and waited until the opening image of the Le Matrix communications program appeared on the screen. He then selected the Orlando, Florida, node of the computer network and dial
ed into it. There was a long pause as Iridium opened a line between the Wheel and Le Matrix; then the net flashed a key-shaped icon on the screen.
Dooley’s Le Matrix password was a vital bit of information that had to be tortured out of him; the imposter hadn’t been able to access it after he’d taken possession of this laptop computer the night before, since it was not stored within the program itself. It was a small but essential detail, since it was the only way his employers could reliably pass key information to him.
GOODSEX, he typed. How sophomoric …
After a moment the computer responded, PASSWORD VERIFIED, and the icon disappeared. So far, so good.
Almost immediately, there was a double beep and the e-mail icon appeared on the screen. Using the trackball, Dooley moved the cursor to the envelope-shaped symbol and toggled it. The system told him that he had two new messages waiting. He selected the first one and double-tapped the track ball. An instant later, a brief message appeared on the screen:
FROM: RaceTrak
TO: Thor200
DATE: 1/16/95 4:00 a.m. EST
Copy code sequences as follows:
1-6-9-5-9-7
3-8-3-9-7-0
GIF attached.
Dooley carefully wrote down the two sets of numbers, then moved the cursor to another icon, this one a paper clip attached to a file folder. He toggled it, then waited while the system decrypted a graphic-image file which had been sent to him.
A few moments later, a scanned photo of his contact was painted on the screen. Dooley smiled; he recognized the face immediately.
He closed the file and the message, then moved to the second message in the e-mail queue and toggled it.
FROM: Mr. Grid
TO: Thor200
DATE: 1/16/95 8:00 a.m. EST
Watched the launch this morning on TV. Looked great!
I’ll be waiting for you tonight in the Castle. :)
