by John Varley
I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.
Funny guy. I was about to come back when he posted another line:
Spacemanny? Dat you?
Unfortunately, it was. I’d made that my web handle years ago, before it started sounding so dorky. Now it would be too much bother to change it.
Y.
[33] A three-by-three window opened and I saw the head and shoulders of a very, very fat man about my mother’s age. He had to weigh in at five hundred pounds. SpaceScuttlebutt.com was as close as he’d ever get to space and he knew it. He lived his spacegoing fantasies online, and his knowledge was encyclopedic. I had no idea where he lived or what his real name was, but his handle was Piginspace. A man with no illusions. I was lucky to have run into him.
“Broussard-san heap big bad medicine, Spacemanny,” he said through the tiny built-in speaker on my antique laptop. “Bad juju. Say his name at Kennedy, you must leave the room, spin around twice, and spit.”
He talked like that sometimes. He enjoyed having information someone else was looking for, and sometimes made you jump through hoops to get it. But not this time.
“I see he got a medal for an emergency landing. What do you know about that?”
“Everything, my lad, the Pig knows everything. Knows all, tells… well, whatever he feels young minds can safely handle. Short version… it was early days in the second generation of the VStar program. The Mark II had just received its spaceworthiness certificate from NASA. Some of the jockeys felt there were a few bugs still to be worked out, but the mandarins decreed it should be pressed into service most tickety-boo.”
The VStar II California was less than an hour away from its de-orbit burn when there was an explosion followed by a fire. The cabin began to fill with smoke. Much of the cockpit electronics went down.
Travis, working from what NASA called “hard copies”-tech manuals and maps-and with only minimal help from his crashing computers, fired the de-orbit engines within three minutes of the explosion.
There were three airfields designated by NASA as “trans-Atlantic abort” sites, at Moron, Spain; Banjul, The Gambia; and Ben Guenir, Morocco. None of them had ever been used, and in fact there was nothing to recommend them other than a runway long enough for the old Shuttle’s landing rollout. For that purpose, Cairo would have been [34] a better choice, and Travis looked at it briefly, but it was too far north of his path.
Moron, Banjul, and Ben Guenir were already almost beneath him. Impossible to turn and glide back with the VStar’s steep angle of descent.
Johannesburg was too far south. Nairobi was too far east.
He came out of the fireball hoping to make Entebbe in Uganda… but he couldn’t see anything. The ship was filled with dense smoke. They all would have been unconscious or dead without the emergency oxygen masks. He had to find a way to clear the smoke from the cabin.
“He brought it down to about forty thousand and had another problem. How do you make a hole to the outside, when the whole vehicle is designed to prevent that? Can’t open the door against the cabin pressure. Can’t even use the emergency explosive hatch bolts without disarming a safety system, which was no longer disarmable because of all four computers going down.
“But he did punch a hole in a window, and the smoke got sucked out. So there he was, twenty thousand feet over the jungles of central Africa. Nothing but green, far as the eye could see. No hope of making it to Entebbe. Very little maneuverability in the VStar, even when things are going right. There were enough hydraulics surviving to steer the beast, a little, and that was about all he had going to him.
“So he rocked it to the left, looked out the window, and put the damn thing through a three-sixty roll, which no one had ever tested in a wind tunnel but anybody in his right mind would have said couldn’t be done. While he was upside down he spotted a line of red earth through the trees, almost directly below him. Might be a runway, might not. He put the ship into a turn twice as tight as the manufacturer recommended, pulled about seventeen gees for a few seconds, blacked out along with everybody else… and when he came to, lined the ship up toward the red line.
“Turns out it was a runway, bulldozed out of the jungle and used by bush doctors, ivory smugglers, and such. And about half the length needed for a VStar rollout.
“Reconstructing it, later, the tire marks began just about ten feet [35] from one end of the runway. There were branches and leaves stuck in the landing gear. The chutes and the brakes stopped the ship with its nose gear twenty feet past the other end of the runway. Hitting a water buffalo with the nose gear probably slowed it down a bit, too.”
Travis had brought the California down at dusk. There were no lights at the field, so the first Americans didn’t get there until the next morning. It was the ambassador to Congo and some of his staff, and a small contingent of U.S. Marine embassy guards. There had been no radio contact, so no one knew what to expect.
“The ambassador stepped out of his helicopter and into the remains of a fine African barbecue. The crew had raised enough money among them to pay for the water buffalo, and they had cooked it and danced and drank long into the night. The farmers and herdsmen from the area all had souvenirs of some kind. Space suits, crew seat cushions, packets of Tang, bits and pieces of the instrument panel…
“So they killed another water buffalo, and the embassy staff, the marines, the California crew and passengers feasted all day and toasted everything they could think of in buffalo blood mixed with vodka. And she sits there still.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You doubt the Pig?”
“No. But I don’t get it. NASA gave him a medal… but they made a much bigger deal out of other ships that almost crashed.”
“Going all the way back to Apollo 13,” Pig confirmed. “Not much they can do if the mission really goes balls-up. Three astronauts burned to death on the pad in Apollo One. Challenger blew up on live television. No way to soft-pedal those.
“The California wasn’t much of a news story for a lot of reasons. It was over before the media even heard of it. It was remote. Nothing to show but that big old whale sitting in the dirt. NASA found the image embarrassing. Everybody was okay, so what’s the big deal? Give him a medal and move on. Nobody’s career would be advanced by making a big deal, except Broussard’s… and nobody quite knew what to do about him.”
“Why not? He sounds like a hero to me.”
[36] “Oh, he was. Maybe the biggest hero NASA ever had. One hell of a bit of flying, and they still drink toasts to him in astronaut bars… quietly.
“You didn’t ask me how he made the hole in the spacecraft. The one that sucked the smoke out and let him see. The hole that saved the California and crew.”
“I was going to.”
“It was hushed up. No one on the crew wanted to talk about it, and neither did anyone higher up in the bureaucracy. But these things leak. The Pig learned of it years ago, and because of his great respect for Colonel Broussard, seldom tells it. But I sense you mean Broussard no harm.”
“Of course not. None of my business.”
“Quite so. Broussard made the hole with a nonstandard piece of astronaut equipment known as a Colt.45 automatic.”
We both just let that one hang there for a minute. A pistol? For what, protection from space aliens?
“He might have got away with it if he hadn’t told the inquiry board himself. Not one of the passengers or crew said a word about it in their debriefing. They knew they were alive because of the gun and Broussard’s piloting skills.
“I have it from one of the inquiry board members that Broussard told the debriefers he just ‘felt naked’ without a piece of some sort. So he’d carried the weapon on all his previous flights.”
Travis became the sort of problem bureaucrats hate. There were those who wanted to kick his redneck ass out of the astronaut corps, a few who would like to send him a bill for the California. But he had saved a lot of lives, and those he sav
ed promised a really ugly fight in the media if Broussard was punished in any way.
“So they did what the military customarily does when a man screws up so badly he ends up being a hero,” Pig said. “They gave him a medal and a promotion, and swept the dirty details under the rug.”
“Okay,” I said. “But that doesn’t really explain-”
“Why he’s an un-person? No, of course not.”
“So why is he?”
[37] Pig grinned, and shook his head.
“I said I’d tell you about the medal, Spacemanny,” he said. “Wild horses could not tear the rest of the story out of me. I have too much respect for Broussard, a real ‘Right Stuff’ dude if ever there was one.” He waved, and was gone.
I guess that was enough to think about for one night, anyway.
5
* * *
IT WAS A week later, and it was the worst kind of day, for me. Low eighties, lots of sunshine. It was the start of spring break and every other car was a rental convertible full of college girls hurrying to get a Florida sunburn on their Minnesota skin in the few days they had. They were dressed minimally in bikinis and thongs. All of them on the lookout for handsome, suave beach bums like me and Dak.
Actually, the “bums” part was all we could manage so far. But there were wet T-shirt contests to attend, nightclubs to crash with our first-rate false ID, beers that needed chugging, gutters that needed to be puked in. Everything about the day cried out for me to be outside taking part.
Instead, Dak and I were holed up in room 201 with the drapes and the sliding glass patio doors closed and the air conditioner on in an attempt to block out all the distractions. It wasn’t working that well. Every time we heard a horn honk or a girl’s high-pitched laugh from just outside we both looked longingly at the curtains.
“We go out there,” Dak said, “we doomed. We’re just going to get faced and blow the whole day, and tomorrow with a hangover and maybe part of the next day.”
[39] “I know that,” I said, irritated. “Hell, I remember last year. Do you?”
“Not much,” he admitted.
Last year had not been anything to be proud of. Our friendship was new at the time, and both of us had been severely depressed at being turned down at half a dozen colleges. I knew a guy who produced Florida drivers’ licenses as good as the real ones, so we invested some money meant for tuition, then went barhopping for three days and nights. No need to get into too many sordid details. A lot of it will be hazy forever, and just as well. I was sick for days.
“Girls up here at Daytona mostly a bunch of second-raters, anyway,” Dak said.
“Right. All the pretty girls go to Lauderdale or Key West.”
“You got that right.”
Dak said a dirty word, then snapped his laptop computer shut.
“Look, no offense, but this place would depress that Crocodile Hunter guy.”
“Yeah, but…”
“No, let’s don’t open the curtains, we’d never be able to resist it. I know a place we can go and study and not be distracted. Well, not by babes, anyway.”
“Where’s that?”
“Have I ever led you astray, amigo? Don’t answer that. Come on, let’s go.”
What the hell. I closed my computer, too.
We left my room and the first thing we saw was my mother coming up the stairs at the other end, looking determined. She was carrying her long-barreled target pistol, checking the loads in the cylinder as she walked. She looked up and saw us, frowned, and looked even more determined.
“Jesus, Mom,” I whispered as she tried to pass between us and the maid’s cart Aunt Maria had left there on the walkway. I grabbed her arm and held on. “Didn’t you say you would-”
“No time for that now, Manuel.”
“It’s drugs again, right?” It had to be drugs. If it was prostitution she [40] wouldn’t have bothered with the artillery, just told them to get out. Johns don’t want any trouble.
But sometimes drug dealers just didn’t care.
“Let us call the cops, Mrs. Garcia,” Dak said. He already had his phone in his hand and had dialed 91. Mom pushed his hand away.
“I don’t want cops, Dak honey. They get too many calls like that, next thing you know they’re closing you down as a public nuisance. Don’t worry, Manuel, I’m not going to shoot them unless they want an argument.”
“Oh, great.” I saw Aunt Maria hurrying toward us, holding Mom’s fine old Mossburg gingerly. Maria doesn’t like guns. Mom loves guns, as long as she’s the one pointing and shooting them. I stepped around Mom and took the shotgun from Maria.
“Which room, Maria?” I asked.
“That one, 206. They’ve had six visitors in the last hour. I thought-”
“Yeah, it probably ain’t a Mary Kay convention. Maria, you and Dak stay back. Dak, you hear shooting, you press that last 1, okay?”
“Loud shooting,” Mom said, holding her pistol pointed at the sky. “This thing doesn’t make much more noise than a cork gun.”
She was downplaying it a little, but the revolver really wasn’t very noisy. It was only a.22 but it looked strange, being a match weapon saved from the days when Mom liked to shoot competitively, and had the time for it.
How good was she? If you asked her to shoot a mosquito in the air, she’d ask if you wanted a head shot, or one through the kneecap.
She looked at me, took a deep breath, and nodded. We’d done this sort of takedown before. It was that kind of neighborhood. I moved the maid cart off to one side so it wouldn’t get in our way. Mom rapped on the door with the gun barrel.
“This is the manager, Mr. Smeth. Open up, please.” Later I got out the check-in slips and saw he really had signed in with that name: Homer Smeth. We get an amazing number of Smiths, but this was the first one who didn’t know how to spell it.
“Buzz off. We’re busy.”
[41] Mom knocked once more, got more or less the same answer, and nodded to me. She slipped her master key into the lock.
I reached up into the brickwork and pulled the little hidden toggle there. It was connected to a bolt that held the inside chain-lock plate to the wall. When the bolt was pulled, it looked like the door was chained securely, but it wasn’t. I’d installed that little item on most of our rooms. Saves having to bust down the door. Lots cheaper.
I nodded at her, and she turned the handle. The door swung open and she stepped in, the gun held in front of her. I stepped around her and did my best to glower at them.
Homer Smeth was sitting at the desk, a baggie of white powder open in front of him. He had been busy measuring out doses with a razor blade and putting each dose into one of those tiny Ziplocs that, so far as I can tell, are not good for anything but dope.
Heroin? Probably coke. It made no difference. Neither were tolerated at the Blast-Off. Sitting on the bed partially dressed and watching television was Homer’s sidekick, the guy he had checked in with a few hours ago. With him was a girl who looked about fourteen except in the eyes, which were a lot older.
“Now we told you when you checked in we didn’t allow dealing in this place, Homer,” Mom said. She waved the gun, indicating the door. “Y’all better pack your things and go.”
Homer just stared at her with his mouth slightly open. It looked like he had about a pound of powder on the desk. He was mixing it with baby laxative. The couple on the bed didn’t move, either.
At last Homer seemed to work it all out. He smiled, showing the two missing teeth I remembered from when I checked him and his scumbag friend in. He held up one of the little bags of dope.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist, sister. How ’bout a couple snorts of this?”
Mom didn’t hesitate. The gun came up and barked once, and the tiny plastic bag between his fingertips vanished. Fine white powder floated in the air like chalk dust. He stared at the empty space, once more too stoned to quite realize what had happened. All three of them [42] were doing the stupidest thing a do
pe dealer can do, which is sample the product. At the Blast-Off, we didn’t even get a very good grade of narcotics trafficker. And that’s a good thing, because with those dudes we’d have been in a gunfight, and those dudes carried more firepower.
Still no motion from anybody. I racked a round and raised the muzzle so it pointed at Homer’s chest. That sound, of the slide being worked on a shotgun, has the amazing ability to clear your mind. It sure helped with this bunch. All six hands reached for the sky. I moved away from the door and motioned to the two on the bed. They got up slowly, the girl reaching down to get some of her clothes from the floor.
“Uh-uh!” I shouted, scaring her badly. “Kick ’em over here.” She did, and I could see there was no weapon in them. The guy did the same. I kicked the stuff back at them, and they started to dress.
In no more than thirty seconds they had their stuff together, which was just a little clothing, the pound of coke, and some free-basing equipment in a cardboard box. They slunk out the door, giving both of us a wide berth. We followed them out and watched them down to their car, an unbelievably rusty ’60s model Oldsmobile station wagon almost full of bald tires and packrat junk. Aunt Maria came out of room 206 with a pair of sneakers wrapped in a dirty shirt. She threw it over the railing and it landed on the hood of the car. Homer glared up at us and gave us the finger, then backed out recklessly, put it in forward and tried to burn rubber on the way out. The car was too old for that, but it did put out an impressive cloud of white smoke.
“Now can I have the gun, Mom?”
“Where are you boys… sorry, where are you young men going?”
“Somewhere else to study,” I told her.
“It better not be some bar full of snow bunnies.”
“No way, Mrs. Garcia.”
“I’m serious. You guys come home plastered and you can sleep it off in a pool chair, ’cause I ain’t letting you in.”
“We’ll be good.”
“Manny, you clean that desk and flush the paper towels before you go.”
“I was just about to suggest that myself.” She looked at me hard, [43] trying to tell if I was kidding her again. Mom doesn’t have the world’s greatest sense of humor. At last she snorted, reached up and tousled my hair-and I wish she’d stop doing that-then took the Mossburg and headed back for the office and the gun safe.
