Six days out, the satellite television signal in the television lounge became weak and distorted, and the cabinet of Betamax tapes was rolled into place. There seemed to be more people that night watching the evening news than usual.
I thought it was a psychological thing; we were finally cutting ties to Earth. The chatter seemed somehow more subdued. WABC in New York was on one of the sets, with Ernie Anastos and Roseann Scarmadella doing the evening news. I saw a picture that froze me in my tracks. It was the Goldome Bank at 108th and Broadway … behind yellow police tape.
My mouth went dry and I rushed over in front of the set, my knees starting to weaken.
“… shocked as the gunmen hustled the staff into a break room while Hausler was forced at gunpoint to open the vault,” said Scarmadella.
I went up behind a man who was watching. “What happened?”
“Bank manager’s wife was taken hostage at their home in Long Island, and they forced him to open the vault at a bank in Manhattan,” he said, knitting his eyebrows
“Is she safe?”
The man pointed at the screen and shook his head. A photo of Desiree appeared.
“The NYPD is concerned that Mrs. Hausler has not been released and her whereabouts are unknown this evening,” said Anastos.
“That means this is also being classified as kidnapping,” said Scarmadella.
“Oh, shit!” I blurted.
“You know her?” the man asked as he jerked his head back.
“Yes, we dated in college,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I grew queasy and sat down as my knees gave way completely.
The man I had been talking to shook his head and looked at me sympathetically as he spoke to another man. I stared at my hands and realized I was hunched over. I got up and lurched unsteadily down the corridor back to my cabin.
I knew it couldn’t actually be as cold as I felt, but I was very, very cold, and lay there, with a thousand conflicting and confusing thoughts making white noise in my brain until I passed out asleep.
* * *
I kept checking the news faxes from New York during the next few days, trying not to look like a nervous wreck and hoping that there would be some word about Desiree’s whereabouts, but nothing appeared on the fax or teletype. That’s when I started to think that somehow the feeling I’d had when I saw Desiree the night I left New York City was some kind of premonition.
Then again, I’m a well-educated man. I’m not supposed to believe in such things, am I?
The reports clearly indicated Desiree’s case puzzled the NYPD. There was no ransom demand, no body—and no Desiree.
It was atypical and puzzling. I wondered if there was something to the case no one had thought of. I thought and rubbed the back of my neck, feeling guilty and wondering if there was anything I could do or help with if I was back in New York.
I suppose I had always hoped there would be some way to get closure with our failed relationship. But I had procrastinated so long, probably out of sheer cowardice, and now it seemed like the possibility was passing forever, with my moving away from New York – right when she needed some kind of help. But I couldn’t think of any realistic way I could help.
Meanwhile, I finished the Mars books. The reading did seem to distract me somewhat. I didn’t read them in publication order, and The Synthetic Men of Mars was the last one.
When I returned it, I told Katya, the librarian, “Those were great. Any other suggestions?”
She raised her eyebrows and a little smile appeared.
“Hmm, I have an idea, but I need to check and see if the book is available. I’ll call you on the intercom if I find it.”
It was after dinner when my door buzzer went off. I peered through the peephole.
It was Katya.
“I found the book I was looking for. This is something you might want to read,” she said, pulling an old paperback from a brown paper bag. I wondered why she concealed it. Then I saw the name of the author.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Isaac Asimov? I didn’t know his stuff was allowed on space ships.”
“You Americans don’t ban or burn books, do you?” she asked. “Just because he fell from grace doesn’t mean he didn’t write some good science fiction.”
“Is he even still alive?”
“Someplace in Massachusetts, I think. He’s always kept a low profile since 1962.”
I took the book and turned it over in my hands. The cover was stained and badly creased, the inside had that “old book” smell, faintly like vanilla. The cheap pulp paper was already turning brownish yellow.
Strange to see such a discredited name in the open. Nightfall and Other Stories. Then again, he was disgraced as a failure, not a criminal.
“The space administration says we are not allowed to have any of his books where he writes about robots in our libraries,” she said. “Now that is still a tender subject. But there are none of those stories there.”
I opened the book to the Table of Contents.
“Nightfall”
“Misbegotten Missionary”
“C-Chute”
“Eyes Do More Than See”
I especially remembered that story. It had been an assigned reading in a high school English class.
And so forth, for a dozen more stories.
“You know, this is interesting,” I said, nodding. “I know he was a very famous writer before he became involved in the cybernetics program and robot development.”
“Involved? He invented the whole program,” she said, raising her voice slightly. “Until it all blew up in his face.”
“Yeah, it’s not like there’s been a lot of talk about him in the past 20 years.” I hefted the book. “Thanks, I’ll read it.” I had always been curious about Asimov’s work. It was about time I got more familiar with it. He was a science fiction giant, after all.
She reached back in the bag and a pleasant aroma snuck up on my nose. “I know you like fresh-brewed coffee. I brought some from the cafeteria.”
“Thanks,” I said, sniffing it. The warm, earthy smell made me smile.
She pulled out a second cup, her eyes brightening. “Can I join you?”
“Of course, it would be nice to have some female companionship,” I said, only a little snarky, and took my first sip. It was good coffee. “Won’t you get in trouble if you fraternize with capitalists?”
“Not at all. We are always encouraged to reach out to Americans, for goodwill,” she said. “Besides, you have a worker’s background. You said so yourself one time at the library.”
“I shouldn’t talk so much to strangers,” I said with a little crooked smile.
“You’re just lonely,” she said, as she shut the door. She smiled and looked at me.
“You have the brightest blue eyes I have ever seen on a brunette,” I blurted.
She took off her glasses. “You like them?” She came closer.
“Yeah. And the rest of you is pretty, too.” I started to feel a warmth creep up.
“Librarians can be pretty, can’t they?” And she pressed up against me.
Both coffees were cold and unfinished when I threw them down the chute the next morning. We found other ways to stay awake and keep warm.
* * *
Katya and I slept together at least a half dozen times during the voyage. It was a purely physical thing; there was no way we could have a long-term relationship. It was the longest relationship I’d had since with Desiree—which was kind of sad, in retrospect. I realized I began to know her Katya’s smell and feel in a very personal way, and I hadn’t done that since Desiree and I had been lovers.
We were opposites. She was outwardly reserved but friendly on a personal level, while I was outwardly friendly but still a bit repressed. Being raised Catholic, I had to overcome my inner feeling that there was something innately sinful about sex.
And yes, that was the first time I’d experienced that sense of guilt since Desiree an
d I parted ways.
We both seemed to enjoy the affair for what it was. She was right, I was lonely. And if she was really a Soviet spy, I was honored. I didn’t think I was important enough to seduce.
I told her so one night as we lay side by side in bed. “Hah, maybe I am good judge of character,” she said with a laugh as her chest heaved. “Maybe someday you will amount to something. Then maybe this is an investment.”
I leaned over. “An investment? Now you sound like a capitalist!”
She smiled at nothing in particular and snuggled closer to me. Even that felt good.
Katya also was right about my reading material.
I did enjoy reading the Asimov stories. Of course, I didn’t read them in the lounge. I didn’t want to be seen doing that. In light of the professor’s involvement in the development of robot technology, it was fascinating to read stories he wrote for the pulp science fiction magazines years earlier. Then again, during his hiatus from the Navy before World War II, Admiral Heinlein wrote the same kind of stuff. Of course, he wasn’t subsequently discredited like Asimov was.
One great innovation the Orion had was a new sound system based on laser optical technology. There were audio jacks in all the lounges. The ship carried a library of these high quality digital optical discs; they were so much smaller and lighter than phonograph records. Because of their size, they were called compact discs, and you could reserve a recliner and dial up any selection you wanted. The system used the same kind of headphones that were used on the portable cassette players that had just been introduced by Sony and were already in the cabins.
One afternoon, I had just finished listening to Billy Joel’s 52nd Street album when I heard some friendly chatter and some young ladies walked up to me. I had noticed them hanging out together during our time on the ship, and they always seemed very friendly and outgoing, but we had never exchanged words.
“We understand you’re going to be an administrator with the Mars colony,” one said as she stepped forward.
“Yes, I’m coming on board as an executive assistant.”
They all extended their hands. “Pleased to meet you, we’re going to Mars on an assignment, too,” said one. “We’re Mormon missionaries.”
Another one giggled at my expression.
“I didn’t know there was such a thing as female missionaries,” I said.
“Missionary service is an opportunity, not an obligation, for women in the church,” said the tallest of the three. “We volunteered.” She shook my hand and told me her name. She had to repeat it, which is why I’ve never forgotten it. Mignonette Applegate.
I need to mention that she was so beautiful that she was painful to look at. I thought, This is the perfection of the female form.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, my voice wavering a bit.
This came out of Utah? I thought.
“We’re from Provo,” another one said. I don’t remember her name; she was just normally pretty.
“We’ll be on Mars two years,” said the third. I think her name was something Jenkins.
“We thought we should introduce ourselves, since we plan to be visiting colonists once we’re there,” said Mignonette.
“I don’t have experience with Mormons,” I said. “I grew up Catholic, and lived in Massachusetts and New York.”
“You say you ‘grew up’ Catholic,” said Jenkins. “Are you a church-goer now?”
I chuckled. “No, I haven’t been to church in years. I think ‘lapsed’ is the largest Catholic denomination,” I said.
“Can we give you a copy of the Book of Mormon?” asked Mignonette, with a smile that almost knocked me over.
She can’t be aware of how good looking she is, I thought.
“Of course. I’m always open to learning new things,” I said as I blinked a bit.
She handed me a small blue book about an inch thick. It was very dense and solid, and still smelled of bookbinder’s glue. “I hope you have time to read it.”
“Thanks,” I said as I took it and looked down to avoid making eye contact again.
They weren’t pushy or aggressive at all, and it was a pleasant visit. I was rather surprised, to tell the truth, from what I thought about people who proselytize.
I didn’t see much of them the rest of the trip. My best guess is that some of the space riggers and ground pounders on board had begun to drool at the sight of Mignonette, and they kept to their quarters a lot. We nodded in passing a few times in the corridor, but never spoke again.
I was pleased, though, one day, when I was sitting in the lounge with a small pile of books, which included the Book of Mormon, and Mignonette noticed as she passed by, and smiled.
Guilt rose within me; I had tried to read it, but the prose style was just too turgid. As Mark Twain once said, it was like chloroform in print.
* * *
For the rest of the trip, the entertainment offerings for the passengers on the Orion ship were stepped up to fight boredom, which was fortunate for me, because there was no change in the news about Desiree’s kidnapping and disappearance. It didn’t always work, but I could use the distractions.
Every time I thought to check on the status of the police investigation, my hands would get clammy and my heart would race. I checked the news reports every day—now coming in with a lag because of the distance—but there were no leads or breaks in the case. The amount of money and valuables taken by the robbers was never announced.
Gene Hausler was obviously distraught when he was shown on television, stammering and swallowing his voice as he bit his lip and tried to keep his composure. He tried to keep up a brave front, but it was obviously tough. Even in the space between planets I could feel his hurt.
The police spokesmen were perplexed and clueless, and kept repeating the same facts and observations over and over because they didn’t have any new information.
Mixing a kidnapping with a bank robbery seemed “unprofessional,” said one source. “There’s no reason the hostage-taking will work if the subject doesn’t think the victim will be released.”
Eventually, the reports and updates tapered off. There were no new developments and the case was undergoing its own heat death.
Among the ways the passengers were entertained on the long journey to Mars was to have those on board with particular areas of expertise shanghaied for lectures. I majored in South African history at Columbia—my senior thesis was “On the Penetration of European Culture in the Trans-Orangia Prior to the Great Trek,” or as my professor called it “Boers, Bibles, and Bastards.”
I was asked to speak on what the future held for the Republic of South Africa now that the long-time prime minister had died.
The 83-year old Dr. Verwoerd, universally dubbed “The Man Who Invented Apartheid,” had finally passed away after 27 years in office, and after such a long and heavy-handed reign, many supposed there would be changes in the wake of the power vacuum.
My talk in one of the larger interior lounges of the ship was very well attended, but I had to disabuse the audience of the possibility for reform.
“After so many years, there is no one with any experience in any position of authority ready to step up to the post who doesn’t completely agree with Verwoerd’s world-view,” I said. “Barring a violent internal uprising, any reform will be gradual, somewhat fortuitous, and delayed well into the 21st century.”
People nodded their heads and looked at each other approvingly at my sagacity. I felt so smart and wise.
Chapter Three
As we approached Mars, the external camera feed was put on the view screens so we could watch it grow larger by the day.
We saw its satellites whiz by—Phobos flew past like a greyhound. The first time I saw Mars in the screen I thought the color was rather washed out, but a steward noted there was an enormous dust storm underway. He was right; the next day, the surface features appeared sharper, and of course we were somewhat closer.
Finally, we came
into Mars orbit and watched the sand dunes and craters on the surface whoosh past us. Below we could see the single collection of domes that made up the colony. Unlike on the Moon, there were no outlying settlements, so it was simply designated “The Colony,” as opposed to the Moon, which had cities such as Pattonville, Brasilia, and Centurion.
I stopped by to see Katya one last time the night before we were to land. “Well, I’m leaving,” I said. “I had a great time.”
“Is that to say the sex was good?” she smiled.
“Well, it was. More importantly thanks for being a good friend on the trip.”
“You seemed distracted in a sad way sometimes,” she said.
“I didn’t want to drop this on you, but I might as well now,” I said.
I told her about Desiree’s disappearance.
She nodded knowingly. “I thought there was something sad you were hiding,” she said. “You seemed hurt.”
“She has a nice marriage, a nice husband, a house in the suburbs, and then that happens. It’s not fair,” I said.
“She might still be alive, you know,” she said hopefully.
“What do you think?”
Katya looked down. “Probably not. Still, you need what is called closure.”
“Hopefully, someday they’ll find her.”
“I’m not talking about her death. I’m talking about the death of your romance. Now that you’re both older and more mature, you might both have been able to forgive and forget and move on. It sounds like you tried that last brief time you saw her.”
I stared at her, and rubbed my jaw hard. “That’s the smartest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re totally right. I couldn’t see it myself.”
“Take it from me. Sometimes not only do you not have a happy ending, you don’t have a good ending,” she said, “but you still have an ending. Sometimes any ending is better than no ending.”
I realized I saw something hard but sad in her cold blue eyes. I embraced her, and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks. If you ever need anything, as a friend, contact me.”
“It may be good to have an American friend,” she said with a little smile as she turned and walked away.
I took one last glance at her as she walked down the corridor, and thought how lucky I had been to have met such a “friendly” girl while on a long trip to such strange world.
Another Girl, Another Planet Page 4
