Analog SFF, May 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Unless we had a local supply.” Angus said slowly. “I mean, what if we—and I'm speaking hypothetically, you understand—make our own?"

  Allen liked the idea, even though he didn't have a clue about what they would need. But the idea of having a cool brew to drive away the taste of stale air, piss, and farts that permeated the work suits would be wonderful. “Do you really think we could?"

  * * * *

  "Now, what we'll need,” Angus said sotto voce so no one else in the common room would overhear. “All we'll need is a recipe, ingredients, and few supplies."

  Thoughts of his distant and somewhat scandalous uncle's illegal basement arrangement of copper pots, coiled tube, and steaming tanks filled Allen's head. “And just where do you think we could hide the blooming still?"

  "You don't need a bloody still, you daft Tommy. My dear old gran, bless her heart, showed me how to make a fine brew. All we need is a large container, some water, hops, sugar, and some other stuff. It's easy. Gran brewed up a kiloliter every month and drank most of it."

  That was encouraging. For some reason Allen thought the making of beer was somewhat more complicated. “That's it, then.” He looked around to see if anyone was showing an interest in their conversation and, seeing none, leaned close. “So, what will we need, eh?"

  "Well, to be honest, I don't exactly recall. But not to worry, I'll Google a recipe. We can probably scrounge most of the materials."

  Allen was warming to the idea, but he still had concerns. “You said we needed a container. Where would we hide it? There isn't a spot on the station that isn't monitored or used on a daily basis."

  "Not to say we need it on the station, exactly,” Angus said and waved his arm at the universe in general and Jupiter in particular. “We could stick it out there—lock our brewing container to the docking collar or put it up on the antenna array where it'd be one more mysterious thing-a-ma-jig among the others. Probably hardly be noticed, you see. All we have to do is figure a way to keep her nice and warm. Making beer needs heat, as I recall."

  "The Sun,” Allen mused. “Yes, we could use the black body approach. Yeah, and black paint would make it harder to find. On the other hand, it would be hard to access. Best we keep it safe inside where we can keep an eye on it."

  Angus slapped hands to the table. “It's done, then. I tell you, Tommy, I can practically taste our first batch already."

  * * * *

  While Angus researched the recipe and directions, Allen looked through the station for something they could use as their brew vat. According to what he'd learned so far, it had to be fairly large—forty to fifty liters would be about right—and have a tight enough lid to keep the batch from boiling off into the vacuum of space.

  The scrap heap around the science section looked initially promising, but proved useless. Those scientist fellows apparently never let anything go to waste and were so strapped for parts that they adapted everything they could get their hands on to their own projects.

  The mess proved more fruitful. Angus found two hundred-liter plastic water tanks that had just been replaced and had been put aside where anyone could walk off with them. Better he thought, to put them to a more noble purpose than let some greedy scientists gobble them up for another useless experiment.

  Further searching of the spares locker gained him four rolls of insulating scrap and two pressure bombs of lampblack that had been destined for a project that had lost its funding.

  Angus didn't seem too happy about the size of the tanks. “We'll need to fill those sweet mothers, Tommy, and that's a lot of water we'd never be able to get from our five liters a day ration. People would notice if we skipped a few showers."

  "And wonder why,” Allen sniffed. “We certainly couldn't bleed it off the station's reserves—they're monitored too closely. We'd be caught before we got the first tank filled."

  "Gran's sending a care package,” Angus said. “A nice cake of barley malt extract, some brewer's yeast, and half a kilogram of hops. But it's up to us to make the wort."

  Allen looked at him in amazement. “Make the what?"

  "Wort. It's the stuff that makes the beer. Grain sprouts, usually."

  "Where are we going to find grain up here? The closest thing we have is that damned soy Sid grows."

  Angus considered. “Gran says the yeasts don't particularly care as long as there's enough sugar to keep them happy. I'm pretty sure we can use soy."

  Allen made a face. “Ugh! I hate to think what that would taste like."

  "Tofu, I'd imagine. Maybe Gran's malt will improve the taste,” Angus replied. “Soy's not something I'd want to try, but what's a man to do when he has a thirst? Couldn't be much worse than that light piss most Americans drink."

  Allen grimaced. His own brief visit to the states had introduced him to those peculiar abominations. Luckily he'd also discovered some dedicated microbrewers. “I'll see if I can get something we can use from Sid. Any idea of how much we'll need?"

  "You think? Sid's a pretty nasty guy: Always suspicious about someone abusing his crops. You'd imagine a biologist would have a more cheery outlook on life.” Angus sighed. “About two bucketfuls of stuff we can boil to convert the starch should be enough. Those are pretty big tanks you got."

  "What about the water? You figured that out yet?"

  Angus hesitated. “Well, I figured we could only get enough if we sort of broadened our conspiracy a little."

  "A little! How many people did you tell?"

  "Now don't be greedy, Tommy. Just think of the beer we're going to drink. Surely you wouldn't begrudge another soul who was as needy, particularly if they'd be willing to sacrifice a little water in the interests of the project."

  "How many, Angus?” The broader the conspiracy got the more they were in danger of discovery.

  "Well, first I spoke—very cautiously, mind you—to the chaps who manage the water recovery systems. It's hot and thirsty work there on the condensers, you see, and they were most willing to offer a few liters here and there—about half of what we need—for a small consideration."

  Allen felt his blood pressure rising. “How small, Angus?” he said slowly.

  "Ten liters,” Angus said, and then added, very softly, “from each batch."

  "That's not bad,” Allen said, estimating that they'd get at least fifty liters of beer from each tank. “That still leaves a lot for us."

  Angus cleared his throat. “Then there's the galley crew—poor souls in desperate need of refreshment. I tell you, Tommy, I could feel their thirst as if it were my own. Good souls all. They'll keep our little tanks well hidden, for us."

  "How much?” Allen asked, wondering what the toll would be for this group.

  "They've a space beneath the kitchen compartments. It's warm and dark and near the outer ring where there's a bit of gravity to help settle the residue. Best of all, they only want a liter.” He paused. “Apiece."

  "Just for a hiding place?"

  "Well, they're going to cook the sprouts and each of them is going to sacrifice a bit of water as well."

  "How much are we talking about,” Allen asked again, afraid of what the answer might be. “And how many?"

  "Five hard-working, honest sons of the prairie, Tommy. Surely you wouldn't deny them a dram of pleasure, would you?"

  Allen did the math quickly. Five liters per week, plus that from the waterworks, plus their own ration, would get the tanks filled in a month, maybe less. So thanks to Angus they'd get maybe a hundred liters of beer and have to pay out about thirty. All in all, it would still be a pretty good return for their investment.

  But when Sid demanded a liter of their product for each kilogram of diverted soy, it brought their share down a bit more.

  "Better half a pint than none,” Angus said after he heard the bad news, “but anything at all is better than none."

  * * * *

  They mixed the first batch during the mid-shift, when most of the JBI administrators were asleep. Angus had weig
hed the ration of soy sprouts they'd roasted, boiled, and strained very carefully to get the sugary wort, added a dollop of yeast to get the mix started, and then carefully crumbled the hops and a portion of his gran's barley malt extract into each tank before sealing them tightly.

  Allen sniffed. “This really smells. I don't think we can vent it in here."

  "Maybe it won't make that much gas. A tight lid will keep the stink in check.” he said.

  Allen wrapped some duct tape around the lids, just to be sure. The jig would be up if the administrators ever got a whiff of their brewery.

  "Now we wait a few weeks, maybe a month,” Angus said. “Then we draw off the first beer brewed near Jupiter. Ah, but we need a name, Tommy. What will we call this?"

  Allen thought hard. Jupiter was too obvious, too simple. Neither would the names of the old man's moons—Io, Ganymede, Europa, or Amalthea—be appropriate for a beer; an effete wine perhaps, but not good, honest beer. Then he glimpsed the arm of Jupiter through the viewport. “How about The Old Man?"

  Angus smiled broadly. “I like that. The Old Man's a proper name for a beer."

  "Better yet. Let's make it The Old Man's Best."

  Angus thought for a moment and then agreed. “Aye, better yet; a stroke of genius, Tommy.

  * * * *

  Over the next few days Allen checked the containers by putting a hand to the side to see if they were warming properly. On the fourth day he noticed how taut the container's sides were becoming. That must be why they were supposed to use a vent. Well, maybe it wouldn't be too bad.

  When he checked the following evening he had no doubts that the containers were swelling like plastic balloons. Both of them were changing from elongated cylinders to bulbous barrel shapes.

  "It's the bloody gas being produced by the little buggers,” Angus said. “If we don't vent them they might explode."

  Allen felt a moment of panic. Releasing the excess gas into the station's atmosphere would make it obvious what they had been doing. Images of being shipped back to Earth, losing his pay, and incurring the wrath of JBI danced in his head. He couldn't let that happen.

  "We need to get the tanks to an air lock where we can release the gas without anyone smelling it."

  * * * *

  Hours later, when the coast was clear and as one of their conspirators stood watch, they unlashed the tie-downs and tugged on the nearest container to get it out of the hiding place.

  The swollen tank barely fit through the access hatch. It bounced off the walls as they shepherded it to the nearest lock. The whole time Allen thanked his stars that it was sleep time for most of the JBI administrators.

  Allen braced the container in the air lock as Angus shut the inner door. When he cracked the lid to release the pressure a spray of malty foam accompanied the gas as the barrel quickly deflated to its normal shape. The smell was stronger than before, but not as unpleasant.

  All he had to do now was get the container back to its hiding place and bring the other one. Piece of cake, he thought as he started to turn the wheel on the inner door.

  Just before he completed the final turn something occurred to him. He stopped: Once the inner hatch was opened, the gas, and worse yet the smell, would escape into the circulation system.

  He took his hand off the wheel and thought. There was an obvious and simple solution. All he had to do was open the outer hatch and the gas would rush out of the lock. The only drawback to that was that it would also deplete the lock of breathable air—a situation he was not keen to experience.

  Through an involved series of hand waving, nose pointing, and charades of drowning he managed to convey his problem to Angus whose expression, glimpsed dimly through the tiny air lock window, revealed an increasing level of stress as he looked from one side to the other to ensure that the corridor was still clear.

  All he had to do was put on a breathing mask or suit, he thought, but when he looked around they were all outside in the changing room, as were the work suits.

  So much for that solution.

  Angus pantomimed holding his breath, which might work were it not that it might take a bit longer to build up enough breathable air than he could hold his breath. To test the idea, he took a deep breath and counted the seconds until he had to breathe again.

  It was half the time it would take to close the outer door and restore the air pressure.

  Air pressure! That was it. If he bled off a fraction of the lock's air, just enough to lower the air pressure inside the lock, but still high enough to sustain him, then, when the inner lock was open, the station air would rush in and, were he quick enough, he could get out, shut the hatch, and blast the damned gas and its malty odor into space. It was a brilliant solution, he thought.

  Everything worked smooth as silk. Only a few flecks of foam and a slight aroma accompanied him as he jumped into the companionway, turned, slammed the hatch shut, and hit the evacuation switch. It worked so much better than he planned.

  That's when he realized that the container, half their beer inventory, was still inside the lock. Worse, if they opened the outer door to evacuate the gas the sealed container would balloon and most probably explode.

  Without hesitation he stopped the evacuation and began bringing the lock back up to normal atmosphere so they could recover the container. Odor be damned this time, Allen thought as he hoped the partial evacuation had cleared them both.

  Relieving the second barrel was easier.

  * * * *

  Two weeks later Allen shook his head sadly as they examined the sludge-filled barrels of gray liquid. “Something we missed, wouldn't you say, Angus?"

  "I don't understand,” Angus replied. “I don't see how bleeding off the gas would have hurt the brew. Gran must have used a vent to release it."

  "Maybe the yeast lost its taste for the soy juice,” Allen replied.

  "Whatever. The batch is a proper mess, for all that. We'll just have to try again."

  Allen screwed up his face. “Not until we figure out what went wrong. What say we ask one of the biology boys to help? I'm sure we can find one who wouldn't mind trading a bit of knowledge for a taste of home.” And, he added silently, another tax on their dwindling shares.

  * * * *

  "It appears simple lack of sugar stopped your microorganisms from growing,” the biologist said after a brief examination of the sample.

  "Maybe it was bad soy?” Angus suggested.

  "Soy's not that efficient. Not enough starch to convert to sugars."

  "We're sure there was more than enough air,” Allen said.

  Fred, the biologist, thought for a moment. “Perhaps. It's an anaerobic process, so too much oxygen would slow things down. Best to keep the CO2 levels high. How much did you agitate the mix?"

  "Flushed the gas out the air lock every few days. Wouldn't that shake it up enough?"

  "Well, under normal gravity the dead yeast would fall to the bottom so the remaining colony could continue to feed on the exposed surface. Under our reduced gravity it might not. That would also prevent further growth. If you boys want fermentation to go all the way you need to figure out how to gently stir the mixture so that doesn't happen."

  Allen was dismayed. Their partners would be very angry with the mess he and Angus had made of their contribution. “So we need to dump what we have and start over?” he asked plaintively.

  "Where are we going to get that much water again?” Angus hissed angrily.

  "I don't think you need to do that,” Fred replied. “There's still some active yeast in the sample. I think that all you need to do to get this started again is add a pinch of sugar to get the fermentation going. By the way, I'd like an extra pint for that advice."

  Allen groaned.

  * * * *

  Back in the hiding hole Angus watched as Allen dribbled a few grains of sugar into the first barrel. “I think he meant a wee bit more than that."

  "He said ‘a pinch.’ That's what I'm doing."

  "I t
hink he meant a lot more,” Angus insisted. “That's a mighty teensy bit of sugar for that size container."

  Allen scratched his head. “Well, I'll admit that it doesn't look like much.” He dribbled a bit more into the container.

  "Ah, don't be shy by half a measure,” Angus insisted. He tore the sugar from Allen's hand and dumped a handful into the container. “There, that's a proper amount, I'm sure!"

  "Nothing seems to be happening,” Allen said after a moment and shook the barrel vigorously. “Just a bit of foam."

  "That's from all your bloody shaking, you daft fool. Now you've probably bruised the little buggers. Leave them be for a bit and see if Fred is going to earn his two pints."

  * * * *

  The next day a cargo of stringers arrived and the boss wanted the new arm erected immediately. Neither Allen nor Angus objected. Double shift pay was welcome at any time, even though it was hard work and left the two of them exhausted by the time they returned to the station. There was hardly time to down a few bites before the need for sleep overtook them and they slid gratefully into their racks.

  Allen awoke to the vigorous shaking of his partner. “Wake up, damn it!” Angus whispered. “We've got to get to our beer right away. I think all that sugar has given us a problem."

  One of the galley crew had been alarmed at the budging floor plates just above where the two barrels were stored and was afraid that the kitchen administrator would discover the barrels if she investigated.

  * * * *

  Allen couldn't believe his eyes when he crawled into the hiding space. The nearest barrel had swollen to fill it from wall to wall. The plastic was tight as a drumhead and showed signs of strain—small cracks were starting to appear just below the surface of the plastic.

  "I told you it was too much sugar,” Allen shouted. “We've got to vent them again."

  "How are we going to do that, y'bloody fool? They're too big to fit through the hatch now. Surely you're not thinking of venting the gas down here."