Orbital Decay

by Allen Steele

  But who was I kidding? It was fun. It was playing space pirates. Maybe we would not have even considered doing this except for the fact that all of us were bored, and you know what Grandma used to say about idle hands. Besides, the guys who were doing the dirty work were getting a free ride home for their trouble, and even if Virgin Bruce and Popeye had their stated and unstated reasons for not wanting to go back to Earth right away, Virgin Bruce had been long since fed up with being a beamjack and Popeye had been wrestling with homesickness for longer than he could remember. I knew that Popeye still had some private demon with which to contend, but… well, no one knew, except himself, what was going through his mind.

  I knew what was going through mine, though, in that last hour of anxiety. However, I wish we could have known what was tumbling through the twisted cerebrum of Henry George Wallace, the demented project supervisor of Olympus Station.

  Edwin Felapolous had been making it a point, for the past couple of months, of making regular house calls on H.G. Wallace. He tried to arrange his visits in a certain order which would not alarm his patient or let him realize that Felapolous was not merely dropping by for social reasons. So Felapolous had learned to stagger the times of his visits; skipping a day here and there, stopping in during the morning on one day, an afternoon the next, waiting a day and then dropping by the following morning.

  It was the only time that Felapolous had the opportunity to see Wallace. In fact, it was probably the only regular occasion that anyone on the station had for seeing the project supervisor since Wallace had begun his self-isolation. Hank Luton had moved out of Module 24 weeks ago, preferring the crowded conditions of a bunkhouse module in the east hemisphere to luxury shared with an obvious paranoid, and Phil Bigthorn was now delivering Wallace’s meals on a tray from the mess deck.

  It was becoming evident that Wallace was going over the deep end. As Felapolous touched the intercom switch next to the hatch, just above the orange sign which read “Administration,” he wondered how much longer it would be before he was obligated to advise Skycorp’s management in Huntsville that their veteran space hero was bordering on a complete mental breakdown.

  “Who is it?” Wallace’s voice barked through the intercom.

  “Edwin, Henry,” Felapolous said, making the effort to keep his voice easy: Shucks, friend, just decided to pop down for a visit. Hiya doing? “Mind if I come down?”

  “Enter!” There was an audible click as the electronic lock on the hatch was disengaged, and Felapolous kneeled, cranked open the hatch, and climbed down onto the ladder. That in itself took an effort; the compartment was almost totally dark, and he had to be careful that his feet didn’t miss the rungs, which he could barely see.

  The only lights in the compartment came from a gooseneck high-intensity lamp arched over a desk, the small reading lamp which was switched on in one of the two bunks, and the blue and white glow from a computer screen and a TV monitor at the end of the compartment. Wallace was seated in front of the terminal, his back turned to Felapolous. “Come in, Edwin,” he said in a voice which was more relaxed than the one that had come over the intercom, but which still held a ring of self-conscious authority.

  Over Wallace’s shoulder, Doc Felapolous could see that the TV screen displayed a shot of SPS-l’s long grid, stretching out for two miles from a camera angle which was obviously from the side of Vulcan Station. The computer screen held tabulated lists, data relayed from Olympus’ command deck. Wallace wore a communications headset, and he was hunched forward, studying the computer and the TV screen. “Make yourself at home,” Wallace said. “I’ll be with you in a moment, old friend.”

  Felapolous walked a few feet into the compartment, looking around as he did so. It was doubtful he could make himself at home here. The place was a wreck: food trays containing half-finished meals on the floor and the desk, a long scroll of computer printout lying unfolded across the floor like a tapeworm, clothing scattered here and there on the floor, on the back of a chair, on the unmade bunk. One of the station cats—Clarke, or was it Asimov?—leaped from its perch on the bunk, sprinted between Doc’s legs, and bounded up the ladder, raising one of Felapolous’ eyebrows, because Henry had always claimed to detest “the inbred little creatures.”

  Wallace’s fingers tapped at the keyboard in his lap. Felapolous noticed a few paperbacks lying on the desk, their covers illuminated under the lamp, and walked over to see what Wallace had been reading. An ancient edition of The Third Industrial Revolution by G. Harry Stine; a fairly recent spy-fiction bestseller; The First Three Minutes by Steven Weinberg; a science fiction novel. He spotted another book, lying open with its spine broken, on the crumpled pillow underneath the reading light over the bunk. He tiptoed over and raised the cover to peer at the title. Dianetics by L. Ron Hubbard. Felapolous grimaced and carefully put the book back in its place.

  “There’s something rotten in the state of Denmark,” Wallace announced.

  “What?” Startled, Felapolous jerked up from his bent position over the bunk. Wallace, to his relief, was still facing the computer, his finger pointed at the screen. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Price’s report,” Wallace said in a dead voice. “Chang claims in his report that a full second-shift crew was dispatched to Vulcan at 0700 today. But here, Price reported that two men didn’t go on EVA at Vulcan. Hooker and Neiman.”

  He tapped another command into the keyboard and leaned closer to study the screen. “The list of comlink channels being used,” he said softly. “The frequencies assigned to Hooker and Neiman for this shift aren’t being used.” He continued to stare at the screen. Then, suddenly, he barked a laugh. “Ah, so,” he said with cynical humor.

  He pushed a tab on the right lobe of his headset. “Mr. Bigthorn? I want you to make a quick search of the station. Look for Hooker and Neiman. That’s right, Popeye and Virgin Bruce.” He rolled the nicknames off his tongue with disgust. “Search all the obvious places, and don’t forget the Hydroponics bay. In fact, see if you can find Jack Hamilton also. If they’re around, find out why Neiman and Hooker didn’t report for their shifts and write it up in a report. If you don’t find any of them, let me know at once. Over and out.”

  Wallace cut out, then picked up the keyboard and put it in its slot on the console. He then turned around in his chair to face Felapolous, and looked straight at the doctor. “So it begins,” he said in a hollow, solemn voice. Then he stood up from his chair.

  Felapolous couldn’t help but notice that Wallace was stark naked. The only thing he wore was his headset. “I’m not sure I understand you,” he said, trying not to appear as if he noticed Wallace’s uncharacteristic nudity, or the fact that Wallace’s physique was shot to hell; where once he had firm muscle, now there was flab and uncontrolled paunch.

  Wallace didn’t seem to notice. He walked past Felapolous and bent to pick up some trousers left dumped on the floor. Neglecting to put on underwear, he stepped into the legs and pulled up the pants. “Because I’ve been doing my work, and my studies, down here doesn’t mean that I haven’t ignored the situation on Olympus, Ed,” Wallace said. “In fact, I would have to be pretty stupid if I didn’t admit how much the environment has deteriorated over the past few weeks.”

  He reached for a short-sleeve uniform shirt and slipped it on. “Rock music playing in the crew quarters,” he murmured. “Graffiti on the walls. Uninspirational films being shown in the rec room, even pornography. The men smiling. Sex with the female crew members. It’s a disgrace.” He looked in the direction of the ladder. “It started when we brought those cats aboard. It wasn’t entirely your fault, Ed, but I said that there was no room for animals up here, and especially not cats. It was the cats that started this mutiny.”

  “Pardon me,” Felapolous said. “Did you just say that the cats are inciting a mutiny?”

  Wallace brayed laughter, which sounded just slightly hysterical. “No, no, no. You misunderstood me, Doctor. The cats were only symptomatic of t
he problem.” He shook his head. “No, the real problem is that these men have become adjusted to living in space. They’ve come to enjoy themselves, and that’s the way to disaster.”

  Felapolous tried not to return Wallace’s stare. Instead, he absently studied his fingernails and said calmly, “Ah, yes. I agree.”

  Wallace nodded quickly and began to pace. “It wasn’t the cats that started this, it was Skycorp, and before them, NASA. It was all the space experts like Clarke and O’Neill, the groups like L-5 and the National Space Society, claiming that outer space was meant to be colonized by the so-called common man.” He laughed again. “All the common man is good for is to pave the way for homo superior, those who have disciplined themselves—trained their minds, hardened their bodies, become ready to live in this environment. This frontier was never meant for the common man, Ed, it was meant for…”

  He searched for the right word, waving his right hand in the air. “The master race,” Felapolous supplied slowly.

  Wallace smiled and jabbed an index finger in his direction as he walked away, his eyes searching the floor of the darkened compartment. “Yes, although not by the classic Hitler definition. I would hate to have my theories compared to his.”

  “No, of course not,” Felapolous murmured.

  “But that hasn’t been the case, now has it?” Wallace bent suddenly, opened a cabinet door and began rummaging inside, not bothering to switch on the lights. “So now we have a crew of people up here running from taxes or their wives or the law, trying to make a fast buck, playing out simplistic romantic fantasies, without the slightest consideration that what they might be doing could advance the destiny of the human race. I thought Hamilton was different, that he was one of us, but I know now that he was a clever impersonator. Indeed, he’s the head of the conspiracy.”

  “What conspiracy?” Felapolous asked, beginning to feel nervous now. He had to take this step by tentative step, leading Wallace but not putting ideas into his mind. Use objectivity, he reminded himself. He was little more than an armchair psychiatrist, with only the basic med school training in psychology, but he had to have more definite proof that Wallace had flipped before he recommended to Huntsville that the project supervisor be replaced on grounds of mental incompetency.

  Wallace looked around at him with an expression of surprise. He studied Felapolous for a moment before turning back to his search of the locker. “No, of course not,” he said. “You wouldn’t know. But I have put it together. There’s a mutiny afoot on this station, with Felapolous… I mean, with Neiman and Hamilton and Hooker as the prime conspirators. There may be others, but they are the nucleus of the conspiracy to overthrow this station and take control for themselves.”

  “What proof do you have of this?” Felapolous asked.

  “I’ll show you my hard evidence in a moment. But ever since I noticed the degradation aboard Olympus, I put myself in semi-isolation in this compartment, while covertly keeping track of station personnel, both through careful monitoring of roll-call records and reports and through having Security Chief Bigthorn watching and reporting. I’ve observed that the principals have been absent for long periods of time—once they even went so far as to crowd into a pod together, to avoid prying ears while concocting their plot—and they have attempted to recruit others. I suspect that Communications Officer Lowenstein and… um, what’s his name, Chang, are also involved.”

  “Why haven’t you said or done anything?”

  “Because I’ve been biding my time,” Wallace replied evenly. “I wanted to wait until I had all the evidence, and until I thought the moment was right. With the events of this morning, I know for certain that a mutiny is imminent.”

  He twisted around on his haunches so quickly that he lost his balance and fell over. As he put out his hands to stop his fall, an object in his right hand fell out onto the floor. Felapolous knelt and picked it up; it was a loosely wrapped plastic bag containing something soft and crumbly.

  “Marijuana,” Wallace explained tersely as he struggled to his feet. “Hamilton brought it up here, and used it to brainwash the crew. I’m not saying that people like Neiman or Hooker wouldn’t have turned to treason sooner or later, but Hamilton’s drugs helped accelerate the process. Through him, they became drug zombies.”

  “Then why didn’t you…?”

  “Because I was waiting for this moment!” Now Wallace was scurrying around the dark compartment, fitting his feet into sneakers, putting on his cap, and grabbing a vest with a number of Velcro-sealed pockets. The communications headset had slid down around his neck, and Felapolous heard a tinny voice coming through the earpiece. Wallace slapped it to his ear, listened for a moment, then snapped, “Good work, Bigthorn! Continue to search and await my command!”

  He ran toward the ladder. “Come, Doctor!” he shouted. “The conspirators are absent and unaccounted for! There’s no time to lose!” He started to climb the ladder.

  Felapolous stared at the bag of marijuana in his hand, then looked up at Wallace. “Wait a minute!” he yelled. “How can you be sure that this is the cause?” He shook the bag at Wallace.

  Wallace paused at the ladder and glanced back at him. “Because I smoked some in a piece of rolled-up printout a few hours ago,” he hissed. “It’s marijuana, Doctor! And believe me, it can bend your mind!” Then he scrambled the rest of the way up the ladder and disappeared, leaving Felapolous staring at the empty ladder, not even noticing that the bag of pot had slipped from his hand and fallen to the floor.

  27

  Snafu

  CLAYTON DOBBS WAS BENT over the master terminal, punching up another of the long series of test programs he had been performing over the past couple of days, when the module hatch swung open. Assuming that it was Dougherty reporting for this, the day when the Ear was to be put into operation, he didn’t look up from his work until he heard McGrath say, “Pardon me, but this area is off limits, you’ll have to leave.”

  Dobbs swung his head around, slowly and carefully. Two previous bouts with spacesickness had already taught him that even simple head motions were enough to bring on instant nausea. Through the open circular hatch he saw two men, both wearing spacesuits with their helmets and gloves off. One had longish blond hair tied back in a ponytail; the other man was dark and unsavory-looking, one of the scruffiest characters Dobbs had ever seen. The ugly one was already halfway through the hatch and was smiling at McGrath in a way which made Dobbs think of snakes.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, pulling his torso through the hatch, grabbing a rung with his left hand and swinging his legs inside. “Module safety inspection, sir. We’re here to check for air leaks, electrical shorts, that sort of thing.”

  “What the hell is this?” Dobbs complained. Irritated, he slapped a hand against the console and was immediately glad that his feet were slipped into stirrups on the floor; otherwise, that slap might have pushed him against the ceiling of the long, narrow compartment. “You guys were here yesterday looking for leaks and you didn’t find anything. Don’t you know this is a secure area?”

  The swarthy one shrugged and the guy with the ponytail, who was pulling himself through the hatch after him, smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, but that’s the regulations. Any module which has been here for less than six months has to be given daily inspections. It’ll be just a few…”

  “Bullshit,” Dobbs said. “I don’t know who told you that, but I helped write the revised code book for this station, and those inspections are done once a week, not every day. Now get your ass out of here.”

  “This is a secure area,” McGrath repeated, turning completely around to face the men, raising his chin and crossing his arms. Dobbs let his eyes roll up. Self-important little government schmuck, he thought. You can’t get away from these pricks any more than you can escape from semi-retarded Joe Sixpack types, even up here. He shook his head and started to turn back to his test—only a dozen more to go—when he did a double take.

  “I know, sir, but… ah
…” The swarthy one hesitated for a moment, and looked at his companion. “That’s what the checklist said, didn’t it? This place was due for inspection?” Dobbs found himself staring at a round patch on the sleeve of the man’s spacesuit, which, after a second, he recognized as a mission emblem for Project Franklin. The guy with the ponytail had one also. And both wore square Skycorp patches, which only a few industrial specialists on Freedom wore on their coveralls. No one except shuttle pilots or cargo specialists on secure runs from the Cape should have Skycorp insignia on their space-suits… and there was no reason why anyone on Freedom should be wearing insignia which belonged on Olympus Station.

  “Hey, who the hell are you guys?” he demanded. McGrath looked around at him, with an expression which showed the government man’s irritation at having his authority superseded by someone else. Dobbs pointed at the ugly guy’s shoulder patch. “You guys aren’t supposed to even be here,” Dobbs snapped. “What are you doing here, huh?”

  “What?” the man with the ponytail stammered. He stared at the patch on the ugly man’s arm, turned red, then quickly averted his gaze toward an overhead display screen. “The patch. Well, we were short of spacesuits here on Skycan and so we borrowed… I mean, on Freedom, so we had to get Skycan, I mean Freedom… Olympus, I mean… to ship a couple…”

  “Oh, goddammit!” the ugly one snarled. “Just clobber ’em!”

  He threw back his legs, touched the soles of his feet against the module bulkhead, and snapped his knees, bringing his straightened arms up in front of him. A human projectile, he shot across the module, hurling himself straight toward a startled and unreacting McGrath. Paw! Ugly’s right fist sailed into the government stooge’s face even as his momentum slammed them together in a zero g tackle which lifted McGrath’s feet out of his stirrups.

  Dobbs barely had time to kick out of his own stirrups and dodge aside as the two men flew by him and hit the end of the compartment. Floating free of the foot restraints, he instinctively grabbed for the nearest handhold… and was stopped by the impact of the ponytailed guy tackling him in midair. The air left his lungs in a loud whoof, and as he doubled over he felt hands grabbing his powerless wrists and forcing them behind his back. As Dobbs attempted to yank his hands free, Ponytail shoved him brutally against a console, hard enough to knock the wind out of him for a moment.