“McCrary, you bastard. You should have let out all the LOX when you saw the situation was hopeless. Instead, you've been jollying us along, all with this Camp Runamuck schtick, like Momma and Daddy UN was going to show up on the weekend with a big SUV full of fresh supplies that would make our life all better.
“You know what? It's never going to get better. Oh, the lights are on all the time, now. And there's heat to burn, now that Mighty Thor's up and running. Good job and all that. The reality is, the little things are never going to get better. There will be no more cotton underwear. No more antiseptics we didn't brew up from last week's beer. There won't be any more drugs, good or bad, and soon, we'll be trying to figure out how to beat scurvy and rickets.
“No thank you. I don't want to die by inches. Instead, I'll take the whole six foot drop all at once. I'll just reach around here and take off my helmet.
“You getting this, Ops?”
McCrary held out his hand. “Don't answer him. It will only give him permission. He's never going to go through with it if he thinks he's all alone. He has to have an audience.
McCrary thought rapidly. “Buster, you and Frank go out tunnel #3B and rendezvous to the south of him. I want you to come out of the sun, so he can't see you. Do whatever you need to, but subdue him. You might even close off his valves for a bit, let him get a dose of anoxia. You have to get him back inside.”
Horst was nearby. “Then what? Now you have a Moondog who is either raving and demented or sullen. But one thing is for sure—he is depressed and bent on suicide. That kind of thing will spread like wildfire here in the base. You can't hide him, everyone in Main Ops knows what is going on out there.”
McCrary nodded in agreement. “Then we'll make sure that everyone knows. What gets to these guys is the dying by inches part. Why do we have to? We have some of the smartest guys on planet Earth up here. We just crowdsource our problems. Get this guy to list every damn thing that is wrong, falling apart, going to hell in a handbasket. I'm betting that he will spend days talking your ear off about all of the things that are wrong with this place or his life within it.”
“OK, chief, so we get a list a mile long. Then what?”
“Then we take his excuses away. So, there's no low-grade anesthetics available. So, we make them. And if we can't make the modern ones, we find compounds that we can make that will be just as good. We might not have everything in the world up here, but we probably have enough. The folks from the 1800s bootstrapped themselves up, we can too. We can do better, we already know where we are going.”
Horst couldn't say anything to McCrary's boundless enthusiasm. He was afraid that the big guy was heading for a fall. But, at least it would give something for that raving lunatic to do instead of die out there.
“Another thing, Horst. The guy out there does have a point. We are dying by inches up here, because we don't have a goal short of just hanging on. Get out the imagination and figure out a long-term goal. I have a few in mind, but I want to broaden the brain-trust here. Go ahead and widen the circle, only, don't tell the workers that I am looking for ideas.”
Horst snorted. “They'll figure it out anyway, they always do. But they'll take it as a compliment that you asked, even if you go in a different way.”
“Good. We want to live, not just survive. We want to be proactive in our own future, not just sit back and let things happen to us.”
“I see, sir. Well, I better get down to the garage and let these guys in. Looks like they've got him.” In the window, the two men were carrying a limp figure in their arms. The spacesuit on the figure, if one looked closely enough, was still fully inflated.
***
The crowdsourcing of their new mission in life took on a life of its own amidst the rebuilding in the ruins. Moondog or manager, everyone had an opinion, and every opinion was listed, anonymously, in the Collins internal website log. Anyone could post a suggestion there. True, there were only a handful of functional computers by which one could enter a suggestion, but that acted as a brake on some of the more outré ideas. But the ones where the owner carefully crafted their suggestions were the best.
Dig the Collins further underground.
Expand the hydroponics bay.
Create a second habitat and split the population, so that a single blowout wouldn’t kill us all.
Use the Works to turn out lasers that would end the ejecta threat by vaporizing them.
And so on and so forth. There were scores of suggestions, and McCrary looked at every one with no indication of which ones he backed and which ones he scorned. Horst was incapable of getting him to commit to one over the other.
“But sir, you have to see that some of these are better than others. What about the second habitat idea? Seems logical.”
“It does. But so do others.”
“So, you like it?”
“I didn't say that. I could raise at least five objections to it.”
“Oh. So, you like the digging of the Collins deeper?”
“I didn't say that either. Same verbiage applies. It's logical, but I can find five things wrong with it.”
Horst sighed. “What about you, sir? Did you enter any suggestions?”
McCrary smiled. “I didn't have to. Many of your fellow Moondogs seem to think the way I do and entered their own suggestions, many of which mirror mine.”
“What?” Horst exclaimed. “You had Moondogs ghost-enter your suggestions?”
“Certainly not!” said McCrary in amazement. “Do you really think I am that devious? I thought you knew me.”
Horst realized what a slew-footed mistake he made, and apologized immediately.
“What I meant to say, Horst, is because many of the suggestions were close to the same ones I would have made, I didn't need to enter anything.”
“So, all of those things on your 'To Do' board are replicated?”
“Some are, some aren't. Many of the To Do items are tasks, not future goals. There are a few others that I didn't write down, but realized I wanted done anyway.”
“Such as?” prompted Horst.
McCrary chuckled. “Not a chance. All that has to happen is the word gets out that I approve number eleventy, and all other suggestions are immediately thrown out. No, we'll do this my way.”
Horst knew an immovable object when he saw one.
***
The brainstorming went on for two weeks. In the meantime, Jeremy was racing around the habitat, writing down every flaw that irritated him. Some of his observations were invaluable, such as asking for a different method of sterilizing the urine cups that were part of every space suit. The old way involved the boiling of water, whereas the new method involved an industrial chemical that could be made in The Works, ethylene oxide, a powerful disinfectant.
Jeremy did not seem to realize it, but McCrary had given him a new lease on life. Instead of a simple Moondog without a purpose in life, he was now a lunar efficiency expert, though without all of the negative connotations that occupation brought with it on Earth.
The Moondogs avoided him at first, fearful that whatever he had experienced that made him try to take off his helmet would somehow carry over to them, making them suicidal. After he looked around some of the temporary spacesuit servicing areas and made life-saving suggestions, the Moondogs began treating him with a newer level of respect. Soon, they were beginning to bring examples of waste and abuse to Jeremy, knowing that the man had a foolproof conduit straight to McCrary.
“Cotton, Jeremy. We need cotton, and we're probably not going to get it from the fibers trapped in the air filters.”
Jeremy nodded, noting with alarm the smaller amounts of medical supplies in Sick Bay. The lunar fiber industry was geared towards nylon and fiberglass, hardly soft and absorbent like cotton. There was no way they were able to salvage any of the used fibers generated every day, from paper to cotton underwear, to even the gauze pads used in the Sick Bay. This, too, he brought to McCrary.
The contest
for setting a colony goal was still in its slow preliminary stages. Despite the wrangling over such things as freedom of speech consuming the crew, there was still spare time for brainstorming.
McCrary clapped Jeremy on the back. “Well done,” he said. “Now, take that list, and I want to see practical answers for at least five of them by this same time next week. Got it? Now git along, I have some more work to do.
Biology
UNSOC Lunar Colony Michael Collins, September 24, 2082, 1432 EDT
“Doctor Kumar.” McCrary was like that. He acknowledged you, then waited for you to state your business. Some people loved that about him, a lot of folks hated it. McCrary, frankly, didn't seem to care. All he wanted to do was get the job done. The needs of people for small talk and chit-chat seemed like pure inefficiency to him.
“Right,” said Kumar. “I apologize, but I need to see you personally. If you are free at the moment, I'd like to see you in Honey Chamber 4, in the southwest wing.”
“Ten minutes?” asked McCrary. “I'll be there.”
“Thank you.” The doctor was not surprised to find the screen blank halfway through the farewell.
***
McCrary ignored the Busy sign on the airlock of Honey Chamber 4 and cycled through. The need for spacesuits continued, although the number of areas under full pressurization grew all the time. He looked forward to the day when the threat of sudden decompression, never completely eliminated, would be a thing of the past. The green light lit up next to the inner door, and he felt his suit collapsing around him. He spun the lock and stepped through. Peter Brinker reached out to help him with his helmet. The sharp stink of the latrine assaulted his nose when he took off the plastic bubble.
McCrary looked quizzically at Brinker, who was normally on duty in Operations at this time, but shrugged and looked at the other occupant. Doctor Kumar was easy to spot; his lean, ascetic face was perched slightly above two meters off the floor.
“Thank you for coming,” said the Doctor.
“An odd place for a conference,” replied McCrary. “We could have met in my office.”
“Perhaps not,” said Brinker, who came to stand beside the doctor. “Ladies?”
On the far side of the airlock, where the door swung as it opened, two women emerged and walked over to stand beside Peter and away from the doctor.
“Ms. Boardman, Ms. Minelli.” He looked at the women closely. Ashley Boardman had a defiant look on her face; Lori Minelli seemed scared, but was holding up well.
McCrary sighed. “How long have the two of you been pregnant?”
Peter slipped a banknote to the doctor, who smiled triumphantly. Ashley rolled her eyes at the two men.
***
“I take it that all of the options have been discussed,” said McCrary, speaking with Doctor Kumar in Sick Bay later.
Doctor Kumar smiled ruefully. “The women were most forceful. They intend to keep their babies. I couldn't even edge up on the topic, particularly when I discussed possible birth defects or radiation issues. I believe the phrase they used was 'murder our children.' Frankly, Chief, I'd rather not abort any children. I might reincarnate as a slug.”
“I didn't know there was that much religion in the air up here,” McCrary said.
“That's because you're in Operations and directing all the cleanup operations. Here, in medical? Direct appeals straight to heaven, all the time. It's not a bad thing, either. People who come through know they could flip over to the afterlife at any moment. They are trying to live arrow-straight lives, knowing they might suddenly find themselves at the Pearly Gates.”
“Like Mr. Brinker? At least one part of him was arrow-straight.”
Doctor Kumar was stunned. McCrary never made jokes, and had never been known to make a risqué joke.
McCrary smiled sheepishly. “I'm sorry—it just slipped out. Which is what Mr. Brinker should have done.” This time, McCrary stopped, appalled at himself. “What's wrong with me?”
Doctor Kumar immediately checked his vital signs. “Everything seems all right with you. Perhaps you're under stress. We know behavior changes under stress. Try a long sleep tonight—eight hours at least. Turn things over to Horst.”
“Maybe you're right, Doctor,” said McCrary. “How's Commander Lee doing?”
“He's awake, aware, centered, oriented. Want to talk with him?”
“If possible. I'd like his advice on the case of Brinker and the Babes.”
“Get that sleep tonight, sir. You need it.”
***
“Now what?” asked McCrary when he finished briefing Lee on the indiscretions of one Peter Brinker.
“Well, he's going to have an interesting life when we get back to Earth. For now, though, I'd try to keep it under wraps.”
“Why, sir?” McCrary was convinced that Lee was the best person ever to lead the crew, and he often found himself wondering what Commander Lee would do in any tricky situation. “It straight baffles me. Why would anyone, particularly now, try to complicate things so much by getting pregnant?”
“Occam's Razor, McCrary.” Lee was starting to tire.
“Simplest explanation is most likely the correct one? I thought the contraception was foolproof—either a chemical implant or an IUD. Maybe they took them out. Wait, can a woman take them out on their own?”
“I always thought you needed a doc. I have no idea.”
McCrary tried again. “Suborn a medic? Possible, if we're talking about one woman. But two? Unlikely. Hmmm.” He snapped his fingers. “They took each other's IUD out!”
“Simplest solution.”
“But wait, why? Peter's not rich, at least, he doesn't act that way. Both want to keep their children.”
“Earth,” said Lee, closing his eyes. “Just resting here. Keep thinking.”
“Earth. You mean, when they get back on Earth?”
Lee patted McCrary's hand from where he lay on the bed.
“Setting up house together? But Peter's not due to rotate for at least two years. Waaait a minute. Both women were set to rotate back between two and five months from The Event. Go back home, have the babies back on Earth, stagger their rotation schedules so that there's always one or more adults around to care for the kids. A group marriage?”
“Simplest,” said Lee in a quiet whisper. “Keep their secret—privacy.” This time, his hand relaxed as he fell asleep.
***
It was hard to get alone, but McCrary was able to do that only by heading into the buggy garage, where few people went who didn't have an immediate need to be there. He noticed the blue-banded helmet of Peter Brinker.
McCrary motioned him over to a corner behind the airlock, where he knew there was a blind spot in the camera coverage. He plugged his intercom cable into Peter's suit and obviously switched his radio off. He watched as Peter did the same.
“Mr. Brinker,” said McCrary. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for doing this in private,” said Peter.
“We haven't much time. I can't vanish for very long.”
“Then do what you must,” said Peter. “I know it was stupid and irresponsible.”
McCrary chuckled. “Ah, but you'll have a story for the kids when they get older.”
Peter stared at him. McCrary never chuckled these days—survival was too grim. “Uh…”
McCrary raised a hand. “OK, let me get this over with. First, nobody's getting punished. We need every single hand working towards survival. I have no time for the brig or people to waste on guards. Real crime? I'll space the bastard. This? A complication, and an opportunity.”
“Understood, and thank you. Um…opportunity? I don't follow you.”
“What's our number one problem here?”
“Survival.”
McCrary shook his head. “Think vaster. Assume survival. Then what?”
“Getting home.”
“Good, good. What are the chances of that happening, as things stand now?”
&nbs
p; “Zero.”
“All true,” said McCrary, gazing at the younger man. “Think more abstractly.”
“Hope. We have nothing to hope for.”
McCrary clapped the man on the shoulder. “Exactly. What gives hope to even the most jaded?”
“Babies.”
McCrary gripped the man on both shoulders. “I have absolutely no right to ask this. But, when the time comes, and come it will, I would like you and the ladies to announce their pregnancy. Oh, in four or five months, it will be obvious, but until then, do you think your spouses can keep their condition quiet?”
“I can always ask them to keep it quiet, unless they've spilled the beans already.”
“They probably haven't. I think they know instinctively how the other women would react.” He held up a fist. “Especially when I tell Doc Kumar that no other women are to have their fertility restored.” At Peter's shocked look, he replied, “Consider, right now we don't have enough cotton for gauze pads. How are we going to do diapers? Two babies is enough of a strain. What if we have twenty? Fifty?”
“I get your point. I'll put it exactly the way you did.”
“Oh, hell no! You're the husband. Make a loving argument. Mine is nothing but cold logic.” He grasped the intercom cable. “What you three did is not defensible, and I will be officially frowning upon it. But from a personal perspective, congratulations, Peter. Now I have to get back to work.” He pulled out the intercom cable and airlocked through to the rest of the station and the list of problems awaiting him.
The Law of the Pencil
UNSOC Lunar Colony Michael Collins, September 25, 2082, 0817 EDT
“Cotton, eh?” said Sean Pallock, one of the few biologists in the Collins. “I wonder why...oh, of course. We're not getting younger, and neither are these jeans I am wearing. I wonder where the Chief went—he'd be interested in this.”
Jeremy smiled. “Actually, I'd rather hear what you say before we bother McCrary. The man has enough to do.”
Sean sighed. “OK. The sheer amount of fiber we would need would require some substantial acreage under cultivation as cotton. Cotton is good, but it is not all that wonderful, especially when you figure out just how difficult it will be to get a bale of useful fiber. We'd need another greenhouse, with all of the piping, fluids, heat, and gasses we'd require. It's too much for right now.”
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