Come In, Collins

by Bill Patterson

  Trenching and Retrenchment

  UNSOC Lunar Colony Michael Collins, March 15, 2083, 1900 EDT

  Bubba was at the watch panel for Mighty Thor when Travis buzzed for admittance. Bubba let him in. While not against regulations, he warned Travis in the past not to make visiting him a habit, as the reactor was no place for slacking off.

  “Bubba! How have you been, old man?”

  “Doin' fine, Trav. How's thing out in the world?”

  “You're never gonna guess what they've got us doing now.”

  “Puttin' up a new Flinger?”

  Travis stopped, frustrated. “Dammit, how'd you know? I thought it would take a long time for the news to get to you.”

  “You ain't my only friend, Trav. Just my best. Besides, Ole' Doc asked me to be countin' up all the power cabling. Can't figure what for, 'ceptin' a new Flinger.”

  “Well dayam,” said Travis. “I gotta stop trying to surprise you. Yeah, it's a new Flinger, and I'm pulling 'dozer duty.”

  Bubba blinked. “Dozer. That's, what, twenty foundations? You'll be done in a single 'light'“.

  “Not by a long shot. It's a full-grading job—even some laser work.”

  “That explains it,” said Bubba, reaching out to tap a dial. He noted the number at the needle and wrote down the value in the logbook.

  “Explains what?” asked Travis.

  “About two weeks ago, Horst and Vito were huddled in here when I reported in for my shift. Vito tells Horst to continue, you can trust Bubba, all that stuff. I wasn't paying much attention—Vito had been letting the core go to pot on his shift—xenon-135 was building up in the salt, something was wrong with the sparger. I had to do some fancy footwork to shift the flow over to the other sparger without setting off an alarm, but I made it. Then ran the bad sparger on pure salt and no thorium until it looked like the flow was running true again, then switch everything back. By the time I finished with that, they were finishing up.

  “All I caught was that Horst needed a crapload of power during a light for some lasers other than the ones doing the debris.”

  Travis smiled. “That's what they're doing as soon as I'm done! I just wanted to tell you, in case you wanted to watch online. The lasers are going to cut a trench on the Moon's surface—about seven klicks. It's going to take a long time—they're basically going to punch holes in the rock layers, then I'm going to hit the holes with a dozer blade until the rock crunches off. We're going to do that everywhere—along the bottom, on the sides, a giant U-shaped trench. Get this—it's going to be deeper than the hoops on the old Flinger.”

  “That's a lot of work,” said Bubba. “We've still got debris falls.”

  “That's where Horst has our back. Then the rock cutter lasers are done, and we're beating the dozer blades on the rocks, the cutters are doing sentry duty, zapping rocks. Did you see the in-fall numbers lately?”

  Once the laser field was operational, McCrary had been obsessing about counting impacts from lunar debris in the one circular kilometer centered on the Collins' main airlock. Deploying automatic sensors, the results were clear—in-fall counts had decreased substantially from over one hundred per day down to a value of two per week—and those were the smallest pieces of debris countable.

  “Pretty impressive. Where's this new Flinger going to be?”

  “Get this—it's going to start at The Works, just like the old one, and aim at the Moon's North Pole!”

  “Yeah, that is odd,” said Bubba, touching another knob. He frowned at the repeater display. “Why would they point the New Flinger that way?

  Bubba stopped and looked at Travis. “They're going to fling stuff to the Mars Expedition.”

  “Right!” said Travis happily. “LOX, thorium, ShelterCans, whatever we have too much of—it's off to Mars.”

  “I wonder why they be needin' all that stuff,” said Bubba. “When they launched, they were stuffed to the gills already. We sent them some momentum ingots…waaaiiit. Did you see any schedule for these shots?”

  Travis looked at Bubba with amusement. “Why would they consult a Moondog for that?”

  Bubba smiled. “I git yer point.”

  “Momentum ingots?” asked Travis. “What are those?”

  “Well, think about the Expedition. Two spacecraft, right? They launch together, then they cable together and start spinning like a propeller, right?”

  “Yeah, everyone knows that.”

  “So, how do they make any midcourse correction?”

  “They fire their engines. Oh. Right.”

  “Engines would just drive them together. It's also got to be perfectly aligned thrust, otherwise one spacecraft will 'crack the whip' of the other, and both die. Now, at the center of the cable, at the exact center of rotation, is a super-strong iron ring, empty in the center.”

  “Yeah, I get the picture,” said Travis.

  “The Flinger, the old one, would shoot out a slug with a bare Can motor on it. The motor makes sure the slug will go right through the center before it drops off and away from the Expedition. So, you've got an iron slug, nice and heavy, moving along at a nice clip.”

  “And they do a kind of reverse Flinger on it?” asked Travis.

  “Bingo. They pump out a nice magnetic field, centered on the ring. It grabs the slug, slows it waaay down, and in return, the mag field is pulled along in the direction of the slug. Kinda rough on the spacecraft at high speed, but for a mid-course correction, it's a beautiful thing.”

  “But we're done with that, aren't we? Just before The Event, I remember hearing that they were exactly on course for Mars.” Travis looked up at the control board. “Should that needle be so far over?”

  Bubba looked in the direction of his finger and smiled. “That's the exit temperature of the molten salt. Yes, it's supposed to be as high as we can make it. 1500 degrees is a nice number.”

  “If they can't pack on more stuff, and they're on course, then what do we need a new Flinger for?”

  “You know McCrary, ole' dog. What do you think he wants one for?” Bubba did a complete scan of the control board, even checking the computer's interpretation, just in case he missed something. He made some log entries and he shot a glance at Travis.

  Travis drew a breath. “Uh, the only thing I can come up with is 'a backup.'“

  Bubba clapped the younger man on the back. “Dang straight! The man's vaguely paranoid, probably from long experience. Yeah, I'd like a backup, too, if a hundred lives were under my command. I'mma guessin' that the Commander of the Expedition asked McCrary to get the Flinger back in operation as soon as possible.”

  “I just don't get why we have to build a whole new one,” said Travis. “Not that I mind, you see. I'd rather be out in a dozer and a spacesuit, making something happen, than clearing out sludge from an algae tube or scouting the surface for water.”

  “That's why you and I are Moondogs, Trav, my man. My guess is that rehabbing the old Flinger was just beyond us, 'specially the whole power switching part. That and Ms. Huertas would never allow the old one to be used.”

  Travis said many uncomplimentary things about the 'conscience of the crew' as she promoted herself.

  “Now, now, doncha be throwin' shade at Irma. No, I don't believe in her conspiracy theories, but I support her, big time.” Bubba glanced at the chronometer on the wall. “I've only got a couple of minutes before I gotta start a big task, so I'll tell ya why.

  “She's a nut, but she's a harmless nut. What she does do for McCrary, though, is bein' a focus for all of her fellow nuts, some of whom are bedbug crazy compared to her. When she gets her way, they all quiet down. When McCrary forces her to adopt a different stance, she tells them all to hush up. You know that phrase 'Better the devil you know?' McCrary knows this devil, and she's helping him out tremendously, even though she doesn't know it at all.”

  Travis shook his head in wonder. “Maybe she is right—that McCrary is a scheming, manipulating SOB.”

  Bubba stood up from
his chair, walking Travis to the door. “Naw, not at all. He's just a student of history. She's just another cranky foot-soldier, and there are a number of generals to show what works and what doesn't throughout history. Now, git. I gotta do this task or we'll start getting chilly at night.”

  ***

  Irma Huertas was trapped, and she knew it. That damned McCrary. He was a master tactician. Why wasn't he scheming for head of UNSOC? I don't believe for a minute that he's content to be a simple engineer his whole life.

  Nevertheless, she was being tutored in the art and science of electromagnetic railguns. Her instructor, another Moondog who took a pay cut from being a university professor just so he could work in space, while very patient with her, refused to take her excuses for falling short.

  “No, I don't understand. I'm a Moondog like you, but I managed to complete a third PhD up on the Moon before The Event. This is undergrad level work, Ms. Huertas. You can master it, all you need to do is apply yourself.”

  Bastard. Just like the rest of them.

  It took concentrated effort—almost like learning a new language—but she eventually grasped the operation of the New Flinger as intuitively as a racecar driver operates his ride on the racetrack.

  In simulations, she was able to hit the keyhole—a location in three-dimensional space with placement and velocity within a tenth of a percent. It was superior to any of the previous operators, even when they degraded the simulator to match the expected performance of the New Flinger. She had something to be proud of; she was no longer just a Moondog, but an important person in the operation of Moonbase Collins.

  She worked hard for her position, had earned the respect of her peers and superiors, and was scarcely aware how she and her anti-McCrary group had been neatly sidetracked.

  ***

  Out where the Moondogs were building the New Flinger (a/k/a 'Nifty'), they put down a set of rails connecting it to The Works. When the Moondogs wondered about the rails, the project manager shrugged. “It's to make it easier to get cargoes here to Nifty, I guess. Ask Horst.”

  Horst, of course, echoed the official story, because it was true. The cargoes, it was thought, would be stacks of metal plate, or maybe a bag of thorium pellets, or something equally mundane but massive.

  And it was, at least for the Mars Expedition. McCrary had other ideas of what made a good cargo.

  ***

  Doctor Kumar was unapologetic. “I've tried every trick in the book, Commander. The iron rations and the bottled micronutrients are good, as far as they go. The problem is, we're still suffering the effects of an exceptionally limited diet. No scurvy or pellagra, of course, but our bodies are deteriorating regardless.”

  “What about our mothers and the little ones?”

  “That's what first put me onto the danger,” he said. “After they gave birth and I discharged them, they returned with a number of non-specific complaints, generally lethargy and inability to stop losing mass—they're both breastfeeding, of course. It's too early to tell, but the children are a bit on the low side of what they should mass, although they are a bit long for their age. During the end of their pregnancies, they presented with an inability to put on mass—which is vitally important to growing that little human inside them. I gave them both megadoses of all the usual and most of the unusual micronutrients, and they responded quite well both times, before and after giving birth. I can say that they're out of danger, so long as they continue to receive nutritional support from Sick Bay, for as long as they are breastfeeding. I fear, though, for the children. Once they stop getting their nutrition from Mom, they're going to slowly fall behind their earthbound peers on the growth charts..”

  “Let me guess—there's no way you can do the same for all the Moondogs.”

  The doctor hung his head. “It's a dirty secret within UNSOC that the reason we don't let anyone stay in space longer than three years is the problems in nutrition that we have not been able to solve. Roque, of course, was an exception. Everyone brought him a little something from Earth, and he loved it all. He probably had a more complete diet than anyone else up in the Chaffee.”

  “Except for the calcium loss.”

  “Correct, Commander. Here, the one-sixth gravity is almost enough, on its own, to keep the human body healthy without the drastic calcium loss in Low Earth Orbit.”

  “But with all of the work we're doing, we should be doing fine.”

  “Yes. Except for the loss of these micronutrients. The mothers and children are just canaries in the coal mines. We're going to have to get back to Earth within five years, Commander, or we'll all die up here. The Expedition has even less time. Two years on the outside is the limit for those who are awake. And that estimate does not take into account the stress from radiation that they are absorbing.”

  “Five years.”

  “That's counting from The Event, more or less, sir. I have enough supplements for the mothers and babies, and maybe a dozen or so of the worst cases for that length of time.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I'll talk with Commander Smithson on the Burroughs about your findings.”

  The doctor turned and left the office while McCrary set up the encryption linkage for the Burroughs.

  ***

  “Yup. Two years. I am sure he meant continuous, not the usual fifteen months each way.”

  “So, we're going to have to do a U-Turn around Mars,” said Roger. “We're going to have to dig into the Martian atmosphere to get that kind of delta-v from a flyby.”

  McCrary nodded. “I'm not even sure it's possible to do a U-Turn and not lose too much to the atmosphere.”

  Roger sounded upset. “Apollo 13.”

  McCrary took a minute to place the reference. “Yeah. To see the planet right outside the window, have the ability to set down, but no way to get back home if you do.”

  Roger sighed. “Well, we don't have to make the decision for a couple of months yet.”

  McCrary wondered if now was the time. The suggestions had not been voted on, but then again, there was no guarantee that the one he had spotted buried in the lists would even make it through the elimination rounds. Yet of all of the possibilities, it was the only one that would work, on so many levels.

  Then he thought of any materiel transit times, the time required for fabrication, the limitation imposed by not possessing a functional Flinger, and all of the various moving parts required to make the delicate plan possible, and decided that nothing would be served by delay.

  “Roger. One of the geniuses around here has something that sounds so outlandish that it might just work. It's going to take a while to explain, so I'll give you a minute to get a drink or whatever you do up there. I'll need one, come to think of it. So, I'll resume in minute or two. McCrary, listening out.”

  Overstayed Welcome

  UNSOC Lunar Colony Michael Collins, July 5, 2083, 1630 EDT

  “Horst, Peter, Vito. Thank you for coming. I know all of you have vital work to perform, and I have something that might just derail a lot of that.” They were talking at one of the tables in Honey Chamber 4, the same one where McCrary found out about a couple of pregnant women. It still stank of sewage, but the general use of the chambers had gone down as individual barracks were able to activate their own facilities.

  Horst looked at the other two participants and received shrugs in return. “News to us, boss. What's up?”

  “The incident of our unexpected mothers has brought up a problem that I have not foreseen. We have to leave the Moon within the next four to five years, or we will all die here.”

  “The hell?” said Peter. He knew about the nutritional deficiencies, but he thought it was merely a consequence of pregnancy. “What's the problem?”

  “Doctor Kumar has informed me, and I want you three to hold this in the strictest confidence, that even if we grow all of the food we can on the Moon, along with the iron rations and all of the other attempts at supplementation, within four years, five at the outset, we'll die of m
icronutrient deficiency diseases. Our young mothers have already had a brush with them, and it was only through heroic measures, as well as micronutrient supplements that cannot be replaced, were they and their children saved. Obviously, we cannot do the same measures with the two hundred souls here. No, we must go home, and relatively soon.”

  The meeting was silent as each of the men thought about the projects they had in progress, as well as those projects that would never be started.

  “Why didn't UNSOC ever tell us about this?” asked Vito. “You'd think they'd tell us.”

  Horst snorted. “Simple. Everyone rotated back before the problem arose. Plus, Zanger was always sneaking stuff up here, so anyone jonesing for, say, Edam cheese could always find a slice.”

  “Roque,” said Peter.

  “Same thing, but more so,” said McCrary. “People were sending him stuff all the time. Kinda a way to salve a guilty conscience. Go mountain climbing, think of the crippled guy on the Chaffee, send him a bag of almonds.”

  Peter broke the silence. “OK, I'll address the 400-kilo elephant in the room. How do we get back?”

  McCrary smiled at Horst, an invitation for him to consider the problem.

  “Not rockets, that's for sure. No propellent.” His eyes widened. “Nifty!”

  “The railgun?” asked Peter. “Wait a second—the new design is not using steel hoops. You can put an object as big as you want on the damned thing!”

  “As long as it clears the trench,” said Horst. He pounded his fists on the table hard enough to raise his body from his chair and bang his knees on the underside of the table. “That's why!” He turned to the other two crew members. “I got a request to make up two more sets of superconducting magnets from the last of the KREEP terranes. Now I know why. We're lining the sides of the trench with magnets so all the thrust doesn't come from just the one set.” Horst looked at McCrary accusingly. “You could have told me.”