by Ben Bova
“Hey, Gay-etta or whatever your name is,” the crew chief interrupted. “I’m bringing my gang in to replenish their air and break out a couple more flitters so we can capture that tank.”
“What about Tavalera?” the woman snapped.
Gaeta was drifting around the tank’s curving surface now, looking for the injured man. “I see him!” he shouted. “I’ll take care of him.”
Tavalera was floating a few meters off the surface of the tank, held by his tether. Gaeta could see that his left leg was dotted by three little burn holes. The hard-shell suit appeared otherwise undamaged; the emergency cuff must have sealed off the leg the way it was designed to do.
Gaeta unhooked Tavalera’s tether and clicked it to his own armored suit. Then he started back for the habitat’s airlock with the injured astronaut in his arms.
“You awake, man?” he asked Tavalera, rapping on his fishbowl helmet.
Tavalera opened his eyes. Groggily, he asked, “Who the hell are you?”
Gaeta grinned. “Your guardian angel, man. I’m your frickin’ guardian angel.”
Holly watched the whole thing on Fritz’s portable display monitor. Standing with the other technicians, she saw Gaeta sail back into the airlock, carrying the limp astronaut in the powerful arms of his armored suit.
He saved him, Holly thought, her heart racing. He’s saved that man’s life.
While the technicians cycled the airlock Holly rushed to the wall phone by the inner hatch and called for emergency medical services. Surprise showed clearly on the medic’s face, even in the palm-sized screen of the wall phone, but he promised to have a team at the airlock in less than five minutes.
The inner hatch sighed open and Gaeta clumped through, still holding the injured, spacesuited man.
“Did you get it all down?” Gaeta asked, his voice booming through the suit’s amplifier. “Cameras all on?”
“Yes, yes,” said Fritz, sounding annoyed. “You will be on all the news nets, never fear.”
Three medics in white coveralls came pounding down the corridor to the airlock, trailed by a powered gurney and a crash wagon. They quickly got the injured man’s helmet off, slapped an oxygen mask over his face, pulled the suit torso off him and jabbed a hypo into his arm. Then they whisked him off toward the infirmary in the village.
Holly turned back to Gaeta, still in his massive suit.
“You saved his life,” she said, looking up at him. She could barely make out his face through the heavily tinted visor.
“He generated good publicity,” said Fritz, a little sharply.
Holly countered, “He risked his own life to save a man in danger.”
With an almost exasperated sigh, Fritz said, “He risked his life, yes. He also risked the suit, which is worth several hundred millions.” Glancing up at Gaeta he added, “We can always find another daredevil; replacing the suit would not be so easy. Or cheap.”
Gaeta laughed; it sounded like thunder echoing off the corridor’s metal walls. “C’mon, Fritz, let’s get back to the shop so I can get out of this tin can.”
Holly walked beside Gaeta, still clutching her container of chili in one hand. It was ice cold now, she knew. Gaeta plodded down the corridor like a ponderous robot in a bad vid, with Fritz on his other side. The technicians trailed along behind.
At last they reached the workshop and the technicians unsealed the hatch at the suit’s rear. Gaeta crawled out, stood up, and stretched his arms over his head languidly. Holly heard vertebrae pop.
“Damn, that feels good,” he said, smiling.
She stepped closer to him and saw that his clothes were drenched with perspiration. He smelled like old sweat socks.
Gaeta caught her hesitant expression. “Guess I oughtta shower, huh?”
Fritz was still unhappy with him. “An extravehicular excursion was not planned. You shouldn’t have done it. What if the propulsion unit had failed? It hasn’t been properly tested for flight activity.”
Gaeta grinned at him. “Fritz, everything worked fine. Don’t be such a gloomy fregado. Besides, I couldn’t leave the guy out there, he might have died.”
“Still, you had no right to—”
“Can it, Fritz. It’s over and no damage was done to the precious suit.” To Holly he said, “Wait there just a couple mins, kid. I gotta get outta these clothes and hit the shower.”
He ambled to the lavatory off at the workshop’s rear, whistling tunelessly. Holly watched the techs clambering over the suit, checking all its systems and shutting them down, one by one.
Gaeta came back, his hair glistening and slicked back, wearing a fresh set of coveralls.
“Now, where do we eat?” he asked. “I’m starving.”
Fritz glanced at his wristwatch. “The restaurants are all closed by now. We’ll have to eat in our quarters.”
Holly held up her plastic container. “I’ve got some chili, but it’s got to be reheated.”
“Chili! Great!” said Gaeta.
Glancing at Fritz and the other techs, Holly said, “There isn’t enough for all of us.”
Gaeta took her by the arm and started for the lab’s door. “There’s enough for us two, right? These other clowns can get their own suppers.”
Holly let him lead her out into the corridor without a glance back at the others. But in her mind she was saying, Malcolm’ll have to notice this!
Charles Nicholas was a chubby, chinless little man who had learned to wear clothes so that he somehow managed to look dapper even in a plain sports shirt and comfortable slacks. As the senior man on duty at the Communications office that evening, he had watched Gaeta’s heroics in fascination.
His assistant, Elinor, happened to be his wife. She was slightly taller than he, much slimmer, and wore clothes even better than he did. They always tried to have their working shifts together. They spent every waking moment together and, of course, slept in the same bed. Yet while Charles was openly admiring of Gaeta’s feat in rescuing the injured astronaut, Elinor was somewhat dubious.
“They might have staged the whole thing,” she said to her husband in her squeaky, strangely sexy voice.
Charles was rerunning the vid. “Staged it? How could they stage it? It was an accident. That kid could’ve died.”
“They could have set it up weeks in advance. For the publicity.”
“Nobody was watching except us and the EVA crew.”
“But they got it all on a chip, didn’t they? They’ll want to beam it to the nets, back Earthside.”
Charles shook his head. “They’ll have to get permission for that. They’ll have to ask Vyborg, he’s in charge of news releases.”
“He’ll okay it,” said Elinor. “All they have to do is ask him. He likes publicity.”
“Professor Wilmot doesn’t.”
“So they won’t ask Wilmot. They’ll ask Vyborg and he’ll okay it without bucking it upstairs.”
“You think so?”
“Bet you five credits,” Elinor replied.
Charles said nothing, thinking that Elinor was probably right. She usually was. Sure enough, a call came through from somebody named Von Helmholtz, who identified himself as Gaeta’s chief technician, asking permission to beam their vid of the rescue to the news nets on Earth and Selene. Charles routed the request to Vyborg’s private line. In less than ten minutes Vyborg called back, gladly granting permission.
“You owe me five,” Elinor said, grinning evily at Charles.
“I never bet,” he said.
“Makes no difference,” she said loftily. “It’s a moral victory for me.”
He tried to change the subject. “Have you made up your mind about what we should call our village?”
“Something better than Village C,” she said.
“I think we should name it after some great figure from literature. Cervantes, maybe. Or Shakespeare.”
“You know they both died the same year?”
“No.”
“Yes; 1616.
You can look it up.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Bet five?”
“That I will bet on,” Charles said, sticking out his hand.
They shook on it, Elinor thinking, We’re married more than ten years and he still doesn’t realize that I only bet on sure things. She smiled kindly at her husband. It’s one of things that I love about him.
Holly and Gaeta were walking slowly along the gently climbing path that led toward her apartment building. It was well past midnight; the habitat was in its nighttime mode. The solar windows were closed and everything was dark except for the small lights set atop slim poles along the edges of the path, and the windows of some of the living quarters up ahead.
“Look up at the stars,” Gaeta said, stopping in the middle of the path.
“They’re not stars,” said Holly, “they’re lights from the land up there.”
“Those over there look like the petals of a flower to me,” he said, pointing overhead. “I think I’ll call it the Flower constellation.”
She giggled. “They’re just lights, Manny. See, those meandering ones over there?” She pointed too. “Those are the bike paths between the food factory and Village C. And the village itself—”
“Looks like a giant squid, doesn’t it? See, there’s the body and there’s the tentacles stretching out.”
She was standing so close to him in the darkness that she could feel the heat of his body.
“And what’s that one?” she asked, pointing up at the neat rows of lights marking one of the orchards.
“Let’s see now,” he muttered. “How about the Tic-Tac-Toe constellation?”
They laughed together and then she was in his arms and he kissed her. Jeeps, Holly thought, what am I getting into?
“He brought the man here?” Eberly asked.
Eberly was standing at his kitchen sink, a bowl of breakfast cereal in his hands. Kananga had barged in without warning, simply one sharp rap on the apartment’s door and he entered without being invited. Eberly was certain he had locked the door before retiring for the night. How did Kananga get it open? The man had been a police official back on Earth, Eberly remembered. He must be quite accustomed to getting past locked doors and entering someone’s home without asking.
Kananga nodded somberly. “He’s in the hospital. Apparently the wounds on his leg were not too serious. The laser cauterized as it penetrated the flesh, so there was very little bleeding. He suffered mostly from shock.”
“How long must he remain in hospital?” Eberly asked, absently pouring flakes into a plastic bowl. “We ought to send him back to the Jupiter station as soon as possible.”
“It’s already too late for that,” said Kananga, standing on the other side of the counter that served as a partition between the kitchen and sitting room. “We’ve moved too far from Jupiter for them to send a spacecraft to pick him up. It would take a special torch-ship flight, and the station staff are unwilling to send for one to fetch him.”
“You mean we’re stuck with this man?”
Kananga nodded again. “The medical people have him under quarantine until they can establish that he’s not carrying anything harmful in his bloodstream.”
“But he can’t stay here! This habitat isn’t a shelter for the homeless!”
“Do you want me to push him out an airlock?”
Eberly stared at the colonel. His question was obviously meant to be humorous, but there was no trace of a smile on his dark, utterly serious face.
“Don’t be funny,” Eberly said.
“Then he’s here to stay. He doesn’t know it yet, by the way. Someone will have to break the news to him. He probably won’t like it.”
Eberly put his cereal bowl down on the kitchen counter and came around to the sitting room.
“I’ll get Holly to tell him. Or perhaps Morgenthau — she’s the acting head of the Human Resources Department. They’ll have to make room for him somewhere in the habitat’s population.”
“He won’t like it,” Kananga repeated. “He was due to return to Earth in a few weeks.”
“He’s here to stay, unless he can afford a torch ship to pick him up.”
“He’ll expect us to do that.”
With a shake of his head, Eberly said, “There’s no provision in our budget for that. Wilmot wouldn’t spend the money. He couldn’t. There isn’t any money to spend.”
“Perhaps one of the news services,” Kananga suggested. “The rescue made quite a sensation on the nets this morning.”
“Perhaps. I’ll ask Vyborg to look into that possibility.” Eberly hesitated, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “On the other hand, perhaps we can use all this to our advantage.”
“How?”
“I don’t know … yet. But there should be some way to turn this to our advantage. After all, we have a genuine hero in our midst, this stuntman Gaeta.”
“He’s an outsider. He’ll be returning to Earth after he’s performed his exploit.”
“Returning to Earth? Someone will send a ship for him?”
Kananga looked surprised at the idea. “I hadn’t thought about it. Perhaps he can take the refugee back with him.”
“Perhaps. But in the meantime, we should work out a way to use him. Use them both, perhaps.”
Kananga asked again, “How?”
“Heroes are always valuable,” Eberly replied, “if they can be manipulated. I’ll have to think of a way to bring Gaeta into our camp.”
Kananga shrugged. “At least we have one consolation.”
Eberly looked at him sharply. “What’s that?”
“It won’t happen again. We won’t take any more refugees aboard. The Jupiter station was the last human outpost. There’s no one out this far except us.”
With that, he turned and left the apartment. Eberly realized he was right. The habitat was sailing now farther than any humans had ever gone before. Beyond the frontier, into the unknown.
Frowning, Eberly tried his front door. It was securely locked. Yet Kananga had entered and left as if it had been wide open.
DEPARTURE PLUS 425 DAYS
Holly awoke slowly, remembering what seemed to be a dream. But it really happened, she knew. It really happened.
Manny was gone, of course. He had left her after they had made love, right here in her bed, left her drowsy and languid and warm with the touch of his hands, his lips, his body pressed against hers.
She smiled up at the ceiling. Then she giggled. I’ll have to tell Don Diego what terrific chili he made. A love potion.
A glance at the digital clock on her night table told her that she ought to get up, shower and dress and get to the office. Yet she lay back on the rumpled, sweaty sheets, remembering.
But a sudden thought snapped her out of her reverie. Malcolm! What if he finds out? I just wanted to make him jealous, make him notice me. This’ll make him hate me!
The phone buzzed.
“No video,” Holly said sharply. “Answer.”
Malcolm’s face appeared floating above the foot of her bed. He knows! she screamed silently. He’s found out! Holly jerked up to a sitting position, clutching the sheet to her despite knowing that Eberly could not see her, waves of guilt washing over her, drowning every other emotion.
“Holly, are you there?” Eberly asked, squinting slightly, as if that would make her image appear in his apartment.
“Yes, Malcolm,” she said, straining to keep her voice level. “I — I’m running a little late this morning.”
“About this man that Gaeta brought aboard the habitat last evening,” Eberly said, ignoring the tremble in her voice. “He’s going to stay aboard the habitat unless someone wants to send a ship out to fetch him.”
He doesn’t know! she thought, so relieved that she nearly sagged back on the pillows. To Eberly’s image she managed to utter:
“Yes?”
“I want you to interview him as soon as the medics lift his quarantine. We need a complete dossie
r on him.”
He doesn’t know, she repeated to herself. It’s all right. He doesn’t know. “I see. Of course.”
“Good. Get on it right away.”
Holly’s mind began working again. “Have you told Morgenthau about this?” Holly asked.
His brows knit slightly. “I’m telling you.”
She nodded. “Kay. Right. I’ll inform her. She wants to be kept informed, y’know.”
“You take care of it,” he said, almost crossly.
“Kay. I’ll do it.”
At last he seemed to catch the reluctance in her voice. “Holly, would you rather I speak to Morgenthau?”
Her heart fluttered. “Oh, Malcolm, I don’t want to bother you with that.” But silently she was rejoicing, He cares! He really cares about me!
“I’ll call her right now,” he said, smiling at her. “By the time you get to the office, she’ll know all about this.”
“Thank you, Malcolm!”
“It’s nothing,” he said. Then he cut the connection and his image vanished.
Leaving Holly sitting in her bed, suddenly wretched that she had made love with another man, and terrified that Malcolm might find out.
When Ruth Morgenthau arrived at her office that morning, she found Sammi Vyborg already sitting in front of her desk, waiting for her.
“I thought you’d be watching the Jupiter flyby,” she said, sweeping around her desk and settling heavily in its padded chair.
Vyborg hunched forward in his chair. “That stuntman’s heroics have made the flyby seem tame, by comparison. Every network is carrying the video.”
“So?” Morgenthau asked. “Then why are you here? If it’s about the refugee,” she said airily, “I’ve already spoken with Eberly about it. He wants Holly to—”
“It’s not about the refugee,” Vyborg snapped.
She looked at him carefully. His narrow death’s head of a face was even grimmer than usual, tense with repressed anger.
“What is it, then?”
“Eberly promised to make me head of the Communications Department. But he’s done nothing to make that happen.”
Morgenthau temporized, “That sort of thing takes time, Sammi. You know that. You must be patient.”