Trojan Orbit

by Mack Reynolds

  The first three nodded to their names. Evola said, “Hello, Ruth. Got anything on for tonight?”

  “My pajamas,” she said. “This way, folks.”

  Pulling along one of the rails, she led the way to what looked like a narrow metallic tunnel and then along it. As they progressed, they began feeling weight returning to them. Shortly they were able to walk—shuffle would be a better word. They still needed the rail to steady themselves. By the time they reached the module that was their destination they were walking normally.

  “How exciting,” Mary Beth gushed. “Isn’t it exciting, Bruce, Rick?”

  They both said, “Yes,” and Rick added, “Sure is different.”

  The nurse led them along a metal corridor. “You’ll stay here until the arrival of the SS Konstantin Tsiolkowsky,” she told them. “You’re lucky. She’s scheduled for tomorrow. Quarters are a little cramped in the Goddard.”

  Bruce said, “How many people do you get into this, uh, compartment?”

  “It was designed to have accommodations for 186, but since the numbers coming up have fallen off so much, it’s almost empty. Now, here is the wardroom. Over there is the galley, rather small as you’ll note—about 300 square feet. Here’s the dining area, almost 800 square feet.”

  There were two men in the small dining room arguing over cups of coffee. They looked up as the newcomers passed and one of them gave a little wave.

  Ruth, the nurse, said, “There are several other passengers waiting for the Tsiolkowsky. You’ll meet them later. Now, here are the bathrooms and showers. You don’t have private baths with your cabins. This is the ladies’ bath, and this the men’s. Down here is the medical area. As soon as you’ve moved into your quarters you must return to it for a check-up.” She looked at the security man. “Except for you, of course, Joe.”

  “Check for what?” Rick Venner said. “They’ve been checking me inside and out for the last month. I couldn’t smuggle a single crotch crab in, even if I wanted to.”

  “Very funny, Mr. Venner,” she told him briskly. “For any signs of space sickness. If you’re susceptible, you don’t get any farther than the Goddard. They don’t need anyone prone to space sickness out at Lagrange Five. You’d be sent back on the next shuttle. Now here’s your cabin, Mary Beth, dear. Someone will bring your bag shortly.” She opened a metal door.

  Mary Beth blinked. “Good heavens,” she said. “You mean you people live in a space no bigger than that?”

  “It’s 54 square feet,” the nurse said briskly. “Just large enough to sleep in, change your clothes in, that sort of thing. You can spend most of your time in the wardroom or dining hall. We of the permanent crew have quarters in one of the other modules. We have larger allotments of space per person. The officers and scientists, visiting technicians, and other VIPs are in still another module. By these standards, their quarters are quite spacious. Now remember, as soon as you’re settled in, report to the doctor.”

  She led the three others on down the corridor.

  Mary Beth closed the door and involuntarily shuddered. Of course, it all made sense. Travelers from Earth to Lagrange Five or the Luna base were brought up from Earthside by shuttle and then remained here until one of the passenger freighters that never landed on Earth, or Luna either for that matter, arrived to take them on the next lap of the journey. You were only here for a few days at most. This room was no larger than a bathroom, with only a toilet and washstand, about seven feet by seven and a half. But she didn’t really need more space, she told herself again. However, as soon as the bag came, she was going to get out and, after her medical checkup, go to the wardroom and find the others. She thought both Rick and Bruce were rather cute.

  The wardroom, she found later, was just as austere as her cabin, or nearly so. Certainly, no effort had been made to decorate it. Evidently, weight considerations were such that frivolities like paintings, drapes, or artificial flowers were scorned. There was a TV screen set into the wall. There were two tables with chairs around, and several other chairs. There were half a dozen men in the place, including Rick and Bruce. They waved to her when she entered. She came over.

  Rick grinned and said, “Sit down and join the rest of the sardines. We were just talking about you. In view of the trouble Bruce had getting an invite to visit Island One, how in the world did you swing it? From what we understand, you’re not a colonist.”

  Mary Beth sat in the light plastic chair. She said happily, “Oh, I’m the secretary of the Friends of Lagrange Five. You’ve heard of the FLF, haven’t you? You must really join when you return, Bruce. You could help us with publicity.”

  “Vaguely,” Bruce said. “Didn’t you have some kind of a parade in Washington, not so long ago?”

  “Did we? I’ll say. That’s how come I’m here. Doctor Ryan himself invited me. There was a proposal for the government to donate a billion dollars to the Lagrange Five Project, no strings attached, and President Corcoran was vacillating. Well, the FLF was having none of that, so we marched on the White House, delegations from every state in the Union. The detachment of the FLF cadets from New York alone numbered nearly fifty thousand young people, all in their space cadet uniforms. There were over a million of us, in all, but, of course, that included the Spacists.”

  Rick said cautiously, “What are the Spacists? I’m not up on some of these things. I’ve been, uh, working abroad.”

  “They’re kind of a sister organization, only more political than the Friends of Lagrange Five. They believe in Spacism.”

  In pain, Rick Venner refrained from asking what Spacism was. He was sure he didn’t want to know.

  But the freelance writer was fascinated. “What happened?” he said. “I’ve been busy researching the whole project since I got notice that my request to visit Island One had gone through. I’m not up on the current news.”

  “Well, good heavens, what do you think? The President couldn’t ignore that many voters. He had to stand on a platform out in front of the White House as we marched by and then he gave us a speech and said all sorts of nice things about the Lagrange Five Project and our organizations and how high-minded we were and all.”

  “And the appropriation went through, of course,” Rick said.

  “Of course.”

  “No wonder Ryan invited you to Island One,” Bruce said. “One billion bucks. There go my taxes up again. I’m surprised he didn’t invite a whole delegation of you.”

  She looked unhappy. “That’s what we expected and wanted, at first, but they were very nice and explained how horribly expensive it is to bring somebody up and then take them back and all. And they’re trying to watch every penny for the sake of the stockholders. So the National Committee decided I’d be the one to go. I’m only to be there for a few days. Everyone’s so busy, you know. They don’t have time to have earthworms underfoot.”

  “Earthworms?” Rick said.

  “It’s a term we use in FLF. As soon as the new Islands begin to be finished and there’s room for more colonists, we’re all going to apply. We’re going to be space colonists, not earthworms. Have you read the article Dr. Ryan wrote about it for one of the magazines? He said the first 10,000 colonists would be carefully selected, but as time goes on, he expected that it would develop into a situation where anyone who wants to, goes.”

  “What?” Rick said, grinning. “Including lepers, Mongolian idiots, Texans, Californians, and people like that?”

  “Oh, you’re pulling my leg.”

  Bruce Carter had been looking over at the other side of the room and frowning. There was a rather heavyset man there, poring over some papers he had on the tiny writing desk the wardroom provided.

  He came to his feet and said, “Pardon me, for a minute. I think I know that fellow.”

  He walked the few feet over to the other and said politely, “Excuse me, sir, aren’t you Academician Leonard Suvorov?”

  The other looked up over the top of his pince-nez glasses as though momentarily c
onfused at being taken away from his concentration. “Why, yes,” he said, in only slightly Slavic-accented English.

  “My name’s Bruce Carter, sir. I’m a freelance writer, sometimes a journalist. I saw some newscasts about your defection but I didn’t know about your coming to Lagrange Five.”

  The chunky man looked uncomfortable, but he said, “Do sit down. I hardly expected to have news media following me all the way to Island One.”

  Bruce sat and said, “A coincidence. Is there a story in it?”

  “I rather doubt it. Just before leaving, the fact that Dr. Ryan had welcomed me into the ranks of his inner circle of specialists was released to the media. In fact, once I have become oriented, I am to head the ecology department. But I daresay that may take some time. There are some very good men already on his staff.”

  Bruce said, exploring, “Are they having problems with the closed-circle ecology system?” In his cramming on all things pertaining to the L5 Project, Bruce Carter hadn’t gotten a very clear picture of that phase of the overall program.

  The ex-Soviet scientist looked uneasy. He said slowly, “In actuality, the establishment of the O, C, N, S, and, of course, H cycles largely depends on the establishment of proper soil conditions, together with the requisite macro and micro flora—that is, everything from earthworms to bacteriophages and back again by way of fungi and molds. It seems to me that this will be a major problem; that is, the conversion of lunar dust, which is predominantly volcanic rather than chondritic, into soil suitable for rapidly establishing a self-sustaining biosphere.”

  “I think I got most of that. Are you saying you’re going to have your work cut out for you, the way it looks now?”

  “Frankly,” the Russian said carefully, “I am not as yet acquainted with what Ryan’s ecologists have come up with, thus far. But it has always seemed to me that in a space colony it is prudent to have the bulk of the oxygen ultimately generated from algae in ponds and carbon dioxide from soil-bacterial complexes. I would consider it unsafe to attempt to simulate livable environments from our present biological knowledge.”

  Bruce Carter was no biologist, and only part of this got through to him. He said, “But I’d gained the impression that they had already set up their closed-cycle ecology system. That there might be a few bugs in it but that it was already operative.”

  “Not to my knowledge, young man,” the Russian scientist said, pursing his lips. “However, as I say, I am as yet unacquainted with just what they are doing. I suggest that you postpone this interview until after our arrival in Island One. I assume that you are to be there for a time. In only a few days, I should have a better idea of just how things stand. Ask me then.”

  Bruce nodded. He said, “Thanks, I’ll do that. Tell me, sir, your reasons for def—uh, leaving the Soviets. You’re opposed to the present regime in the Soviet complex?”

  Leonard Suvorov was unhappy again. He said, “I would rather not discuss my motivations. I am not political. I am a scientist. Besides, my family still remains in Leningrad, so you will appreciate that I must guard my statements to the media. However, I might say that as a biologist, I am tremendously interested in the ecological problems that manifest themselves in Island One. I simply couldn’t stay away. Since the Soviet government refused me permission to leave with the intention of joining Dr. Ryan, I…well, I simply defected.”

  “They are making a great deal of it in the West, sir. Academician Suvorov is a respected name in the world of science.”

  “I suppose so. You refer to the Nobel Prize, of course. However, there is no manner in which I can control the propaganda. And now, Mr. Carter, if you will excuse me, I am perusing some of the work of my colleagues in Island One and, as the Americanism goes, time is a-wasting.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Bruce said, coming to his feet. “And I’ll contact you again after a few days at Lagrange Five.”

  He returned to the table where Mary Beth and Rick were seated, to find the girl looking indignant and the electrical engineer grinning at her.

  Bruce said, “What spins?” as he took his chair.

  Rick said, “Mary Beth won’t believe the reason I signed up for a five-year contract at Lagrange Five. She thinks my motivations are contemptible.”

  Bruce looked over at him. “As a matter of fact, what does motivate a man to take on a five-year exile voluntarily?”

  “Money,” Rick said.

  “Exile!” Mary Beth said indignantly. “That’s not the way to put it.”

  Bruce regarded Rick questioningly. “It would seem to me that an engineer qualified enough to land a job with the L5 Corporation could get a pretty good job Earthside. If not in the States then, say, Iran or Saudi Arabia, or perhaps the Amazon region of Brazil.”

  “Sure,” Rick admitted. “I could make at least fifty thousand a year, possibly lots more, on one of the more remote or dangerous jobs. But what happens? First of all, I’m single. The taxes slapped on me are ferocious. And the cost of living in those places is sky high—not to mention local hazards like radiation in Iran. At the end of the year, I’d be lucky to have put away five thousand. And even that would be eaten up if I was very long between jobs.”

  “So?” Bruce said. “In what ways is a job with the L5 Corporation different?”

  “First of all, you needn’t spend a penny in Island One, or at the Luna Base. Everything is supplied. Food, clothing, shelter, medical care, entertainment, even education for your children, if you have any. The standard contract for a construction worker is ten thousand a year and…”

  Bruce scowled surprise. “No more than that? I had thought…”

  “Wait a minute,” Rick told him. “Plus a bonus of twenty thousand a year in shares of Lagrange Five Corporation stock, if you finish out your full contract. Contracts are for five years, ten years, or life, if you’re a colonist. Figure that out. Suppose I spent half of my ten thousand a year on extras, gambling, wenching, or whatever’s available in the way of living it up, and save the other five thousand. Suppose I stick it out for ten years. At the end of that time, I’d have a quarter of a million dollars coming to me. And tax free, mind you. Every country in the Reunited Nations has pledged not to tax the wages and salaries of space workers. With a quarter of a million dollars, Bruce, I can retire in comfort in some comparatively cheap country like Mexico or Morocco.”

  “I suppose it makes sense, at that,” the freelancer admitted. He smiled his slow smile. “You don’t suppose the Corporation needs any writers on their payroll, do you?”

  “Oh, you two are impossible,” Mary Beth said. “You seem to think that there’s nothing in the glorious conquest of space but money.” She came to her feet.

  “It’s been known to help in various causes, glorious and otherwise,” Bruce said mildly.

  She said, still indignant at these two clods, “Well, I’m going exploring. I wonder if it’s allowed to go to the other modules. I’d like to see those nicer quarters where the officers and scientists live.”

  “It’s worth trying,” Bruce said. “We’re only going to be here until tomorrow, but there sure doesn’t seem to be much to do except to wait for mealtime.”

  After she was gone, the engineer said, “As a matter of fact, you’re right.” He looked over at a small table upon which sat chessmen and checkers, along with boards, and various other games. He went over to it and returned with a deck of cards and a container of chips.

  “Poker?” he said to Bruce.

  The freelancer said, “A favorite game of mine, but it’s not much fun two-handed.” He looked about the small wardroom. “Possibly someone else might be interested.”

  Rick grinned at him, even as he began to count out chips. “I’ll tell you the best way to get a poker game going,” he said. “What you do is start playing. Pretty soon, you’ve got a kibitzer, then another. Then one asks if he can sit in. Before you know it, you’ve got a full table.”

  Bruce smiled. “You have the instincts of a con man, I’m happy
to say. Let’s see if it works.” He took up the cards and began to shuffle.

  Rick said, “Suppose we start with a hundred dollars. On the cuff. When we get to Island One and make our financial arrangements, the loser can pay off, making a credit transfer to the winner.”

  “Right.” Bruce pushed the cards over for a cut. “Let’s say the ante is one dollar.”

  “Wizard.”

  Bruce Carter won the first hand with three ladies, mildly surprised that the other had pushed the betting with no more than two small pairs. Evidently, his companion was the out-for-blood type.

  Rick dealt and won with a full house.

  It was two hands later, without any kibitzers materializing as yet, when Bruce said mildly, “You do that very well.”

  Rick looked up from his shuffling. He didn’t seem to be a very good shuffler. “How do you mean?”

  “The Louisville flip.”

  Rick Venner put the deck of cards down. His faded blue-green eyes were cold. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  The freelancer said, deprecation in his voice, “You should have read my last book, Rick. It was entitled Gambling Is No Gamble. I spent over a year researching it. Spent a whole month with Dakota Slim on cards and dice. Hit the bestseller lists. There were some who thought it’d put Vegas, Reno, and Atlantic City out of business. But it didn’t, a compulsive gambler being a compulsive gambler. What’s the old story about the high roller who was asked why he gambled in a certain casino when he knew all the tables were crooked, all the cards marked, all the wheels wired? And he said, in despair, ‘Yes, I know, but what can I do? It’s the only place in town you can play.”

  Rick gave up, shrugging in resignation. He made a rueful mouth. “You know how it is,” he said. “Construction gangs don’t have anything to do in their time off but play cards, or dice, or whatever. And half the time everybody in the game is cutting corners. In self defense, you’ve got to do it too. So you get into the habit. Sorry, Bruce.”

  Before the freelancer could answer, a newcomer came up to the table. “Playing poker?” he said. “Could I sit in?”