by Jerry Oltion
"We had a little accident with the salad spinner," she explained, fielding a baby carrot and popping it into a yellow plastic tub with a lid full of flexible slots. Trent and Donna and Allen joined in the hunt, and they quickly brought the salad under control again.
"Cooking without gravity is a different experience," Judy said. "I'm still not very good at it. Allen is much better."
"I use the microwave a lot," he said. "Heat transfer without physical contact is the key. Do you like rabbit?"
Trent laughed, somewhat ruefully. "Last time we were asked that, dinner got interrupted by a meteorite."
"That was on Mirabelle?"
"Yeah."
"Then we'll have salmon."
Trent said, "No, rabbit's okay. I just—it just reminded me, that's all." Allen nodded. Then a moment later he brightened and said, "Hey, I've invented something I think you'll appreciate." He opened a very ordinary looking refrigerator at the back of the kitchen and said,
"Budweiser, right?"
"Absolutely," Trent said.
"Here you go." He handed over a regular can of beer, but it had a little plastic cap on it like a water bottle with a push-pull stopper. "You shove down on it like this to pop the top," he said, demonstrating,
"and then when you want a drink, you just stick the cap in your mouth and pull it open with your teeth. Internal pressure squirts beer into your mouth, and you push it closed when you've got enough. No foam flying all over the place."
Trent gave it a try, and it worked like a charm. "Hot damn," he said. "I hope you got a patent on this."
Allen shrugged. "Eh. Managing a business is a pain. I just like to invent stuff."
"How's your alternate dimension thing going?" Donna asked, accepting another beer from him.
"Huh?"
"Last time we saw you, you were working on something that you said would let you see into alternate dimensions."
"Oh, that," he said. "It . . . kind of got put on a back burner."
"I convinced him it was a bad idea to open too many frontiers at once," Judy said. "Hand me that knife." She pointed at a paring knife stuck to a magnet on the wall, and Allen handed it over to her. While she sliced radishes, Trent said, "How about anti-gravity? That would come in pretty handy on landing. Be a lot safer than parachutes."
Allen laughed. "It would, if I had a clue how to do it, but I'm afraid that's not my area of expertise." Donna asked him, "Did you have a chance to look at that navigation program yet?" He lost his smile. "Yeah. Turns out it wasn't a bug so much as a deliberate bomb. The basic code is the same program that I gave out with the hyperdrive plans, but there's an added module that looks for any visits to planets on the United States's interdict list, and after you visit any of them, it resets the navigation module to add twenty thousand light-years to any destination you choose off the menu." Trent felt a cold chill run down his spine. "Then that's twice our own government has tried to kill us."
"Looks like," Allen said.
"I don't suppose the Federation is going to do anything about that, either?"
"No, but I will."
"What?"
"I've got a couple of ideas," said Allen. "Don't worry, the government will wish they hadn't tried this."
Trent wondered what he could do. Allen had a considerably higher profile than Trent did, but Allen was a criminal in the eyes of the U.S. He'd been branded a terrorist, and could legally be shot on sight. Under the Patriot laws, he had no rights whatsoever. He couldn't take anyone to court for messing with his software, even if he had patented it, which he no doubt hadn't. Whatever he did, he would have to do it from outside, and unless he wanted to declare all-out war, Trent was willing to bet it would have no more effect than the myriad other economic and political sanctions the U.S. had endured over the years. The U.S. wouldn't change its tactics until it changed its politics, and now that the dissidents were leaving for more tolerable lives elsewhere, the odds of that happening were practically nil. They changed the subject after that, and by dinnertime they were laughing and joking as if everything was all right. They learned why there was a dining table—it was much easier to strap yourself down and stick your plate to a solid surface than to chase it around the room—and they learned how to pass dishes around without spilling them. Judy and Allen told stories about some of the more interesting aliens who had been discovered in the last few months, and Trent and Donna told about being stranded on the plastic planet and how they had built a generator out of a wheel motor and slo-mo shells to recharge their batteries. After dinner they moved into the living room and talked for a couple more hours, but eventually Trent realized Judy had yawned about half a dozen times in as many minutes, and Allen was starting to space out even more than usual.
"Hey," he said. "We're keeping you guys up. What time is it around here, anyway?"
"Past midnight, for us," Judy admitted.
"Holy cow. Sorry about that! We've only been up for a few hours."
"The station never sleeps," Allen said. "You can find plenty of things to do at any hour."
"Thanks," Trent said, "but I think Donna and I are about done sightseeing for a while. I'm kind of thinking it's time to go on home. How about you, kiddo?"
Donna nodded. "I'd kind of like to sleep in my own bed tonight." That wasn't likely, given that they would have to land in Canada and drive home from there, but Trent didn't say anything. Just setting down on Earth again would be close enough for starters. Thinking of which . . .
"Hey," he said, "we're going to need our computer if we're going to go anywhere." Allen slapped himself on the forehead, then got the computer from his workshop and gave it to Donna. They spent another fifteen minutes at the door the way people always seem to do when they know they won't see one another again for a while, but Judy yawned again in the middle of a story about a cat that loved to set itself adrift in the commons and let the birds fly all around it, and Donna laughed and said, "Will you people go to bed so we can go home?"
"Right," Judy said. "Bedtime it is. You guys take care, and keep in touch." They said their goodbyes, and Trent and Donna pushed off down the corridor. When they got to the central atrium, Trent saw the shops and said into his arm speaker, "Hey, is there someplace we can buy a spare parachute around here? We're down to just one, and I get nervous trying to land without a backup."
Potikik guided them to a shop right next to the corridor that led to the docking bay, where they found hyperdrives, plasma batteries, portable solar cells, air tanks, and all the other equipment a person might need to build or repair a hyperdrive spaceship, including parachutes. The proprietor was a spidery yellow bug about nine feet tall who didn't speak a word of English, but Potikik helped translate for them and they found a cargo chute big enough for a loaded pickup.
"How much?" Trent asked.
"How much do you have?" the bug replied through Potikik.
"No, that's not the way it works," Trent said. "You tell me how much you want, and I tell you whether or not I want to pay it."
The bug spoke at length, and the shoulder speakers said, "Peculiar. Basic economic theory predicts the development of class stratification if goods are priced without regard to the user's ability to pay. It would lead to excess and oppression, possibly even war."
Trent looked over at Donna, who said, "He's got you there."
"Okay," said Trent. He fished out his wallet and opened it up. The five orange twenties that Greg had given him on Onnescu were right up front. "I've got a hundred bucks Australian, and about sixty American."
"And how badly do you need the parachute?" asked the bug.
"We can live without it," Trent said.
"How many other purchases do you need to make before you replenish your money?"
"God only knows," Trent said. "I'm still lookin' for work." The bug turned to an abacus-looking gadget on the counter beside him and flipped a couple of colored balls around its wire loops, then said, "For you, then, seventy-two Australian will do." That was actually a lot cheaper t
han he could buy a cargo chute at home. "Okay," Trent said. He handed over eighty, and the bug handed him back three oblong yellow coins with little swirly galaxies stamped on them.
"Federation currency," the bug said. "Good anywhere."
"Right," Trent said. He somehow doubted that they would be worth much in the good old US of A, but they were certainly worth no less than his remaining Australian twenty. He picked up the parachute and followed Donna out into the atrium and down the corridor toward their docking bay. They stopped to collect their clothes from the guest room, and Donna packed those in the camper while Trent made sure the parachute was folded right and packed it into its pod. The tug pilot showed up while he was doing that, so they clipped their mobile speakers to the tug's framework again, then donned their Ziptite suits and climbed into the pickup. Trent closed the door, then looked out at the mirrors still pointing backward for driving. "This time," he said, opening the door again and adjusting his mirror so it pointed straight down.
"My god, we remembered," Donna said, opening her door and adjusting her mirror, too. They closed up again and Trent turned on the radio. "Give us a few minutes to make sure we're airtight."
"Certainly," said Potikik. "Take your time."
Trent pressurized the cab and they watched the air gauge for a few minutes while Donna connected up the computer and loaded the new program that Allen had put on it. When the pressure had remained steady after ten minutes, Trent let the excess air out and said into the microphone, "Okay, we're ready to roll."
Potikik didn't say anything, but they saw several holes open up in the walls and the air rushed out of the docking bay. The holes were in the inner wall, so Trent supposed the air was being held somewhere, maybe in a big set of lungs, to be exhaled into the bay again when the next ship docked. The outer door opened and the tug disengaged its clamps from the inner wall, letting the last puff of air send them out into space. The pilot pushed them out past the protruding booms—one of which no doubt held Judy and Allen's apartment—and when they were well into clear space, he released the tug's hold on the roll bar and backed away.
"You're clear for launch," he said. "And you're welcome back any time."
"Thanks for the hospitality," Trent replied. "We'll be seeing you around." He put the microphone back in its clip and said to Donna, "Anytime you're ready."
"Okay," she said, pulling down the destination menu and selecting "Earth" from the list. Not just
"Sol" like the other program, but "Earth." She double-checked the numbers that popped into the "details" window, then said, "Looks good. Here goes."
She hit the "enter" key, and the space station vanished, to be replaced in almost exactly the same spot by the sunlit Earth.
37
"Holy cow," Donna said. "He's got the targeting down cold." The planet was about the size of a basketball held at arm's length; far enough to put them outside the range of the United States's laser satellites, but close enough to see the continents so they could pick a preliminary landing site.
Provided they could recognize the continents. Trent squinted against the glare of sunlight on clouds, and finally managed to see a patch of brown beneath the white. There was a curved edge over to the left with a big bite taken out of it, and a big triangular island kind of below and to the left of that. There was a big white area to the left of that, too smooth to be clouds, but what clouds there were did seem to be kind of sticking out of it in big curls. Trent turned his head sideways to put them at the top of the picture, then the other way to put them at the bottom, and everything clicked into place. That was the south pole over there to the left, and the brown continent with the island to the south was Australia. Which meant North America was on the night side of the planet.
"Dammit," Trent said. "I don't want to make a night landing."
"You want to go back to Federation headquarters and try again in twelve hours?" Donna asked.
"Not particularly."
"I don't think we have enough air to wait it out here."
"Probably not." Trent didn't have the patience, either. He looked at the brown continent, ringed with cloud and bare in the middle. Somebody was having a nice, sunny day down there. After all the rain and cold he and Donna had been through in the past few days, a little desert sun would be more than welcome. "Hell with it," he said. "We've always wanted to go to Australia. Looks like now's a pretty good time for it. We've even got twenty bucks left. What do you say we spend the rest of the day there and then go home?"
Donna smiled. "That actually sounds kind of fun. Anyplace in particular you want to go?"
"I don't know Australia from a hole in the ground. Just pick a spot and let's see what we get."
"Okay, here goes."
She put the target circle dead square in the middle of the continent and pushed "enter." Earth vanished, to appear much larger and only half-lit off to the right, then after a couple minutes it shifted again so they were directly over a huge expanse of red desert. There was still some sideways motion; apparently the program had only killed part of their velocity so they could fly over their target area and pick a specific landing site more carefully.
Donna looked over at Trent, but he just shrugged and said, "Anywhere," so she left the targeting circle right where it was and pressed "enter."
The program took them halfway around the planet again to kill the rest of their velocity, then put them back where they were, only much closer to the ground. One more jump downward, and Donna said, "That's it. We're at the top of the atmosphere already." Trent used the air jets to orient the pickup wheels-down while Donna said, "Get ready with the parachute in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one
. . . now."
He flipped the switch for their new chute. No time like the present for testing new equipment. It streamed upward and tugged gently on the pickup, but not nearly as hard as their other chutes did. Was it fouled? Trent leaned forward and looked up just in time to see a series of cords break away from where they held the canopy closed, and the chute blossomed open a little at a time until it was fully deployed. There had been hardly a lurch through the whole sequence.
"Now that was a neat trick," Trent said. "I'll have to learn how they did that." There were big black letters on the chute. They were backwards from underneath, and in various languages including several that weren't human, but Trent could read one set of block letters easily enough: Galactic Federation. He wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, but it was too late to worry about it now.
They drifted down through clear skies, watching the desert rise up to meet them. The ground was red, just like it was around Rock Springs, and they could see big swirls and arcs of rock outcrops from where it had folded and then been eroded flat over millions of years. Off toward the horizon were a couple of white patches that looked like salt pans.
"Looks like we're in the outback," Trent said. So much for spending that last twenty. As they drew closer to the ground, they realized it wasn't nearly as barren as it looked from higher up. Around each of the rock outcrops there was a light brown ring the color of dry grass, and between the rings were specks of green that turned out to be trees. There were actually lots of trees, just spaced a ways apart, and big tufts of grass or bushes or something growing between them. Trent looked in the downward-facing mirror as they approached the ground, and he saw a group of twenty or thirty animals moving out in a circle around where they were going to come down. They were up on two legs—kangaroos? But their arms flailed as they ran, and brightly colored cloth billowed out behind several of them.
"People!" he said. "There's people down there."
"Oh, shit!" said Donna. "Should we jump?"
"They're gettin' out of the way." Trent kept his eyes on the mirror just to make sure, but the runners on the ground were well clear now.
"Jeez," Donna said. "What are the odds we'd land right on top of the only group of people for miles around?"
"Pretty slim, but we managed it. Hang
on."
They leaned back in their seats, and a moment later there was a hard jounce as the tires hit the red dirt. The pickup skidded to the left a little, but it didn't feel like it was in danger of going over. A cloud of red dust rose up around them and drifted slowly to the left, rising to meet the parachute as it draped itself over a couple of bushes and several of the people who had watched them land. They were aborigines. Dark skinned, dark-haired, except for the ones who had gone gray, with wide noses and big smiles. That was a good sign.
Trent popped the latches on his door and opened it, to be hit with a wall of heat. He had intended to apologize for landing right in the middle of their get-together, but instead the first words out of his mouth were "Wow, it's hot."
"You get used to it," said one of the group in surprisingly good English. Trent squinted in the bright sun. This guy didn't look like the others. He looked like a lobster that had been boiled too long, bright red and peeling even though he wore a big floppy hat and a loose-fitting gray robe.
Trent remembered what he'd meant to say. Stepping down to the red ground, he said, "I'm sorry we dropped in right on top of you. We didn't—"
"We were expecting you," said one of the aborigines, an older man with dreadlocked hair and a wispy brown beard shot with gray. His English was good, too, with just a little of the accent Trent would have expected from a native Australian.
"You were expecting us? How? We didn't even know we were coming here ourselves until a few minutes ago."
"The universe knows," the aborigine said. He was wearing a leather thong around his neck with an irregular lump of black rock tied to it; he reached up and touched the rock as he spoke. The red-faced man said, "We started walking here five days ago. He wouldn't tell me why; just said I'd know when it was time. I thought we were headed for a town or a ranch or something, but we wound up here this morning and he says, 'Now we wait.' So we're standing here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the day, and I'm about out of patience, when here you come. My hat's off to you, old man." He lifted his hat, but dropped it right back on his head. Trent didn't blame him; the sunlight felt like liquid fire. He peeled out of his Ziptite and tossed it in the cab. Donna had already shed hers; she came around the front of the pickup, saying "Hi" to everyone on the way, until she stood next to Trent. "Hi," she said to the aboriginal leader. "I'm Donna Stinson, and this is Trent."