by Allen Steele
“This is a great day for the entire human race, and your country is very proud of you,” President Kennedy said. “God bless you.”
SEVEN
2/16/95 • 1317 GMT
SEEN FROM A DISTANCE, the Wheel looked much the same as when Parnell last visited it twenty years before, yet as Constellation closed in on the station, the illusion of permanency slowly evaporated until he was faced with undeniable truth.
The space station was falling apart.
The Wheel was composed of twenty sections, each constructed of flexible fabric and nylon which had been transported into orbit in collapsed sections. Once the sections were linked together and the 250-foot torus was pressurized like an enormous inner tube, an outer hull of sheet aluminum had been built around the fabric and nylon inner wall to serve as a meteor bumper. Internal water tanks arranged evenly between the hulls served not only as internal stabilizers but also as passive radiation shields; after the interior compartments had been completed, small rocket engines along the outer hull had been fired to rotate the station clockwise at nearly three rpm’s, producing one-third Earth gravity within the torus.
Parnell remembered the station when it was still new. Back then, it was the epitome of American know-how, a symbol of his country’s military and technological superiority. But that had been a generation ago, and things had changed.
The meteor bumper was now a patchwork of replaced plates, the older ones rendered off-white by long-term radiation exposure, the newer plates scarred and pockmarked by micrometeorite impacts. The silver Mylar insulation protecting the electrical conduits that ran alongside the two hub spokes was torn and frayed in places; likewise, the oxygen and auxiliary water tanks on the bulb-shaped hub looked as if they had been repaired many times. The troughlike mercury boiler which ran along the top of the torus had been nonfunctional ever since the nuclear generator was installed at the hub’s north turret sixteen years ago; the edges of the boiler itself were battered, and one section was missing entirely. The big high-gain antenna at the hub’s south turret had a small hole in the dish; some of the portholes along the torus were permanently sealed from the outside.
Overall, the Wheel resembled an old battleship rusting in port. Its decrepitude wasn’t so much the result of thirty-one years of hard service as it was of benign neglect. Space Station One had become an unwanted derelict, a giant symbol of a frontier that had been conquered, then abandoned. Keeping it operational was only slightly less costly than dismantling it altogether.
Through the cockpit hatch, Parnell could hear the pilots murmuring to each other as they eased Constellation into a parking orbit a half-mile from the station. Watching through his porthole, he could see the Dornberger as it closed upon the station’s hub. Motors rotated the south turret counterclockwise to produce a stable target at the docking bays, but unlike Constellation, the German shuttle was equipped with a universal docking adaptor which enabled it to link up directly with the Wheel. Constellation, on the other hand, would have to await the arrival of a taxi that would ferry her crew and cargo to the station.
Dornberger’s advantage lay in having shorter wings, and thus the ability to maneuver close to the station, although Parnell wondered if its designers didn’t have a hidden agenda when they added that docking adaptor. Had the Horus shuttles been built for the day when the Europeans would own Space Station One? ESA maintained that it intended to place its own space station in low orbit and that it had no desire to acquire the Wheel. On the other hand, Parnell remembered when the Europeans had said nearly the same thing about establishing their own lunar base.
“Okay, folks, we’re here.” Kingsolver had unbuckled his harness and was floating through the cockpit hatch into the passenger compartment. “Main-Ops says that a taxi’s on its way and should be with us in a few minutes, so y’all better shake a leg.” He paused next to Parnell’s seat. “Commander, if you’d like to give me a hand in back …”
“Sure thing, skipper.” Parnell slipped out of his harness and followed the pilot toward the aft end of the compartment. Ryer and Lewitt were both taking this in stride, but two of the civilians were having problems. Dooley was still green-faced and looked as if he was ready to blow his guts again any moment, while Bromleigh was struggling to unfasten his buckles and at the same time keep his camcorder from wandering away.
Berkley Rhodes, on the other hand, was completely fascinated by everything going on around her. Already unbuckled from her couch, she floated in the center aisle, almost doing somersaults as she savored her first taste of unfettered weightlessness. Not much of a surprise; some people adapt to micro-gravity faster than others, and physicians had long ago noticed how women usually get over spacesickness faster than men. Still, she should have paid closer attention to the training films; her euphoria was almost out of control, and she came dangerously close to kicking Kingsolver in the teeth as he tried to squeeze past her.
The captain impatiently grabbed her ankles and pushed her out of the way. Rhodes cried out, more in surprise than in pain, as her shoulders banged against the ceiling. “Dammit,” she snapped, “just ask next time!”
“Whoa. Take it easy.” Parnell grasped her forearms and hauled her back toward her seat. “It’s fun, but don’t go nuts. Equal and opposite reaction, remember?”
“Uh, yeah … right.” Her happy grin faded; she hadn’t forgotten their encounter on the launch pad. “Sorry, Commander,” she said stiffly. “I’ll try to remember.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he told her. “You’ve just got to be a little careful, that’s all.”
Her expression softened a bit; for the first time, he noticed her gray-green eyes and the lovely way her long hair billowed out like a blond cloud around her head. She really was an attractive woman, Parnell reflected, once she turned off the hard-nosed journalist routine. On impulse, he reached over the back of Lewitt’s seat and snagged the NASA flight cap from the flight engineer’s head. Jay looked around and started to complain until Parnell gave him a wink.
“Put this on,” he said as he handed the cap to Rhodes, “and don’t forget to return it to the lieutenant. Someone should have told you to wear a barrette.”
“Thanks, Commander.” She caught her loose hair under the cap and pulled the scrambled-eggs bill over her forehead. “Sorry to be such a jerk.”
“There’s a first time for everyone, Ms. Rhodes.”
Her grin returned; this time, there was a hint of sly sexuality to it. “Call me Berkley,” she said in a low voice, clasping his shoulders. “Most guys do.”
Lewitt gave a low, smart-aleck whistle at this; glancing over his shoulder, Parnell caught the shit-eating grin on his face. Ryer appeared to be studying the rivets along the ceiling. “My name’s Gene,” he replied as he gently disengaged himself. “That’s what my wife calls me.”
She was still giving him a 100-watt smile as he pulled himself down the aisle. All in the name of good press relations, he told himself … although he now had a clue as to why Berkley Rhodes was such a successful journalist.
The airlock was located midships, on the opposite side of the compartment from the belly hatch. Kingsolver had already attached his headset prong to the intercom next to the hatch and was talking to the incoming taxi: “Okay, you’re looking good … turn twenty degrees starboard, keep that inclination … there you go, looking good.”
Through a small window in the airlock hatch, Parnell could see the taxi as it cautiously approached Constellation’s hull, carefully avoiding the leading edge of the vertical stabilizer. The taxi was a long white cylinder with open cone-shaped cages at its bow and stern. Small liquid-fuel engines, mounted on swivels, were located inside each cage; a hardsuited astronaut occupied the forward cage, clinging to the lateral struts with one hand as he manually controlled the bow rocket. Aft of the forward cage, above the taxi’s fuselage and just behind the rubber docking ring, rose the pressurized pilot turret; Parnell could make out the pilot’s head and shoulders through its
circular windows as he followed the cargo grunt’s hand signals. Two more hardsuited astronauts on EVA tethers clung to grommets on the port side as they prepared to open the cargo hatch and unload the duffel bags belonging to the ferry’s passengers.
As the taxi swung around for final docking, Parnell caught sight of the old USSF insignia above the cargo hatch. Painted above the insignia was the spacecraft’s name: Harpers Ferry. A name with a double meaning: the taxi was christened not only in honor of John Harper Wilson, the first man to set foot on the Moon, but also for a Civil War battle.
“Must be a Southerner running that boat,” he commented.
“Not anymore.” Kingsolver didn’t look away from the window. “Used to be Dan Caldwell’s boat, but he went groundside last year. Drives a warehouse forklift now. Says it’s better money.”
There was an audible thump as Harpers Ferry hard-docked with Constellation; the rubber ring slid neatly into the round groove surrounding the hatch and instantly pressurized, forming an airtight seal between the two vessels. “Okay, you’re in,” Kingsolver said. “Resetting for fourteen PSI, over.” He let out his breath as he touched buttons on the control panel to equalize the atmospheres between the orbiter and the taxi, then cupped a hand over his headset mike.
“Now they’ve got some kid running Dan’s boat,” he murmured with obvious disdain as he glanced over his shoulder at Parnell. “Every time we do this, I’m scared he’s going to ram my ship.”
“Why? He’s a bad pilot?”
Kingsolver stared at him. “Ever heard of Dr. Z?” Parnell shook his head and the captain looked away. “You’ll love him,” he muttered. “He’s a load of laughs.”
A couple of minutes later Parnell felt his ears pop as the atmospheres between the two vessels equalized. The passengers were shaking their heads and swallowing spit by the time Kingsolver undogged the airlock hatch and hauled it open. At least Dooley and Bromleigh had gotten over their panic attacks, although both men still gripped vomit bags in their free hands. Parnell led the way through the airlock; the lock-lever of the taxi’s bow hatch was covered with frost, freezing against the palms of his hands as he shoved it upward.
“Right this way. Step lively now.” The voice from within the chilly, cramped confines of the passenger cell was fairly young. “Just cram in and grab hold of something.”
The pilot could only be seen from his waist down to his feet, which were strapped into stirrups on top of a short platform. The feet were wearing scuffed black Doc Martens; above them were long, thin legs wearing faded Levis, and through a hole in the right knee peeped a pair of woolen long Johns. The rest of him was invisible within the turret.
Parnell pushed himself to the far side of the passenger cell, where he grabbed a leather ceiling strap next to a small porthole. Through the tiny window, he could see the two astronauts outside Harpers Ferry; they had opened the hatch to the unpressurized bay behind the cell and were unloading cargo containers from the Constellation. His breath fogged the porthole; it had to be thirty-five degrees at most inside the taxi.
“It’s cold in here!” Rhodes found a strap next to Parnell and clumsily fell against him, hugging herself for warmth. “Can you turn up the heat a little, please?” she called to the legs. “I can’t believe how cold it is!”
“Cold? You think this is cold? Try being outside with those guys. This is a lovely spring day in Minneapolis, compared to out there.”
The legs bent at the knees as the pilot lowered himself on his haunches from the turret. First came an old “Lollapalooza ’92” sweatshirt, then a head that was shaved almost bald, with a gold ring in its right ear. The pilot had to squat low; in his mid-twenties he was at least 6’3”, almost too tall to be working in space.
“Hey, we’ve got a celebrity aboard!” His lantern-jawed mouth arched into a wide grin as his gaze settled on Rhodes. He stretched out a wool-gloved hand. “The name’s Curtis. Curtis Zimm. My friends call me Dr. Z. Welcome aboard.”
“Berkley Rhodes. ATS News.” She gave him an uncomfortable smile as she reluctantly extended her own hand.
“I know. Watch your show all the time.” Dr. Z grasped her hand palm-up in a formal handshake. “Always a pleasure to have a member of the fourth estate aboard. Perhaps we could do an interview sometime while you’re …”
“Hey, man! Turn up the heat or something! It’s fuckin’ freezing in here!”
Dr. Z turned to face Dooley, whose nasal whine had interrupted the little chat. “What’s it to you, boomer?” he asked, dropping Rhodes’s hand. “And watch your language … there’s a lady present.”
Before Dooley could do more than glare at him, Dr. Z smiled again. “Oh, you must be the right honorable Paul Dooley. I’ve got a message for you, passed along from a mutual friend.”
Confusion crept into Dooley’s face as he nestled in beside Rhodes. “A message?” he asked uncertainly. “What sort of message?”
Curtis Zimm peered at him long and hard before his smile reappeared. “From our mutual friend Mr. Grid, of course,” he said. “Says he wants you to call him tonight.”
Rhodes looked at Dooley. “Mr. Grid … ?”
Before Dooley could answer, Dr. Z touched the earphone of his headset, listening intently to inaudible voices on the comlink. “Sorry to be short,” he said apologetically, “but we’re running a little behind schedule. Your stuff’s aboard, so dog that hatch tight and we’ll be off.”
His head and shoulders disappeared back into the turret as though he’d gone through a wormhole into another dimension. Which, from what little Parnell had witnessed, probably wasn’t so far off the mark.
“Who’s Mr. Grid?” Lewitt asked. He was the last person through the airlock, sliding in just behind Cris Ryer. The passenger cell was crowded now, with everyone jammed together in the center of the compartment, jostling one another’s elbows, knees, and feet. Kingsolver slammed the airlock hatch shut; Ryer leaned past Lewitt to close the taxi hatch and spin the lockwheel.
“Friend of mine,” Dooley said reluctantly. He glanced at Dr. Z’s legs as if afraid that the pilot was eavesdropping. “Umm … just someone back home I keep in touch with on Le Matrix. I told him I’d send some e-mail from here.” He shrugged noncommittally and pretended to look out a porthole, now fogged over from the combined respiration of the taxi’s passengers.
Mr. Dooley, Parnell thought, you are one weird son of a bitch.
“Okay now,” Dr. Z called down from the turret, “everyone comfy?” He laughed, knowing they weren’t. “You’d better be, ’cause we’re casting off.”
Another thump! and a shudder as Harpers Ferry disengaged from Constellation. Parnell wiped off the porthole next to him just in time to see the winged space plane drifting away. Earth was a blue-green hemisphere in the background that, along with the ferry, quickly vanished from sight as the taxi turned around and headed for the Wheel.
Welcome home …
Excerpt from “Lost In Space” by Lucas Trilling; New Times, May 1972
It doesn’t seem possible, upon observing American astronauts and Russian cosmonauts training together in the massive centrifuge at the Von Braun Space Center, to believe even for a moment that their joint mission a few years from now may be the last hurrah for either country’s manned space program.
I stood in the observation cupola above the giant room and watched the mockup of the Ares lander swinging round and round, hearing the Slavic-accented voice of Alexei Leonov calmly reporting the gradual buildup of g-force within the capsule, interrupted by Neil Armstrong—“We’re fine, let’s go for another spin”—and thought, that’s the way it should be, the way it should have always been, Americans and Russians working together for a mission to Mars.
And so it will be. The International Mars Exploration Treaty is two years old and both countries are committed to the project, if only for the sake of preserving detente between the United States and the Soviet Union. Bobby Kennedy’s ghost haunts Ares as well; no one can forget that the
treaty was his brainstorm and that NASA, also his baby, was given its first major goal as a Federal agency by the Mars program. His next stop in Texas after Dallas would have been to deliver a speech here in Houston. It is not enough that the NASA launch center at Cape Canaveral was renamed in his memory; an American flag on Mars, standing alongside the hammer and sickle of the U.S.S.R., is the only way this country can pay tribute to its fallen president.
Yet, like a ferry coasting into orbit, the only thing that seems to be keeping the American space program going is mass and inertia; the boosters have been exhausted and dropped off, and all that remains is free-fall. President McCarthy’s inability to set a long-term agenda for NASA is only one more indication that his administration has been a failure, and the only thing George McGovern and George Wallace agree upon is that the hatchet will fall on the space budget, regardless of who wins the November election.
Without leadership from the top, the American space program cannot prosper for very long. Roosevelt, Truman, Eisenhower, Nixon, Kennedy—an unbroken chain of presidencies have supported the Final Frontier, from World War II through the Cold War, all in the name of defeating The Enemy, whether it be Nazi Germany or Communist Russia. But after we beat the Russians to the Moon, only to then discover that the Soviet space program had been so badly mismanaged that they were barely in the running, the impetus fell off. What glory and honor is to be gained from a race when the opponent crosses the finish line in a wheelchair?
By then, the Space Force was so thoroughly affiliated with America’s role in Vietnam that it was difficult for many to disassociate Space Station One and Project Luna from the secret bombing of Cambodia and the My Lai massacre. Orbital reconnaissance from the Wheel didn’t stop American casualties from mounting south of the DMZ, and a USSF uniform looks just like a USAF uniform to an antiwar demonstrator with fire in his belly and spit in his mouth.
Even after Kennedy phased out the Space Force and replaced it with NASA, public sentiment continued to shift against space exploration. Perhaps the first indicator was the Nielsen ratings; someone in the White House should have paid attention when Star Trek, once the number two show on television, was canceled because of bad ratings. Or they should have noticed the “Fuck the Moon” buttons college students were wearing. It hardly matters now. One by one, the American public has been turning against the space program, long before the politicians got hip.