by Ben Bova
“Is that land?” Linda asked, pointing to a thick band of clouds wrapping the horizon.
Looking up from the clipboard, Kinsman said, “South American coast. Chile.”
“There’s another tracking station there.”
“NASA station. Not part of our network. We only use Air Force stations.”
“Why is that?”
He felt his face frowning. “Murdock’s playing soldier. This is supposed to be a strictly military operation. Not that we do anything warlike. But we run as though there weren’t any civilian stations around to help us. The usual hup-two-three crap.”
She laughed. “You don’t agree with the Colonel?”
“There’s only one thing he’s done lately that I’m in complete agreement with.”
“What’s that?”
“Bringing you up here.”
The smile stayed on her face but her eyes moved away from him. “Now you sound like a soldier.”
“Not an officer and a gentleman?”
She looked straight at him again. “Let’s change the subject.”
Kinsman shrugged. “Sure. Okay. You’re here to get a story. Murdock wants to get the Air Force as much publicity as NASA gets. And the Pentagon wants to show the world that we don’t have any weapons on board. We’re military, all right, but nice military.”
“And you?” Linda asked, serious now. “What do you want? How does an Air Force captain get into the space cadets?”
“The same way everything happens—you’re in a certain place at a certain time. They told me I was going to be an astronaut. It was all part of the job . . . until my first orbital flight. Now it’s a way of life.”
“Really? Why is that?”
Grinning, he answered, “Wait’ll we go outside. You’ll find out.”
Jill came back into the main cabin precisely on schedule, and it was Kinsman’s turn to sleep. He seldom had difficulty sleeping on Earth, never in orbit. But he wondered about Linda’s reaction to being outside while he strapped on the pressure-cuffs to his arms and legs. The medics insisted on them, claimed they exercised the cardiovascular system while you slept.
Damned stupid nuisance, Kinsman grumbled to himself. Some ground-based MD’s idea of how to make a name for himself.
Finally he zippered himself into the gossamer cocoon-like hammock and shut his eyes. He could feel the cuffs pumping gently. His last conscious thought was a nagging worry that Linda would be terrified of EVA.
When he awoke, and Linda took her turn in the hammock, he talked it over with Jill.
“I think she’ll be all right, Chet. Don’t hold that first few minutes against her.”
“I don’t know. There’s only two kinds of people up here: you either love it or you’re scared sh . . . witless. And you can’t fake it. If she goes ape outside . . .”
“She won’t,” Jill said firmly. “And anyway, you’ll be there to help her. I’ve told her that she won’t be going outside until you’re finished with the mating job. She wanted to get pictures of you actually at work, but she’ll settle for a few posed shots.”
Kinsman nodded. But the worry persisted. I wonder if Calder’s Army nurse was scared of flying?
He was pulling on his boots, wedging his free foot against an equipment rack to keep from floating off, when Linda returned from her sleep.
“Ready for a walk around the block?” he asked her.
She smiled and nodded without the slightest hesitation. “I’m looking forward to it. Can I get a few shots of you while you zipper up your suit?”
Maybe she’ll be okay.
At last he was sealed into the pressure suit. Linda and Jill stood back as Kinsman shuffled to the airlock-hatch. It was set into the floor at the end of the cabin where the spacecraft was docked. With Jill helping him, he eased down into the airlock and shut the hatch. The airlock chamber itself was coffin-sized. Kinsman had to half-bend to move around in it. He checked out his suit, then pumped the air out of the chamber. Then he was ready to open the outer hatch.
It was beneath his feet, but as it slid open to reveal the stars, Kinsman’s weightless orientation flip-flopped, like an optical illusion, and he suddenly felt that he was standing on his head and looking up.
“Going out now,” he said into the helmet-mike.
“Okay,” Jill’s voice responded.
Carefully, he eased himself through the open hatch, holding onto its edge with one gloved hand once he was fully outside, the way a swimmer holds the rail for a moment when he first slides into the deep water.
Outside. Swinging his body around slowly, he took in the immense beauty of Earth, dazzlingly bright even through his tinted visor. Beyond its curving limb was the darkness of infinity, with the beckoning stars watching him in unblinking solemnity.
Alone now. His own tight, self-contained universe, independent of everything and everybody. He could cut the life-giving umbilical line that linked him with the laboratory and float off by himself, forever. And be dead in two minutes. Ay, there’s the rub.
Instead, he unhooked the tiny gas gun from his waist and, trailing the umbilical, squirted himself over toward the power pod. It was riding smoothly behind the lab, a squat truncated cone, shorter, but fatter, than the lab itself, one edge brilliantly lit by the sun; the rest of it bathed in the softer light reflected from the dayside of Earth below.
Kinsman’s job was to inspect the power pod, check its equipment, and then mate it to the electrical system of the laboratory. There was no need to physically connect the two bodies, except to link a pair of power lines between them. Everything necessary for the task—tools, power lines, checkout instruments—had been built into the pod, waiting for a man to use them.
It would have been simple work on Earth. In zero gee, it was complicated. The slightest motion of any part of your body started you drifting. You had to fight against all the built-in mannerisms of a lifetime; had to work constantly to keep in place. It was easy to get exhausted in zero gee.
Kinsman accepted all this with hardly a conscious thought. He worked slowly, methodically, using as little motion as possible, letting himself drift slightly until a more-or-less natural body motion counteracted and pulled him back in the opposite direct ion. Ride the waves, slow and easy. There was a rhythm to his work, the natural dreamlike rhythm of weightlessness.
His earphones were silent, he said nothing. All he heard was the purring of the suit’s air-blowers and his own steady breathing. All he saw was his work.
Finally he jetted back to the laboratory, towing the pair of thick cables. He found the connectors waiting for them on the side wall of the lab and inserted the cable plugs. I pronounce you lab and power source. He inspected the checkout lights alongside the connectors. All green. May you produce many kilowatts.
Swinging from handhold to handhold along the length of the lab, he made his way back toward the airlock.
“Okay, it’s finished. How’s Linda doing?”
Jill answered, “She’s all set.”
“Send her out.”
She came out slowly, uncertain wavering feet sliding out first from the bulbous airlock. It reminded Kinsman of a film he had seen of a whale giving birth.
“Welcome to the real world,” he said when her head cleared the airlock hatch.
She turned to answer him and he heard her gasp and he knew that now he liked her.
“It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Staggering,” Kinsman suggested. “And look at you—no hands.” She was floating freely, pressure-suit laden with camera gear, umbilical line flexing easily behind her. Kinsman couldn’t see her face through the tinted visor, but he could hear the awe in her voice, even in her breathing.
“I’ve never seen anything so absolutely overwhelming . . .” And then, suddenly, she was all business, reaching for a camera, snapping away at the Earth and stars and distant moon, rapidfire. She moved too fast and started to tumble. Kinsman jetted over and steadied her, holding her by the shoulders.
“Hey, take it easy. They’re not going away. You’ve got lots of time.”
“I want to get some shots of you, and the lab. Can you get over by the pod and go through some of the motions of your work on it?”
Kinsman posed for her, answered her questions, rescued a camera when she fumbled it out of her hands and couldn’t reach it as it drifted away from her.
“Judging distances gets a little whacky out here,” he said, handing the camera back to her.
Jill called them twice and ordered them back inside. “Chet, you’re already fifteen minutes over the limit!”
“There’s plenty slop in the schedule; we can stay out a while longer.”
“You’re going to get her exhausted.”
“I really feel fine,” Linda said, her voice lyrical.
“How much more film do you have?” Kinsman asked her. She peered at the camera. “Six more shots.”
“Okay, we’ll be in when the film runs out, Jill.”
“You’re going to be in darkness in another five minutes!”
Turning to Linda, who was floating upside-down with the cloud-laced Earth behind her, he said, “Save your film for the sunset, then shoot like hell when it comes.”
“The sunset? What’ll I focus on?”
“You’ll know when it happens. Just watch.”
It came fast, but Linda was equal to it. As the lab swung in its orbit toward the Earth’s night shadow, the sun dropped to the horizon and shot off a spectacular few moments of the purest reds and oranges and finally a heart-catching blue. Kinsman watched in silence, hearing Linda’s breath going faster and faster as she worked the camera.
Then they were in darkness. Kinsman flicked on his helmet lamp. Linda was just hanging there, camera still in hand.
“It’s . . . impossible to describe.” Her voice sounded empty, drained. “If I hadn’t seen it . . . if I didn’t get it on film, I don’t think I’d be able to convince myself that I wasn’t dreaming.”
Jill’s voice rasped in his earphones. “Chet, get inside! This is against every safety reg, being outside in the dark.”
He looked over toward the lab. Lights were visible along its length and the ports were lighted from within. Otherwise, he could barely make it out, even though it was only a few meters away.
“Okay, okay. Turn on the airlock-light so we can see the hatch.” Linda was still bubbling about the view outside, long after they had pulled off their pressure suits and eaten sandwiches and cookies.
“Have you ever been out there?” she asked Jill.
Perched on the biology bench’s edge, near the mice colony, Jill nodded curtly. “Twice.”
“Isn’t it spectacular? I hope the pictures come out; some of the settings on the camera . . .”
“They’ll be all right,” Jill said. “And if they’re not, we’ve got a backlog of photos you can use.”
“Oh, but they wouldn’t have the shots of Chet working on the power pod.”
Jill shrugged. “Aren’t you going to take more photos in here? If you want to get some pictures of real space veterans, you ought to snap the mice here. They’ve been up for months now, living fine and raising families. And they don’t make such a fuss about it, either.”
“Well, some of us do exciting things,” Kinsman said, “and some of us tend mice.”
Jill glowered at him.
Glancing at his wristwatch, Kinsman said, “Ladies, it’s my sack time. I’ve had a trying day: mechanic, tourist guide, and cover boy for Photo Day. Work, work, work.”
He glided past Linda with a smile, kept it for Jill as he went by her. She was still glaring.
When he woke up again and went back into the main cabin, Jill was talking pleasantly with Linda as the two of them stood over the microscope and specimen rack of the biology bench.
Linda saw him first. “Oh, hi. Jill’s been showing me the spores she’s studying. And I photographed the mice. Maybe they’ll go on the cover instead of you.”
Kinsman grinned. “She’s been poisoning your mind against me.” But to himself he wondered, What the hell has Jill been telling her about me?
Jill drifted over to the control desk, picked up the clipboard with the mission log on it and tossed it lightly toward Kinsman.
“Ground control says the power pod checks out all green,” she said. “You did a good job.”
“Thanks.” He caught the clipboard. “Whose turn in the sack is it?”
“Mine,” Jill answered.
“Okay. Anything special cooking?”
“No. Everything’s on schedule. Next data transmission comes up in twelve minutes. Kodiak station.”
Kinsman nodded. “Sleep tight.”
Once Jill had shut the curtain to the bunkroom, Kinsman carried the mission log to the control desk and sat down. Linda stayed at the biology bench, about three paces away.
He checked the instrument board with a quick glance, then turned to Linda. “Well, now do you know what I meant about this being a way of life?”
“I think so. It’s so different.”
“It’s the real thing. Complete freedom. Brave new world. After ten minutes of EVA, everything else is just toothpaste.”
“It was certainly exciting.”
“More than that. It’s living. Being on the ground is a drag, even flying a plane is dull now. This is where the fun is . . . out here in orbit and on the moon. It’s as close to heaven as anybody’s gotten.”
“You’re really serious?”
“Damned right. I’ve even been thinking of asking Murdock for a transfer to NASA duty. Air Force missions don’t include the moon, and I’d like to walk around on the new world, see the sights.”
She smiled at him. “I’m afraid I’m not that enthusiastic.”
“Well, think about it for a minute. Up here, you’re free. Really free, for the first time in your life. All the laws and rules and prejudices they’ve been dumping on you all your life, they’re all down there. Up here it’s a new start. You can be yourself and do your own thing . . . and nobody can tell you different.”
“As long as somebody provides you with air and food and water and . . .”
“That’s the physical end of it, sure. We’re living in a microcosm, courtesy of the aerospace industry and AFSC. But there’re no strings on us. The brass can’t make us follow their rules. We’re writing the rule books ourselves. For the first time since 1776, we’re writing new rules.”
Linda looked thoughtful now. Kinsman couldn’t tell if she was genuinely impressed by his line, or if she knew what he was trying to lead up to. He turned back to the control desk and studied the mission flight plan again.
He had carefully considered all the possible opportunities, and narrowed them down to two. Both of them tomorrow, over the Indian Ocean. Forty to fifty minutes between ground stations, and Jill’s asleep both times.
“AF-9, this is Kodiak.”
He reached for the radio switch. “AF-9 here, Kodiak. Go ahead.”
“We are receiving your automatic data transmission loud and clear.”
“Roger Kodiak. Everything normal here; mission profile unchanged.”
“Okay, Niner. We have nothing new for you. Oh wait . . . Chet, Lew Regneson is here and he says he’s betting on you to uphold the Air Force’s honor. Keep ’em flying.”
Keeping his face as straight as possible, Kinsman answered, “Roger, Kodiak. Mission profile unchanged.”
“Good luck!”
Linda’s thoughtful expression had deepened. “What was that all about?”
He looked straight into those cool blue eyes and answered, “Damned if I know. Regneson’s one of the astronaut team; been assigned to Kodiak for the past six weeks. He must be going ice-happy. Thought it’d be best just to humor him.”
“Oh. I see.” But she looked unconvinced.
“Have you checked any of your pictures in the film processor?”
Shaking her head, Linda said, “No, I don’t want to risk the
m on your automatic equipment. I’ll process them myself when we get back.”
“Damned good equipment,” said Kinsman.
“I’m fussy.”
He shrugged and let it go.
“Chet?”
“What?”
“That power pod . . . what’s it for? Colonel Murdock got awfully coy when I asked him.”
“Nobody’s supposed to know until the announcement’s made in Washington . . . probably when we get back. I can’t tell you officially,” he grinned, “but generally reliable sources believe that it’s going to power a radar set that’ll be orbited next month. The radar will be part of our ABM warning system.”
“Antiballistic missile?”
With a nod, Kinsman explained, “From orbit you can spot missile launches farther away, give the States a longer warning time.”
“So your brave new world is involved in war, too.”
“Sort of.” Kinsman frowned. “Radars won’t kill anybody, of course. They might save lives.”
“But this is a military satellite.”
“Unarmed. Two things this brave new world doesn’t have yet: death and love.”
“Men have died . . .”
“Not in orbit. On reentry. In ground or air accidents. No one’s died up here. And no one’s made love, either.”
Despite herself, it seemed to Kinsman, she smiled. “Have there been any chances for it?”
“Well, the Russians have had women cosmonauts. Jill’s been the first American female in orbit. You’re the second.”
She thought it over for a moment. “This isn’t exactly the bridal suite of the Waldorf . . . in fact, I’ve seen better motel rooms along the Jersey Turnpike.”
“Pioneers have to rough it.”
“I’m a photographer, Chet, not a pioneer.”
Kinsman hunched his shoulders and spread his hands helplessly, a motion that made him bob slightly on the chair. “Strike three, I’m out.”
“Better luck next time.”
“Thanks.” He returned his attention to the mission flight plan. Next time will be in exactly sixteen hours, chickie.