As is common and perhaps inevitable on expeditions of this kind, crew, diplomats, and dancers formed three reasonably tight cliques outside working hours, and maintained an uneasy peace during them. Each group had its own interests and amusements—the diplomats, for instance, spent much of their free time (and a substantial percentage of their working time) fencing, politely and otherwise. DeLaTorre’s patience soon earned the respect of every person aboard. Read any decent book on life in a submarine, then throw in free fall, and you’ve got that year. Raoul’s music helped keep us all sane, though; he became the only other universally respected passenger.
The six of us somehow never discussed the “new species” line of thought again together, although I know Norrey and I kicked it around hood-to-hood a few times, and Linda and I spoke of it occasionally. And of course we never mentioned it atall anywhere aboard Siegfried—spaceships are supposed to be thoroughly bugged. The notion that we six dancers were somehow other-than-human was not one that even DeLaTorre would have cared for—and he was about the only one who treated us as anything but hired hands, “mere interpreters” (Silverman’s expression). Dmirov and Li knew better, I believe, but they couldn’t help it; as experienced diplomats they were not conditioned to accept interpreters as social equals. Silverman thought dance was that stuff they did on variety shows, and why couldn’t we translate the concept of Manifest Destiny into a dance?
I will say one thing about that year. The man I had been when I first came to space could not have survived it. He’d have blown out his brains, or drunk himself to death.
Instead I went out for lots of walks. And made lots of love with Norrey. With music on, for privacy.
Other than that the only event of note was when Linda announced that she was pregnant, about two months out of Saturn. We were committed to solving zero-gee childbirth without an obstetrician. Or, for that matter, a GP.
Things got livelier as we neared Saturn.
II
We had not succeeded in persuading any of the diplomats to join us in EVA of any kind. Three refused for the predictable reason. EVA is measurably more dangerous than staying safely indoors (as I had been forcibly reminded on the day I had gotten into this), and duty forbade them from taking any avoidable risk on their way to what was literally the biggest and most important conference in history. We dancers were considered more expendable, but pressure was put on us to avoid having all four dancers outboard at the same time. I stuck to my guns, maintaining that a group dance must be planned, choreographed, and rehearsed ensemble—that what Stardancers, Inc. was, was a creative collective. Besides, the more buddies you have, the safer you are.
The fourth diplomat, Silverman, had been specifically ordered not to expose himself to space. So early on he asked us to take him out for a walk. Sort of a “they can’t tell a fearless SOB like me not to take risks,” thing: the other impugned his masculinity. He changed his mind when p-suit plumbing was explained to him, and never brought the subject up again.
But a few weeks before we were to begin deceleration, Linda came to my room and said, “Chen Ten Li wants to come out for a walk with us.”
I winced, and did my Silverman imitation. “It would kill you, first to sit me down and say, ‘I have bad news for you’? Like that you tell me?”
“Like that he told me.”
What would DeLaTorre think? Or Bill? Or the others? Or old Wertheimer, who had told me with his eyes that he believed I could be trusted not to fuck up? And as important, why did Chen now want to earn his wings? Not for scenery—he had first-class video, the best Terra could provide, which is good. Not for jackass reasons like Silverman.
“What does he want, Linda? To see a rehearsal live? To drift and meditate? What?”
“Ask him.”
I had never seen the inside of Chen’s room before. He was playing 3-D chess with the computer. I can barely follow the game, but it was clear that he was losing badly—which surprised me.
“Dr. Chen, I understand you want to come outside with us.”
He was dressed in tastefully lavish pajamas, which he had expertly taken in for free fall and velcro’d (Dmirov and DeLaTorre had been forced to ask Raoul for help, and Silverman’s clothes looked as though he had backed into a sewing machine). He inclined his shaven head, and replied gravely, “As soon as possible.” His voice was like an old cornet, a little feathery.
“That puts me in a difficult position, sir,” I said as gravely. “You are under orders not to endanger yourself. DeLaTorre and all the others know it. And if I did bring you outside, and you had a suit malf, or even a nausea attack, the People’s Republic of China would ask me some pointed questions. Followed by the Dominion of Canada and the United Nations, not to mention your aged mother.”
He smiled politely, with lots of wrinkles. “Is that outcome probable?”
“Do you know Murphy’s Law, Dr. Chen? And its corollary?”
His smile widened. “I wish to risk it. You are experienced at introducing neophytes to space.”
“I lost two out of seventeen students!”
“How many did you lose in their first three hours, Mr. Armstead? Could I not remain in the Die, wearing a pressure suit for redundancy?”
The Die wasn’t cast; it was spot-welded. It was essentially an alloy-framed cube of transparent plastic, outfitted for minimal life support, first aid, and self-locomotion through free space. The crew and all the diplomats except Chen called it the Field Support Module. This disgusted Harry, who had designed and built it. The idea was that one of us Stardancers might blow a gasket in midconference, or want to sit out a piece, or conserve air, or for some other reason need a pressurized cubic with a 36o° view. It was currently braced tight against the hull of the big shuttlecraft we called the Limousine, mounted for use, but it could easily be unshipped. And Chen’s pressure suit was regulation Space Command armor, as good as or better than even our customized Japanese-made suits. Certainly stronger; better air supply... .
“Doctor, I have to know why.”
His smile began to slo-o-owly fade, and when I hadn’t blanched or retracted by half past, he let it remain there. About a quarter to frowning. “I concede your right to ask the question. I am not certain I can satisfy you at this time.” He reflected, and I waited. “I am not accustomed to using an interpreter. I have facility with languages. But there is at least one language I will never acquire. I was once informed that no one could learn to think in Navajo who was not raised a Navajo. Consequently I went to great lengths to accomplish this, and I failed. I can make myself understood to a Navajo, haltingly. I cannot ever learn to think in that language it is founded on basically different assumptions about reality that my mind cannot enfold.
“I have studied your dance, the ‘language’ you will speak for us shortly. I have discussed it with Ms. Parsons at great length, exhausted the ship’s computer on the subject. I cannot learn to think in that language.
“I wish to try one more time. I theorize that confrontation with naked space, in person, may assist me.” He paused, and grinned again. “Ingesting buds of peyote assisted me somewhat in my efforts with Navajo—as my tutor had promised me. I must expose myself to your assumptions about reality. I hope they taste better.”