If I was here that long. Which I might be, since the fourth-year cadet waiting for me on H-level looked at me totally blankly when I told him I wanted to see the admissions person.
“Never mind,” I said. “Take me to the head of the Academy.”
“You mean the Commander?”
“Yes,” I said firmly.
“This way,” he said, and led me down a long cement corridor, up an even longer ramp, and into another elevator. He pushed “3,” and we went up for a very long way. It opened on an accordion-pleated tunnel, like a jetway, ending in a narrow, curved corridor lined with doors.
He stopped in front of one of them, opened it, and stepped aside so I could enter. “Is this the Commander’s office?” I asked.
“No. Wait here,” he said, and walked away, and before I could start after him, the Hyperventilator had swooped down on me.
“Isn’t this exciting?” she squealed. “Come on!” She grabbed my arm and dragged me into the room, which was clearly not the Commander’s office. It was a room the size of a closet with curved walls and two bunks. “I can’t believe we’re in the same cabin!”
Cabin—?
She’d plopped down on the lower bunk. “Come on, get strapped in! We launch in five minutes! Aren’t we lucky?” she said, busily fastening straps. “All the other classes had to spend their first semester earthside before they got to go up.”
The elevators, the jetway, the curving corridor—“We’re in a spaceship?” I said, calculating whether I could make it down that jetway to the elevator in two minutes.
“I know, I can’t believe it’s happening either!”
An alarm began to sound. “All cadets to their acceleration couches.”
I dived for the remaining bunk.
“You do the chest straps first,” the Hyperventilator said. “Just think, in a few hours we’ll be on the Ra!”
“The Ra?” I said, struggling with the straps. They were so in love with the Academy, they’d named it after a god?
“That’s what cadets call the Academy space station, the Robert A. Heinlein. The RAH, get it? And now we’re cadets! Can you believe this is actually happening?”
“No.”
“Me neither!” she said. “Don’t you think you’d better put your emesis bag on?”
I threw up all the way to the RAH.
“Gosh, I didn’t think it was possible to throw up at four g’s,” the Hyperventilator said. “Maybe you’ll feel better when we go into freefall.”
I didn’t. I went through my vomit bag and hers and threw up on the bunk, the walls, the Hyperventilator, and, once we were weightless, on the air in front of me, where it formed disgusting-looking yellowish-brown globules that floated around the cabin for the rest of the trip.
“What on earth did you eat?” the Hyperventilator asked.
“Cake,” I said miserably, and vomited again.
“It can’t last much longer,” she said, ducking a large globule floating toward her. “You can’t have anything left.”
Also not true.
“You’ll be okay once we get to the RAH,” she said.
“Rah, rah, rah,” I said weakly, and proved her wrong by throwing up all over the cadet sent to unstrap us, the connecting deck, and the airlock.
At least this will convince them there’s been a mistake, I thought as the cadet half carried me to my quarters, but he said cheerfully, “A touch of space sickness, huh?” He lowered me onto my bunk. “Happens to every cadet.”
“I’m not a cadet,” I said, and then, even though I wanted to lie there in my bunk and die, said, “I want to see the Commander.”
“I know how you feel,” he said. “My first day up here, I wanted to go home, too. You’ll feel better after a shower and a nap.”
“No, I won’t. I demand to see the head. Now,” I said, and got up to show him I was serious, but the minute I did, I felt wildly light-headed and on the verge of toppling, as if I were in a canoe about to tip over.
“Coriolis effect,” he said, grabbing my arm and lowering me back onto the bunk. “It takes a couple of days to get used to.”
“I won’t live that long,” I muttered, and he laughed again.
“I need to go get the other cadets settled in, and then I’ll come back and see how you’re doing,” he said, covering me up with a Mylar blanket. “If you need me before that, just hit ‘send.’” He handed me a communicator. “And don’t worry. A little thing like space sickness won’t get you thrown out of the Academy.”
“But I want to be—” I began, but he was already gone, and the thought of getting up off the bunk to go after him, or even of pressing the button on the communicator, sent the room toppling over again.
I’ll just lie here very, very quietly till he comes back, I thought, and then insist on seeing the Commander, but I must have been asleep when he came back, because when I opened my eyes, the Hyperventilator was unpacking her kit on the other bunk. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” she said. “We’re going to be bunkmates! Isn’t that incred! I’m Libby, I mean, Cadet Thornburg. Are you feeling better?”
“No,” I said, though I was, a little. At least I was able to sit up. However, when I tried to stand, the room gave a sudden lurch, and I had to grab for the wall, and it, the other walls, and Libby seemed to be leaning ominously toward me. I reared back and nearly fell over.
“It’s because of the Coriolis effect from the spin on the space station. It makes everything seem to tilt toward you. Isn’t it incred?”
“Umm,” I said. “How long does it take to get used to it?” It must not be that long. She was moving around without any trouble. Or maybe that was one of the things IASA tested for in its four-tiered screening process.
“I don’t know. I wanted to get a head start,” she said, stowing clothes in the locker above her bunk, “so I practiced in an artificial-gravity simulator before I came. Three weeks, maybe?”
I would never last three weeks. Which meant I had to get in to see the Commander now. I pressed the communicator button and then spent the time till the fourth-year got there working on standing up, walking over to the door, and fighting the urge to grab onto something, anything, at all times.
The fourth-year looked surprised to see me on my feet. I told him I wanted to see the Commander. “Don’t you want to wait till you feel steadier?” he asked, looking at my vomit-spattered clothes. “And have a chance to clean up?”
“No.”
“Okay,” he said doubtfully. “What did you want to see the Commander about?”
If I told him, he’d stare blankly at me or say everyone with space sickness felt that way. “There’s a problem with my application,” I said.
“Oh, then, you want the registrar.”
“No, I—” I began and then decided the registrar was exactly who I wanted to see. He’d have the applications on file, and when he saw I didn’t have one, he could correct the mistake immediately. “Okay, take me to the registrar’s office.”
“That’s not necessary,” he said. “You can message him from here.” He switched on the terminal above my bunk.
“No,” I said. “I want to see him in person.”
“Okay, wait here, and I’ll see if he’s available.”
“No,” I said, letting go of the wall with an effort. “I’m coming with you.”