“Are you certain of your diagnosis?”
“One is never certain of Orbital Dementia,” said Lorraine. “In its early stages the symptoms are far from clear.”
“We wouldn’t want to make a mistake,” Jaeckle said. “I wouldn’t want a run-of-the-mill bad mood to threaten a young man’s career.”
“No,” said Lorraine. “But protocol requires me to report my concerns to the young man’s immediate superior. If I’m not satisfied with the action taken by the superior, I am required to go to the commander.”
“I appreciate that. The same protocol requires me to pass on my own report to the station commander. I will investigate Mr. Cramer’s behavior at once. You may consider it done.”
“Thank you.” Lorraine turned toward the door.
“Lorraine,” said Jaeckle. “I meant it that your visit here was a pleasant coincidence. I wanted to speak to you about something.”
She slowly turned back and steadied herself by extending a hand to the wall.
“I need an assistant for my next several television shows. I would like her to be you.”
Lorraine felt a mild shock of surprise. A pleasant shock. “But you already have an assistant.”
“I know, but the producer wants a change. Something about it being necessary for ratings. It’s all very esoteric.”
“I’m not sure I have the time.”
“I can promise you that it will not interfere with your duties. And if you would prefer, I can clear it with Dan.”
“I can speak to him myself, thanks,” said Lorraine. “Let me think about it.”
She pushed herself out of the compartment, leaving a delicate spoor of perfume in her wake.
Jaeckle waited until Lorraine was gone, then made a beeline to his office in the Mars module. She’s certainly good to look at, he thought. Nice throaty voice, too. Sexy. But how competent is she? Orbital Dementia is more of an accusation than a diagnosis. It could begin and end with Russ Cramer. Or it could infect the entire project like influenza. Or a witch hunt.
At his office, he quickly called up the project’s computerized records and paged through Russell Cramer’s personnel file. I’ve got to nip this problem quickly, Jaeckle told himself.
The Klaxons belonged to fire engines. Hugh O’Donnell lay in his bedroom with the windows open and the shades pulled back. Red emergency lights licked the ceiling as the engines passed.
He tried to push off the bed, but found himself restrained. The Klaxons whooped louder. He pushed harder. The restraints snapped. He sailed toward the open window, his fingers clawing for something to grab. He struck a solid wall. Still, the Klaxons whooped. He rubbed his forehead, stared at the unfastened straps of his sleep restraint.
“The first night,” he groaned. “Shit.”
Wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, he looped his glasses around his ears and dove out of his compartment. People swarmed in the aisle of Hab 2. Muncie. Freddy. Techs and scientists from the shuttle trip. Most of them in rumpled flight suits; a few in pajamas or skivvies. O’Donnell fell in behind them. Like a lemming, he thought, a goddamn lemming looking for a cliff.
They curved out of Hab 2 and flew down the connecting tunnel, arms pumping, feet kicking, everyone keeping pace. Chakra Ramsanjawi popped out of Hab 1 and joined the rush, his kurta flapping like a flag. The group bottlenecked at CERV Port 1. There were grunts, shouts, complaints, shoulders banged and knees skinned. Crewman Stanley, flattened against the tunnel wall and holding a stopwatch, yelled for everyone to hurry.
Eventually, they worked through the port and into the chamber beyond. O’Donnell found the last unoccupied harness and stretched the straps across his chest. Stanley strapped himself into the chair facing a tiny instrument panel.
“This is CERV One, officially known as crew emergency reentry vehicle one, affectionately known as a lifeboat,” said Stanley, with just a trace of the outback in his voice. He had awkwardly turned himself around so that he could see the fifteen panting souls pressed shoulder to shoulder along the padded walls. One of the women was clutching a flimsy robe to her hunched-over body. A newcomer, O’Donnell recognized her from the flight up. This sure discourages you from sleeping in the nude, he told himself wistfully.
Stanley ignored the blonde’s dishabille. “You’ll notice that it is not very comfortable, not elaborately instrumented, and allows almost zero visibility. It isn’t designed for sightseeing jaunts. It’s designed to take sixteen people to Earth in case of an emergency.
“There are four CERVs docked at all times. Another one is across the tunnel, two more are at the far end of the tunnel. You are all designated for CERV One. In the event of an evacuation order, you come here from wherever you are. Understand?”
There were murmurs of assent. Ramsanjawi snorted. His hands worked at the harness, but the buckles kept bouncing away from each other.
“Problems, Dr. Ramsanjawi?” asked Stanley.
“This damnable buckle is defective.”
“None of them ever seem to work for you,” Stanley said.
O’Donnell, strapped into the harness next to Ramsanjawi, helped snap the buckle into place, his nostrils twitching at the cloying perfume that overlaid a more pungent body odor. Ramsanjawi scowled.
“This drill took forty seconds,” said Stanley. “Excluding Dr. Ramsanjawi’s continuing tribulations. Not bad, but there is room for improvement.”
“When do we learn to fly it?” asked a tech.
“You don’t. All you need to know is how to get into it, and fast. As for flying, each crewman is a certified CERV pilot. The training takes six months. All right—that’s it until next time.”
One by one, the people unharnessed themselves and filed out until only Ramsanjawi remained.
“May I have permission to linger and familiarize myself with these buckles?”
“Not a bad idea after tonight’s performance,” said Stanley.
Ramsanjawi fiddled with a harness until Stanley was gone. Then he settled into the pilot’s seat. The controls were rudimentary—flat panel displays and two hand controllers, one a T-handle for maneuvering and the other a pistol grip for attitude control. Six months training in order to fly this contraption. Ridiculous! He could fly it right now, if the situation arose.
18 AUGUST 1998
LAUSANNE
Of all the problems facing space workers who spend months aboard a station such as Trikon, the worst is boredom. Although we designed Trikon Station with the help of a small army of ergonomists, environmental psychologists, and experienced astronauts, there was no way around the fact that a space station is a small, cramped, and terribly limited closed system.
The danger that this raised was, of course, that the space workers might resort to altering their internal environments in order to relieve the monotony. That is, they might turn to using drugs. Remember, we were dealing with very bright men and women, mostly young, mostly with personalities bordering on the aggressive side. In addition, most of them were biologists, chemists, and biochem technicians! They could invent new drugs easily; they had all the equipment and raw material that they needed.
I was very concerned about this possibility, so much so that I insisted that the medical officer of Trikon Station be equipped to test for narcotics of every type. I had Trikon’s medical staff develop procedures for testing individuals suspected of drug abuse.
Some of the medical researchers wanted to go even further. They wanted to experiment with a controlled drug program for long-duration space flights, to develop specific recreational drugs that would have no dangerous aftereffects. I absolutely forbade it. I knew that such an experiment would be both dangerous and foolish.