Strangely, he had found long ago that dictating into a tape recorder never produced the results he wanted. His vocabulary was richer, his phrases stronger, when he wrote them out—even though the text was meant to be spoken aloud.
As usual, Jaeckle was three scripts ahead of schedule. This one, which was devoted to the practical problems of routine medical care in micro-gee, would be the first with Lorraine Renoir as his assistant. The transition was planned. He would broadcast his next show with Carla Sue, then inform her afterwards that the network no longer needed her services. She’d bitch, but he’d have prepared a host of reasonable excuses and arguments to blunt her rage. After all, this isn’t Hollywood; it’s a space station.
He would broadcast the second show by himself. That script was a beauty. Completely devoted to the practical benefits of a manned expedition to Mars, it advanced and then neatly punctured in classical Ciceronean fashion all of the arguments against such a trip. The medical show would be the perfect segue for Lorraine Renoir’s debut. By then, Carla Sue’s rage would have run its course. He hoped so, anyway.
Now all that remained was for Lorraine to agree to his proposal. He thought of the time he saw her pedaling the stationary cycle in the ex/rec room. She wore a tank top and flight pants. Her arm muscles strained and her stubby French braid bobbed against the nape of her neck. A thin saucer of sweat pooled in the depression between her shoulder blades and threatened to break free with each stroke of her legs. She stopped, dabbed herself with a towel, then unzipped the vents of her flight pants. When she resumed pumping, the vents spread like the petals of a flower to reveal round thighs and firm calves.
He imagined her speaking the words that slowly appeared on the screen. She had a breathy, throaty voice that rolled slightly over her r’s and l’s. It was much more pleasant than Carla Sue’s twang, which lately sounded like an out-of-tune banjo.
A knock on the bulkhead interrupted his reverie. Without unlooping his feet, he pushed himself within reach of the door latch. From outside, fingers curled around the edge of the accordion door and swept it open.
Russell Cramer hovered in the doorway. The zipper of his nylon shirt was pulled down to the bulge of his stomach. Pencils bristled out of the pockets of his flight pants. His jowls glistened with sweat.
“I didn’t see you in the wardroom this morning,” said Jaeckle. “Nor did you help with the scientific resupply.”
“I was in my compartment,” said Cramer. “Everyone knew.”
“Why didn’t everyone tell me when I asked for you?”
“They knew,” said Cramer. His upper lip quivered. “Did it arrive?”
“Did what arrive?”
“The new batch of Martian soil. It was supposed to be in our delivery.”
“It was,” said Jaeckle.
“Good.” Cramer reached for a clip that usually held a gaggle of keys to various storage compartments in the Mars module. The clip was empty.
“The keys are in my pocket,” said Jaeckle.
“I need them.”
“You don’t need them.”
“How else am I going to get the new soil sample?”
“You aren’t going to analyze that sample yet.”
“But that soil is from the Martian south pole! If life exists there, it could be in that sample.”
Jaeckle unlooped his feet. He was much smaller than Cramer and needed to bob up from the floor to face him eye to eye. “I don’t want you testing that new soil sample for a few days.”
“But, Professor, I was so close on the other sample! This new one could yield the results we’ve been looking for!”
“Russell, I wish you would understand. This project still has eighteen months to run. You are the principal biochemist in our group. You are the top specialist for analyzing the Martian soil samples. No one else approaches your qualifications.”
“I’ve tested the original sample every way I know how,” Cramer wailed. “What else is there to do?”
“This isn’t a race, Russell. The Mars Project is not designed to determine who will make the greatest scientific discovery. It is a test of endurance and mental toughness. Right now, you are failing.”
The words seemed to sting Cramer physically. His head snapped back.
“You’ve been talking to Dr. Renoir,” he said.
“She told me you consulted her about a problem,” said Jaeckle.
“That bitch!”
“Russell—”
“She didn’t tell me she was going to you. Goddamn her!”
“Now you wait one second, Mr. Cramer,” boomed Jaeckle. “Dr. Renoir followed proper procedures in informing me about your medical complaint. And those same procedures require me to report to Commander Tighe if I feel your situation warrants it. So you had better remember who you are talking to. Okay?”
Cramer nodded meekly, but his mouth was still set in anger.
“Okay,” said Jaeckle. “Let’s start from the beginning. Dr. Renoir told me you are having trouble sleeping.”
“Had trouble,” said Cramer. “Not anymore. Hell, I slept all morning. That’s why I was in my compartment.”
“Glad to hear that,” said Jaeckle. “But I’ve come across something else. You haven’t been taking the prescribed amount of time in the blister. Any reason for that?”
“I couldn’t afford the time away from my work.”
“I thought as much. Look, Russell, a good number of very intelligent people put a lot of thought into the Mars Project. Some of their ideas are damned good and some may be damned bad. But good or bad we’re up here to test them so that when there is an actual manned flight to Mars—and I hope you and I are both on it—we know every inch of the psychological and physiological territory. Two hours per week in the observation blister may sound like an inefficient use of time, but it is very necessary. The records show that you haven’t been in the blister in four weeks. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t notice; that Dr. Renoir, an outsider, had to tell me there was something wrong with one of my people, my hand-picked people. I am ordering you to double up your sessions.”
“Four hours a week! Professor Jaeckle!”
“The new soil sample will remain locked away until your blister time is brought current.”
“That isn’t fair,” whined Cramer.
“It is completely fair. And it’s damned preferable to you being sent Earthside on Constellation next time those Trikon clowns rotate.” Jaeckle removed a folded sheet of paper from behind a bungee cord and handed it to Cramer. “That is your blister schedule. I want each session verified by a different member of the group.”
21 AUGUST 1998
TRIKON STATION
In planning Trikon Station, much thought was devoted to whether the station should be constructed for a micro-gee environment or an artificial gravity environment. Artificial gravity could be induced by spinning the station around its center of mass. The resulting centrifugal force would create an artificial gravity gradient that would increase as one moved farther from the center.
Planners, however, opted for a micro-gee, or virtually weightless, environment in order to allow for the greatest adaptation for future use of the station’s facilities. The term weightlessness is used to describe the orbital condition where all objects tend to float. Strictly speaking, there is only one point or line of reference in any sizable orbiting structure that allows true weightlessness. That point or line is along the structure’s center of mass.
On Trikon Station, you will not be able to detect the subtle gradations within the micro-gee environment without highly sensitive accelerometers. However, for materials science and manufacturing, the minuscule differences can be crucial. Any experiment or process that requires very low gravity (on the order of one millionth of a g) can be ruined if the facility is displaced too far from the center of mass.