“Well, I knew I couldn’t call him because you won’t let him come to the phone. I knew I couldn’t write because you intercept the letters. So I hired a process server to deliver them.”
“He’s not going!”
“You’ll deny him an opportunity that every boy, as you like to call him, would love to have?”
“I’ll call Ellis Berlow! I’ll get a court order!”
“Without Bill knowing?”
Cindy mumbled incoherently, then the connection broke. Dan clicked the handset back into its receptacle. Not a bad performance. Reasonable, low-keyed, courteous. Still, he could not hear the name of Ellis Berlow without a raging sea of memories flooding back from his subconscious. He pulled himself out of the phone booth and headed for the rumpus room.
The rumpus room was another shuttle external tank, and its adaption to a pressurized, inhabitable volume had been a dry run for the later Mars module. The first station construction crew had burned the tank into orbit with Constellation. It had served as a “shanty” for the construction crews and later, as the station grew, was docked along with the other modules to provide additional space. When the Mars module was added to the station, the tank was moved to the leading end of the connecting tunnel to serve as a counterbalance.
The rumpus room had no “ceiling” or “floor,” just a continuous dull silver wall that was particularly disorienting to people with sensitive middle ears. And it was huge. Even with the partition that separated it into two sections, even with the massive merry-go-round structure of the man-rated centrifuge and the other gym equipment, going from the station’s lab and habitation modules to the rumpus room was like stepping from a crowded subway train to the great outdoors.
The variable-gravity human centrifuge had been installed for the Martians. Since opinion was divided over whether the eventual Mars spacecraft would provide artificial gravity or fly the entire mission in zero-gee, certain Martians were required to spin in the centrifuge each day while the rest were prohibited from using it at all. Mars Project medics on the ground closely monitored both groups to assess which might be better adapted for the nine-month trip to Mars.
Even with the centrifuge, there was still plenty of room for other activities. Kurt Jaeckle had transformed a section into the studio for his television show. A Swedish Trikon tech created a jogging track by attaching a ring of indoor-outdoor carpeting to the circular wall. And Dan Tighe used it to display his personal menagerie.
The rumpus room was empty except for the Swede, who ran the track in long, loping strides. Running laps in micro-gee required very little exertion, certainly not enough for a decent aerobic workout. But it was fun.
Three bonsai animals hovered on short leashes attached to the rear bulkhead: a turtle, a rabbit, and a squirrel. Dan examined each one, then dislodged a tiny pair of scissors from behind a bungee cord. As he snipped, he tried to imagine Cindy’s next step. Would she try to dissuade Bill from the flight? Or would she actually hire Ellis Berlow to obtain a court order? Dan hated that fucker. He could still sec him standing in the courtroom and arguing against his fitness as a father.
Rocket junkie, Berlow had called him, space vagabond. This court must not be a party to this man abandoning his child as he has his wife. After the judge denied the petition for joint custody, Dan saw Berlow in the courthouse men’s room. The lawyer would not acknowledge him. He simply stared into the mirror and primped his smooth brown pelt of a beard with a brush.
The scissors slipped and amputated a piece of the squirrel’s leg. Anger gurgled in Dan’s chest. Memories of his divorce evoked the worst kind of adrenaline.
“They’re nicely done.” Lorraine Renoir drifted beside him, her voice a low purr.
“Sometimes they’re too damn delicate.” Tighe took a deep breath to calm his rage at having ruined the squirrel. He caught a whiff of Lorraine’s perfume. It smelled fresh, as if she had just come out of the shower. He added: “Thanks. Glad you like them.”
“Why animals?” She plucked one of the tethers. The rabbit hopped in the air. “Why these animals?”
With a slow smile, Dan explained, “When I was a boy I liked to pretend I saw creatures in cloud formations. Most of them were silly, but one evening, along about dusk after a full day of rain, the sun broke through a patch of clear red sky just over the hills. The clouds lit up and I saw a parade of perfectly shaped animals: a bird, a rabbit, a squirrel, and a turtle.”
Lorraine nuzzled each one, then set it slowly adrift. She exuded a calm that seemed to affect everything around her, even Dan, and he was glad of it.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you the other night,” said Lorraine. “You have to understand my position.”
“That’s all right,” Dan said. “I was out of line.”
’’I have something to ask you, Dan.” Lorraine lowered her eyes as if marshaling the precise words, then looked up. “Kurt Jaeckle asked me to assist him in his TV broadcasts. I haven’t given him an answer yet. I wanted to talk to you.”
Dan felt his guts wrench, but kept his face stony. “Are you asking me for my opinion or for my permission?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe both.”
“Do you want to be on TV?”
“It isn’t one of my great dreams, but I think it would be interesting.”
“There’s no regulation against it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It isn’t—” Lorraine turned slightly away from him.
“Well?”
“It’s just that I know that you and Professor Jaeckle are not on the best of terms.”
“That’s irrelevant. The Mars Project is an integral part of this station. If you want to be Professor Jaeckle’s TV assistant, there’s nothing I can do about it as long as it doesn’t interfere with your regular duties.”
“It won’t,” said Lorraine. “So I guess you have no objection.”
He did, but none that he could articulate. Lorraine looked at him as if she expected him to say something, but when he did not she pushed against the bulkhead and headed for the hatch.
Dan watched her sail away, pausing briefly to let the Swede pass on his endless run before slipping through the hatchway. Lorraine had a calming effect on him, all right. But why, after talking to her, did he always feel as though he had just fumbled the ball?
The last dinner shift was long over. The lights in the wardroom had dimmed to a glimmer. In the exercise area, Lance Muncie strained against a variable-resistance rowing machine. With every pull of his bulging arms, with every thrust of his sinewy legs, he grunted out the number of his repetitions. Nine eighty-six, nine eighty-seven…
Freddy Aviles pulled up to the doorway. He had a tool kit lashed to his chest and ten feet of fanfold paper snaking behind him. He gathered the paper into a manageable sheaf, then continued inside.
“Hey, Lance.”
Nine ninety-one, nine ninety-two.
“Oh La-ance.”
Nine ninety-seven, nine ninety-eight.
“Lance Muncie!”
Nine ninety-nine, one thousand.
Lance unhitched himself from the machine and drifted upward. His straw-colored hair was lined with dark streaks of sweat, his cheeks crimson from exertion. His teeth were set on edge, which made his chin protrude as if daring someone to take a poke at it. Freddy had seen this expression before; Lance was worried.
“You okay, man?”
Lance grunted in response. He removed his hairnet and toweled his hair.
“You not okay.”
“I felt my calcium levels decreasing. I needed exercise.”