charge,” she said.
“I’m just third officer. By the way, that was a nice set of trajectory parameters you sent up yesterday. I recognized your touch.”
She shrugged freckled shoulders. “I want to get to Jupiter in one piece too.”
The buzz of conversation around them died down as Captain Boyle came in and took his place on the little raised platform with the folding Moog and the music stands. He smiled and nodded at a couple of people in the front row, then stood in an easy posture, one thumb hooked into his harness, while he waited for everyone’s full attention.
Boyle was a big, imposing man with a red face and a thick, powerful neck. His cap of tight curls was thinning, and under the harness straps and the fresh uniform blouse donned for the occasion his wide shoulders and bull-like chest were tending toward bulk, but his waist was as trim as it had been when he commanded the expedition that had begun the work of seeding the Venusian clouds with life. Like many big men, he moved well, and in a way that inspired instant confidence.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and all you others,” he began; there was a dutiful laugh. “I won’t keep you long. I just want you all to know that, as of a couple of hours ago, our mission is officially go.” He drew a length of message strip out of the pocket of his shorts and waved it at them. “I’ve just received confirmation from Earth of our original target date—” A ragged cheer went up, and in the second row Mike Berry stood up and raised clasped hands in a victory gesture. Captain Boyle motioned for silence and went on. “I know that there have been times in the last year and a half when some of you thought we’d never make it”—groans from the audience—“but I want to say that I’m proud of you and all your efforts.”
His manner became more serious. “At this moment, over in the opposite side of the ship, Captain Hsieh is giving essentially the same message to his crew. A great new era in the exploration of space is about to begin. As representatives of the human race, we are going to”—he cleared his throat and looked a little embarrassed—“to carry the banner of mankind farther from our home planet than we’ve ever gone before—ten times as far…”
Maggie nudged Jameson. “Some pressec wrote that for him,” she whispered.
Jameson frowned her into subsiding. Boyle’s awkward words had stirred him more than all the slick panegyrics he’d heard on the holoset in the last couple of years. He didn’t think anybody had written them for him.
Boyle was going on more briskly. “We’ll be having a joint party with our Chinese crewmates tomorrow night”—there was a rustle of interest; the Chinese had remained correct but aloof during training, and get-togethers where you could socialize with them were rare—“but tonight I’m inviting you all to a party of our own in the bubble lounge at Eurostation. Drinks and eats are on me.” Somebody whistled appreciatively; the bubble lounge was expensive.
He waved them into silence again. “We’ll be essentially finishing our training sessions in the next week, except for wrap-ups. During the six weeks before countdown, there’ll only be routine maintenance while the Earth crews finish up outfitting. I’m-happy to say that there’ll be Earth furloughs for all of you on a staggered schedule.”
Maggie turned to Jameson, her face shining. “Earth! I’ve been breathing canned air for six months now!”
Jameson drew a deep breath. It was real now. This was what all the hard work had been for. He realized that until this moment he hadn’t really believed in it.
Around them, people had begun to chatter, to move restlessly in their seats. Captain Boyle held up his hand for silence again.
“Before we break this up, there are a couple of people I want you to meet. You’ll be seeing a lot of them.”
There was a stir of interest. Maggie was leaning to her left to see, a skinny thigh pressed against his.
A sandy-haired fellow with boyish, snub-nosed features and well-muscled shoulders under a sleeveless jersey came in through the door behind Boyle, moving in a catlike crouch that showed he’d spent a lot of time in low gravity. He waved at someone in the audience and took his place beside the captain.
“Most of you know Jack Gifford,” Boyle said. “Jack worked right alongside Roy Jenkins as an alternate during the initial training exercises, and SRA’s been keeping him up to date right along. I’m sorry to have to tell you that Roy’s been scrubbed for medical reasons. We’ll all miss him. Jack will take his place as probe tech.”
Gifford smiled and nodded and took his place in the audience, squeezing in next to Sue Jarowski. He immediately struck up a conversation with her, something involving huge gestures. A couple of seats away, Dmitri looked unhappy.
Another man had slipped in through the door behind Boyle. He had a seal’s head, sleek and shiny, and a triangular face with the kind of sallow complexion that always shows a subsurface smear of blue whiskers. The head seemed too small for the massive slope of shoulders and the bunched muscles that stretched the sleeves of his T-shirt. He was wearing a pair of heavy boots with thick gum soles. They struck Jameson as, out of place in space, where the soles of your feet were among your most important sense organs.
“This is Emmet Klein,” Boyle said. “He’ll be replacing Ham Bailey in charge of Stores.” He cleared his throat. “Bailey will be returning Earthside for reassignment. Our new stores exec is fully qualified—he’s had three years at Mars Station and more recently has been working at the shuttle-launch complex at Salt Lake. I’m sure you’ll all get along fine with him.”
Maggie poked Jameson. “What do you think?”
Jameson frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said. “If Bailey had to be reassigned, why didn’t they replace him with Vitali or Michaels—somebody who’s familiar with the mission? Mars and Salt Lake are impressive assignments, but they’re ground-based.”
People were standing up. A small knot of men and women clustered around Klein and Gifford, all talking at once. Klein looked uncomfortable. Jameson felt sorry for him.
“Meeting’s over,” Maggie said, getting up. “Are you going to be at the party tonight?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jameson said. “First I’ve got to go over to China country and talk to Li about closing down the lander and getting it podded.”
Captain Boyle was coming down the aisle, heading for the exit. Jameson stepped out and stopped him.
“What’s all this about reassigning Ham, Skipper?’ he inquired. “He’s the best stores exec we’ve ever had. He’s been checked out for the mission for a year.”
Was Boyle avoiding his eyes? “I don’t know, Commander,” he said brusquely. “I don’t make policy. They do that down at Space Center.”
“Nothing medical, I hope?”
“Bailey’s fine.”
“That’s good to know. I’ll look forward to helping give him a good send-off at the party.”
The captain’s red face seemed to get a shade redder. “He won’t be at the party,” he said. “He’ll be leaving on the next shuttle.” He looked at his watch. “About ten minutes from now.”
Captain Boyle’s party was turning into a noisy success. Most of the crew had made some effort to dress up in Earthside clothes for the occasion, and there was a glitter of bright colors and iridescent fabrics. A couple of the younger dancers of both sexes wore little more than sparklepaint and stickumcups, but Beth Oliver, the beautiful and sought-after chemistry chief, was stunning in a full-length kaleidogown that shifted from endlessly flowering geometric patterns that spilled out of scores of focal points to an eye-boggling infinite-depth effect as she twisted in time to the thrumming slipbeat. The dancers took advantage of the low gravity in the bubble lounge to do complicated midair pirouettes, sometimes joined and sometimes in facing pairs.
The bubble lounge, halfway up one of Eurostation’s main spokes, had a dreamlike quarter-gravity that went with the imaginative decor: space itself. The six enormous lobes of clear Lexan, bunched around the central shaft, brought the universe inside—an illusion that the designers had deliberately fostered by using the barest minimum of silvery, deceptively fragile-looking ribs to support the transparent plastic, and by the hologenerated sparks of light that flickered on and off throughout the interior, like stars passing through. Directly above, you could see the diminishing spoke and the hub of the station, but everywhere else you saw only stars, drifting by like a million Christmas lights.
Jameson, a lidded drink in his hand, was part of the group gathered around the Moog. Mike Berry was at the keyboards, rapping out a creditable slipbeat. He’d dialed in a seventeen-bar ground that the Moog repeated over
