maintained as long as we can possibly manage it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about space medicine, it’s this: Earth man, homo sapiens, is firmly tied in to the rhythms of his native planet’s rotations. Biology is destiny, at least to that extent. We need a 24-hour cycle, give or take a little one way or the other. And while we’re on that subject, do all of you girls menstruate?”
“If you think that makes any difference—” Moira began angrily, but Fontana interrupted. “Hold on, Moira; the question is purely for practical reasons. Free-fall— and we can hardly keep the whole ship De-Magged to one gravity all the time — does peculiar things to hormones, both male and female.”
“That’s right,” Peake said, “and I was thinking we could work out a duty roster which would allow any woman who’s menstruating to work inside the De-magged areas for comfort. The question is medical, not sexist.”
Fontana shrugged. “It’s academic for me,” she said. “I opted for hysterectomy when they offered it to all of us at fifteen. I knew that after a year in deep space there was a fifty-fifty chance I’d be sterile anyhow, so it seemed a lot of trouble for the next thirty years, for nothing. And it seemed a good idea to put it out of my power to have any second thoughts on the subject. I chose once and for all.”
“I didn’t,” Moira said. “After reading up on both sides of the question, I decided I’d prefer having natural to synthetic hormones. But I’m not asking for special treatment.”
Ching smiled, a little grimly. “I wasn’t given the option. I knew if I didn’t make Ship, they’d want my genes. But I don’t want special treatment; I think if any of us had severe menstrual problems, they’d take that into account before sending us into zero-gee work. I’ve always been boringly normal; if I have trouble, I might ask for a day off now and then, but I doubt I will. Let’s leave it until the problem arises.” She moved to the console, dialed herself a helping of some squishy semi-solid; Moira wondered if it was mashed potatoes or soft ice cream.
Teague said, “The cabins are in a circle in the next module; they’re numbered one to six. Why not just take them in alphabetical order — Ching, Fontana, Moira, Peake, Ravi, and me in that order?”
Fontana giggled, biting into her ham sandwich — she supposed it was synthetic protein, but it tasted like a ham sandwich, so she decided to think of it as one. “That still separates women from men, three on a side! Purely by the accidents of the alphabet!”
“I don’t expect we’ll be spending all that much time in the sleeping quarters,” Moira said, “they make the cubicles at the Academy seem like auditoriums. One sleeping net and one shower with toilet per private cabin, and that’s it.”
“Wearing disposable clothing, that’s about all we need,” Ching said. “I notice they’ve each got separate DeMag units, though—”
“That’s so you can read, study, or write without the books and papers floating away,” Peake said, “and sleep at full gravity. And if you want to practice in private, your instrument will stay put… I assume you all know the mechanics of a violin depend on gravity, so you can get friction against the strings. The gym is set for one-half to two gravities, for physical training. I assume I don’t have to warn you to work out at full gravity at least half the time, so your muscles won’t atrophy.”
“And speaking of music,” Moira said, “I’d like to know if we have a complete string quartet. I play cello, and I know you play viola, Ching, because I’ve played with you. Ravi, you play the violin, don’t you?”
“Only the way we all do. I haven’t touched one since I was fourteen; I play the drums. Jazz drums, steel drums, and the Indian table. And somehow I think all I have here on the Ship is a small set of tabla — weight problem.”
“Teague, you play—”
“Flute, wooden recorder, and several woodwinds. I could probably manage second violin sometimes. Peake’s the best violinist we have on board.”
Moira said, “I guess that makes you our concertmas-ter, then, Peake—”
He looked away and a spasm of pain crossed his face.
That last day in the music room, his violin tucked under his chin, Jimson’s piano delicately interlocking with his mind…. He said thickly, “Look, let’s leave it, I’m not going to feel much like playing for a while. Do you mind?”
“Yes, I do,” Moira said, setting her chin. “You know as well as I do why we were taught the violin, and required to specialize in music — so we’d all have some recreation in common. I think having a regular music session once a day is even more important than having Teague’s gripe session, or meals together.”
Peake stared at the floor. He said, “Look—” again, and couldn’t go on. Why was he here with all these people he didn’t really know and didn’t want to know, and the only person he had ever cared about, or ever would care about, the other half of himself, at the other end of a slowly lengthening separation which would space out intolerably, in distance and time, until he and Jimson were at opposite ends of a vast and lengthening nowhere….
Jimson’s face, white and strained and tearful. You don’t care enough to stay, he had flung at Peake, I knew we wouldn’t both make Ship, but I thought you’d care enough to stay….
But how could he have done that, after twelve years of the finest education in the world, education that he, a black kaffir from one of the kaffirland reserves in South Africa, could never have had on his own continent…. UNEPS had given him this, and now it was his turn to make some return to the only world he knew. Fontana had voiced it; he wanted it out of his power to have second thoughts. Only jimson had not been able to see it that way… there was no music he could ever play again that would not have Jimson’s face tied into every note, gladness and sorrow and love and sex and misery… he turned away toward the window opening on space and the returning space station, and said, “Let’s talk about it some other time. All right?”
“No,” Ching said, “that’s the one thing we can’t do — walk out on this kind of disagreement. Moira’s right, we do need regular musical sessions, and we can’t have them without you, Peake; that would take all the point out of having them. The whole purpose of making music together—”
Peake shrugged and dropped into a chair. The DeMag units were low enough in here that he did not sink into it, but he did not float away either. “Okay. No arguments.”
“That’s not the point—” Moira began.
“Hold it,” Fontana said quietly, “I think this is turning into the first of those once-a-day sessions we agreed to have, and I think we need it out into the open. We start holding back on gripes and grievances, trying to be too polite, and we’ll get explosions. Ching, you said something earlier that made me really angry; you said you’d hoped for Chris or Mei Mei or Fly or, as you put it, somebody with some computer sense; and here’s Peake sulking because he doesn’t have Jimson to play duets with—”
“I am not sulking!” Peake yelled, with such violence that he bobbed up from the surface of his chair in the light gravity.
“I know what Fontana’s driving at,” Moira said, “I think we ought to make it a rule that we don’t talk about anyone — anyone we left behind. They’re dead to us, whatever happens. Let the past go.”
“I refuse to do that,” Ravi said. “We need to remember. We need roots, a sense of our past. We have a right to remember.”
“To remember, yes,” Fontana said, “but not to hurt each other making comparisons with people who aren’t here — people we never had to meet under this kind of strain. People who might, or might not, have turned out more congenial than the ones we have. Look, all six of us are going to be together for a long, long time; close- quarters together, hothouse together, too damn much together; and the one thing we don’t need is to rub elbows with the idealized memories of people who aren’t here!”
“Now listen—” Peake began, but Moira went on:
“No, you listen, I’m not finished. I don’t even mean you, personally. I’m trying to establish a principle, not get personal about anybody, I think every one of us could have picked what they’d consider a perfect crew, and somehow I doubt if any one of us would have picked any one of the others here—”
“What you mean is, you wouldn’t,” Ching said precisely. “Nice to know what you think of us, Moira.”
She brushed that aside too. “I refuse to get into a fight with you, Ching, don’t try to provoke it. I mean, here we are, six of us, none of us consulted about our preferences for the others—”
“They must have taken compatibility into account,” Teague said. “I doubt if they would pick six people they knew couldn’t stand one another!”
Moira shrugged. “Oh, I’m sure they trusted us not to murder each other, took real antipathies into account. But—”
