The number three exit from the underground rail system faced Temple Bay across the broad expanse of the walkway that separated the core of Michigan City from the kilometers of black sand beaches surrounding the bay that had been formed by a massive volcano several million years ago. He walked to the heavy railing as he always did and breathed deeply of the crisp salt air that was carried by the on-shore breeze.
There was a veritable fleet of the small Bailey-class catamarans already active in the bay this morning, and the brightly colored sails and hulls stood out sharply against the deep blues and greens of the bay waters. Just standing there soaking in the colors, the smell, the puffy clouds, and the warmth of the G4 primary through the cool breeze never failed to wrap his mind in a gentle isolation that excluded all worries--until his gaze wandered southward.
The south end of Temple Bay was a short, rocky peninsula upon which the last colony ship to arrive at Archer, the Weasel, was parked, and had been for the last 15 standard years. It was a highly compressed, oblate spheroid, 500 meters in diameter, 200 meters high, and it destroyed the scenic view. The Rhinos were the biggest class of ships ever built that could land on a planet. They hauled big loads of colonists to the stars and were a classic example of no-frills transportation; they were not fast, they were not luxurious, and they were not pretty. What they were was cheap, easy to work on, and roomy with a normal passenger loading of 260,000 to 300,000. Amazingly, there had been no major accidents involving them, probably because they didn’t push the envelope in any direction.
Sight of the Weasel brought Governor Reynolds out of his reverie with an unpleasant jolt. “God, I’d love to get rid of that thing.” he said to himself--just like he always did.
Turning toward the headquarters building abruptly reminded him of another irritant, and he pulled his sunglasses out of his sleeve pocket. The main core of Michigan City--buildings, railings, streets, and walkways--had all been built to a standard pattern from polymerized carbonate slurry that had been cast into needed shapes. The result was a material that was durable, fast and easy to work with, and looked like marble; it was white, and it glared in the sun.
#
Nanci Lang was sitting at the information desk, as usual, and got a happy expression when he came through the entrance, “Governor, do you know where the heavy wood construction equipment is stored? I have someone on the com that needs to lumber-up a stand of trees and says it’s not at Storage 2 where it used to be.”
Wills walked around to the side of Nanci’s desk so he could see the screen and the face on it, “It was all moved out to the new poly-carb facility at the end of Track 8 a month ago. That looks to be the most likely location for a new housing project, and we needed the space at Storage 2 for other stuff.”
The man on the screen brightened at the news, “Ah, that explains it. Okay, thanks Governor, I’ll run the logs over there.”
Nanci cut the connection and turned to him, “So, how was your vacation?”
He belonged to a flying club that built minimalist, old-style sailplanes out of modern materials; flying one was like sitting in the sky with nothing around you. He smiled and struck a heroic pose, “You are looking at the new altitude record holder of the Archer Eagles; I have full GPS verification of 20,166 meters above Mean Sea Level over the Piper Range.”
Nanci did not like heights; her eyes got real wide at that number, “With all due respect Admiral Governor-General, Sir, you’re nuts.”
It wasn’t like he had never heard similar sentiments when people found out what he did for “fun.” He laughed and headed down the hall to his office.
#
Commander Cicely Copeland was going through another box of old paper records in her continuing--and, seemingly, never ending--project to digitize the old paper records from the first years of the colonization of Archer.
“Aren’t you finished with that stuff yet?” It was his standard question whenever he saw her reading papers.
“Almost.” That was her standard reply.
She lifted her head out of the box, “Did you crack the record?”
He picked up one of the papers that were spread across the conference table, “Corn fertility rates for the north end of Sampson Valley - 2220.” He put the report back where he had found it. CeCe was anal about her self-inflicted project and he was careful not to tread on it no matter what he thought of it.
“20,166 meters.”
He crossed the large room to his office as CeCe threw a threat at his back, “You just wait until two months from now when I get out to Piper. I weigh 30 kilos less than you; I’ll own that record.”
He stopped at the doorway and turned a narrow-eyed calculating look back at her, “Twenty kilos.”
“Twenty-five!” was the defensive retort.
He was still grinning as he slid aside the glass door that opened onto the patio above the picnic area facing the Bay.
He turned back to his desk and called to CeCe, “Anything critical come up?”
He already knew the answer to that; if anything critical had developed he would have been notified within minutes no matter where he was on the planet. But, it was part of a long established routine that had become more of a hopeful plea than a request for the daily list of activities and problems to solve.
She wandered into his office and started tapping on her pad, “Just the usual weddings at weekend and the dedication of a winery on Marks Island in three days.”
He brightened at that, “Oh, I’d forgotten about that. Send a memo around the building and schedule a
