He was inspecting the system by flying around with a reaction pistol. The rule was that no one worked without a safety line; a man who drifted away from the Shack might or might not be rescued, and the rescue itself would cost time and manpower we didn’t have.
Ty’s line kept pulling him up short of where he wanted to go. He gave the free end to Jill and told her to pay out a lot of slack. Then he made a jump from the mirror frame. He must have thought he’d use the reaction pistol to shove him off at an angle so that he’d cross over the bowl of the mirror to the other side.
The pistol ran out of gas. That left Ty floating straight toward the focus of the mirror.
He shouted into his helmet radio, and Jill frantically hauled in slack, trying to get a purchase on him. I made a quick calculation and knew I would never reach him in time; if I tried I’d likely end up in the focus myself. Instead I took a dive across his back path. If I could grab his safety line, the jerk as I pulled up short ought to keep him out of the hottest area, and my reaction pistol would take us back to the edge.
I got the line all right, but it was slack. It had burned through. Ty went right through the hot point. When we recovered his body, metal parts on his suit had melted.
We scattered his ashes inside the sphere. McLeve’s navy prayer book opened the burial service with the words “We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain that we shall take nothing out.” Afterwards I wondered how subtle McLeve had been in his choice of that passage.
We had built this world ourselves, with Ty leading us. We had brought everything into this world, even down to Ty’s final gift to us; the ashes which would grow grass in a place no human had ever thought to reach until now.
For the next month we did without him; and it was as if we had lost half our men. McLeve was a good engineer if a better administrator, but he couldn’t go into the high gravity areas, and he couldn’t do active construction work. Still, it wasn’t engineering talent we lacked. It was Ty’s drive.
Jill and Dot and McLeve tried to make up for that. They were more committed to the project than ever.
Two hundred and forty thousand miles down, they were looking for a construction boss. They’d find one, we were sure. We were the best, and we were paid like the best. There was never a problem with salaries. Salaries were negligible next to the other costs of building the Shack. But the personnel shuttles were delayed, and delayed again, and we were running out of necessities, and the US economy was slipping again.
We got the mirrors arrayed. Jill went heavily into agriculture, and the lunar soil bloomed, seeded with earthworms and bacteria from earthly soil. We smelted more of the rocky crust around the Shack and put it back as slag. We had plans for the metal we extracted, starting with a lab for growing metal whiskers. There was already a whisker lab in near-Earth orbit, but its output was tiny. The Shack might survive if we could show even the beginnings of a profit-making enterprise.
Jill had another plan: mass production of expensive biologicals, enzymes and various starting organics for ethical drugs.
We had lots of plans. What we didn’t have was enough people to do it all. You can only work so many twenty-hour days. We began to make mistakes. Some were costly.
My error didn’t cost the Shack. Only myself. I like to think it was due to fatigue and nothing more.
I made a try at comforting the grieving widow, after a decent wait of three weeks.
When Ty was alive everyone flirted with Jill. She pretended not to notice. You’d have to be crude as well as rude before she’d react.
This time it was different. I may not have been very subtle, but I wasn’t crude; and she told me instantly to get the hell out of her cabin and leave her alone.
I went back to my refinery mirror and brooded.
Ninety years later I know better. Ninety years is too damned late. If I’d noticed nothing else, I should have known that nearly eighty unmarried men aboard would all be willing to comfort the grieving widow, and half of them were only too willing to use the subtle approach: “You’re all that keeps us working so hard.”
I wonder who tried before I did? It hardly matters; when my turn came, Jill’s reaction was automatic. Slap him down before it’s too late for him to back away. And when she slapped me down, I stayed slapped, more hurt than mad, but less than willing to try again.
I hadn’t stopped being in love with her. So I worked at being her friend again. It wasn’t easy. Jill was cold inside. When she talked to people it was about business, never herself. Her dedication to the Shack, and to all it stood for in her mind, was hardening, ossifying. And she spent a lot of time with Dot Hoffman and Admiral McLeve.
But the word came: another shuttle. Again there were no women. The Senator from Wisconsin had found out how expensive it would be to get us home. Add fifty women and it would be half again as expensive. So no new personnel.
Still they couldn’t stop the company from sending up a new chief engineer, and we heard the shuttle was on its way, with a load of seeds, liquid hydrogen, vitamin pills, and Jack Halfey.
I couldn’t believe it. Jack wasn’t the type.
To begin with, while the salary you
