on an area at the very end of the boom where two small dots had become visible. She realized that she was seeing a high-magnification close-up from a small part of the camera field. As the dots grew in size, the image had begun to develop a slight graininess as the limit of useful resolution was reached. She could make out the limbs on each of the space suits, and the lines that secured the suits to the thin girders.
“Installing one of the experimental antennas,” Hans Gibbs said. He obviously knew exactly what point the display in front of her had reached. “Those two are a long way from the center of mass of the Station — four hundred kilometers below it. Salter Station is in six hour orbit, ten thousand kilometers up. Orbital velocity at that altitude is forty-eight-eighty meters a second, but the end of the boom is travelling at only forty-seven-sixty meters a second. See the slight tension in those lines? Those two aren’t quite in freefall. They feel about a hundredth of a gee. Not much, but enough to make a difference.”
Judith Niles drew in a deep breath but did not speak.
“Watch the one on the left,” said Hans Gibbs quietly.
There was enough detail in the image to see exactly what was happening. The lines that secured one of the two suited figures had been released, so that a new position on the girder could be achieved. A thin aerial had opened up, stretching far out past the end of the boom. The left-most figure began to drift slowly along the length of the aerial, a securing bracket held in its right glove. It was obvious that there would be another tether point within reach along the girder, where the securing line could be attached. The suit moved very slowly, rotating a little as it went. The second figure was crouched over another part of the metal network, attaching a second brace for the aerial. “In thirty seconds, you drift away by nearly fifty meters,” said Hans Gibbs quietly. His companion sat as still as a statue.
The realization grew by tiny fractions, so that there was never one moment where the senses could suddenly say, “Trouble.” The figure was within reach of the tether point. It was still moving, inching along, certainly close enough for an outstretched arm to make the connection. Five seconds more, and that contact had been missed. Now it would be necessary to use the suit controls, to apply the small thrust needed to move back to contact range. Judith Niles suddenly found herself willing the suit thrusters to come on, willing the second figure to look up, to see what she was seeing. The gap grew. A few feet, thirty meters, the length of the thin aerial. The suit had begun to turn around more rapidly on its axis. It was passing the last point of contact with the structure. “Oh, no.” The words were a murmur of complaint. Judith Niles was breathing heavily. After a few more seconds of silence she gave another little murmur and jerked her body rigidly upright. “Oh, no. Why doesn’t he do something? Why doesn’t he grab the aerial?”
Hans Gibbs reached forward and gently took the cylinder away from her eye. “I think you’ve seen enough. You saw the beginning of the fall?”
“Yes. Was it a simulation?”
“I’m afraid not. It was real. What do you think that you saw?”
“Construction for the boom on Salter Station — on PSS-One. And they were two of the workers, rigging an antenna section.”
“Right. What else?”
“The one farther out on the boom just let go his hold, without waiting to see that he had a line secured. He didn’t even look. He drifted away. By the time the other one saw, he was too far away to reach.”
“Too far away for anything to reach. Do you realize what would happen next?” Neither of them took any interest in the food before them. Judith Niles nodded slowly. “Re-entry? If you couldn’t reach him he’d start re- entry?” Hans Gibbs looked at her in surprise, then laughed. “Well, that might happen — if we waited for a few million years. But Salter Station is in a pretty high orbit, re-entry’s not what we worry about. Those suits have only enough air for six hours. If we have no ship ready, anybody who loses contact with the station and can’t get back with the limited reaction mass in the suit thrusters dies — asphyxiates. It was a woman in that suit, by the way, not a man. She was lucky. The camera was on her, so we could compute an exact trajectory and pick her up with an hour to spare. But she’ll probably never be psychologically ready to work outside again. And others haven’t been so lucky. We’ve lost thirty people in three months.”
“But why? Why did she let go? Why didn’t the other worker warn her?” “He tried — we all tried.” Hans Gibbs tucked the little recorder back into its plastic case. “She didn’t hear us for the same reason that she released her hold. It’s a reason that should really interest you, and the reason why I’m here at your Institute. In one word: narcolepsy. She fell asleep. She didn’t wake up until after we caught her, fifty kilometers away from the boom. The other worker saw what had happened long before that, but he didn’t have the reaction mass to go out and back. All he could do was watch and yell at her through the suit radio. He couldn’t wake her.”
Hans Gibbs pushed his half-full plate away from him.
“I know there’s a desperate food shortage around most of the world, and it’s a sin not to clear your dish. But neither one of us seems to be eating much. Can we continue this conversation back in your office?”
CHAPTER FOUR
It was early evening before Judith Niles picked up the phone and asked Jan de Vries to join her in her office. While she waited for him she stood by the window, staring out across the garden that flanked the south side of the Institute. The lawns were increasingly unkempt, with the flower beds near the old brick wall showing patches of weeds.
“Midnight oil again? Where’s your dinner date, Judith?” said a voice behind her. She started. De Vries had entered the open office door without knocking, quiet as a cat.
She turned. “Close the door, Jan. You won’t believe this, but I did have an offer of dinner. A wild offer, with all the old-fashioned trimmings — he suggested oysters Rockefeller, veal cordon bleu, wine, and the moonlit Avon River. Oysters and wine! My God, you can tell that he’s from way out in space. He honestly believed we’d be able to buy that sort of food, without a contract or a special dispensation. He doesn’t know much about the real situation. One of the scary things about all the government propaganda is that it works so well. He had no idea how bad things are, even here in New Zealand — and we’re the lucky ones. Oysters! Damn it, I’d give my virginity for a dozen oysters. Might as well hope to be served roast beef.”
Her voice was longing, and it carried no trace of the usual authority. She sat down at her desk, eased off her shoes, and lolled back in her chair, lifting her bare feet to rest them on an open desk drawer.
“Far too late for any of that, my dear,” said Jan de Vries. “Roast beef, good wine, oysters — or virginity, for that matter. For most of us they’ve fled with the snows of yesteryear. But I’m just as impressed by the other implications of his offer. Only somebody out of touch with the climate changes and literally out of this world would want to look at that ghastly river — not when it’s eighty-seven degrees and ninety percent humidity.”
He sat down gracefully, reclining on a big armchair. “But you turned down the invitation? Judith, you disappoint me. It sounds like an offer you couldn’t refuse — just to see his expression when he could compare reality with his illusions.”
“I might have taken it if Hans Gibbs hadn’t made me the other offer.” “Indeed?” Jan de Vries touched his lips with a carefully manicured forefinger. “Judith, from one of your strongly heterosexual tastes, those words ring false. I thought you longed for offers like that, attractive beyond all other lures — “ “Stow it, Jan. I’ve no time for games just now. I want the benefit of your brain. You’ve met Salter Wherry, right? How much do you know about him?” “Well, as it happens I know a fair amount. I almost went to work on Salter Station. If you hadn’t lured me here, I’d probably be there now. There’s a certain je ne sais quoi to the notion of working for a aged multibillionaire, especially one whose romantic tastes before he went into seclusion were said to coincide with mine.”
“Does he really own Salter Station? Completely?”
“So it is rumored, my dear. That, and half of everything else you care to mention. I could never discover any evidence to the contrary. Since the charming Mr. Gibbs works for Wherry, and you met with him for many hours this afternoon — don’t think your long cloistering passed unnoticed, Judith — I wonder why you ask me these things. Why didn’t you ask Hans Gibbs your questions about Salter Wherry directly?”
Judith Niles padded back to the window and stared moodily out at the twilight. “I need to do an independent check. It’s important, Jan. I need to know how rich Salter Wherry really is. Is he rich enough to let us do what we need to do?” “According to my own investigations and impressions, he is so rich that the word lacks real meaning.
