Orb (6 page)

“Sure,” said Thompson. “Caught a twenty-two kilogrammer off Block Island, New York.”

“I speared a smaller striper skin diving. With the spear and trailing line still hooked in, it took me for quite a ride. Anyway, it’s my turn. What I really miss most is scuba diving. If I had to pick a particular memory? Being immersed in a school of Spotted eagle rays as they arced and glided above me in the warm waters of the Seychelles.”

And so it went, we happily, almost greedily, took our turns, each of us sharing a memory, making a small connection, temporarily setting aside the pressure of the mission.

All but Doctor Melhaus, who, through the awkward anticipatory silence that followed, remained quiet. To ease him past his reluctance, I tried to make light of it saying, “Pardon the obvious pun, Larry, but you can’t get off the hook that easily.”

Looking up distractedly, almost as if he had heard none of the previous conversation, he said: “Do you realize 231-P5 is round?”

It was a blatantly self-evident statement, uttered at the wrong moment, delivered with a flat and emotionless tone of voice—and it gave me a momentary start. I noticed a quick flash of concern cross Kelly’s face. I couldn’t tell exactly what Thompson was thinking, perhaps he was annoyed, but he seemed to understand where Melhaus was going with this. In any event he said nothing and let things unfold.

“And Earth is not. Round that is,” the physicist continued, raising his gaze from his AID to acknowledge us. “I’ll explain. The distance measured from Earth’s center to sea level at the equator is twenty-one kilometers longer than the distance measured from Earth’s center to sea level at either pole. The Earth, therefore, is an oblate spheroid due to the effects of its moon, the sun, variations in internal mass, and geological factors. These influences, no moon for example, are not applicable to 231-P5. I have calculated, using data Doctor Thompson provided, that P5 is at least as round as can be detected by the sensitivity of the
Desio’s
instruments; that is to say the planet is within one kilometer of being perfectly round. Highly unusual.”

Thompson, with his doctorate in geology and the information he provided, seemed to have anticipated Melhaus’s findings. I’m certain he would have, if he had not already, made the same discovery. He deliberately chose not to make an issue of precedence, but rather said, “Larry, the crew has been spending some necessary time here sharing a few personal feelings. Would you care to add something of your own?”

“Yeah,
Larry,
” said Diana, trying to goad him into responding.

“Nothing pertinent comes to mind,” the physicist replied, apparently having a vague sense of what we had been discussing.

The conversation was going downhill fast I thought, and I was staying out of it.

I hoped.

“Nothing,” Thompson repeated, matter-of-factly. He paused, looked at Angie, then looked at me and asked, “What does Angie miss?”

I was a bit surprised by the question; the answer, however, was easy. “Angie misses mousing. She’s a seven kilogram ball of fury when she finds a mouse.”

“There you are Larry,” said Thompson. “Something to think about. Even the damn dog misses something.”

Judging by his look, Melhaus was formulating a confrontational reply. Anticipating as much, Thompson gave him a long steady stare and, in a tone of voice that could not be mistaken, said:

“Now let’s all get back to work.”

LATER THAT SAME afternoon, Thompson requested that I join him in his cabin. Entering, I observed he was busy at his workstation, accessing personnel files.

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to the room’s other chair. “I’ll get right to the point. I see you have several courses in psychology to go with the communications degree and your credentials as a writer, correct?”

“That’s right, I majored in communications, minored in psychology. Neither were actively pursued post grad. I elected to make a living as a writer.”

“Understood, but do you believe for a minute the psych minor went unnoticed when the Selection Committee worked through the complicated process of choosing a crew for this ship?”

“At the time I didn’t give it much thought.”

“Recently, I have. I’ll answer the question for you: Not a chance in hell. In my twenty years’ experience with the CSA I have reluctantly come to accept that very little gets by them. On board the
Desio
, I consider it my duty to see that
nothing
gets by me. I vaguely remember you saying that your being picked for this mission was as much happenstance as anything else.”

“I said that?”

“Yeah, you did. I didn’t believe it then, I believe it less now. I suspect your credentials were
exactly
what the Committee was searching for. Precisely why I have come to this conclusion may best be served by asking you a question or two.”

“You have my undivided attention.”

“Do you know the number of CSA ships, other than ours, that have artwork decorating their bulkheads?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“I can. There are none.”

“Pity.”

“Do you have any idea how many ships are designed with separate sleeping quarters for each and every member of the crew?”

“Don’t know. Will these all be rhetorical questions?”

“With you, might as well be, but I’m going to ask them anyway. The answer is none. Do you have any idea how many ships have Vivaldi, Schubert and Mozart wafting over their intercom systems?”

“Same answer?”

“Right,” Thompson said, scowling, but not really expecting much in the way of an informed response. He then gestured over his shoulder. My gaze followed.

“You see that hunting bow I have mounted over my workstation?”

I nodded. “If there’s a story behind it, which seems pretty damned likely, I want to hear it.”

“Just shut up and listen. That bow is on a list of personal items that mission engineers gave a derisive name: “Nonessential mass.” Perhaps you can guess some other items on their list: Kelly’s violin (she was an accomplished violinist, from time to time playing for the crew), Diana’s houseplants, Paul’s antique barometer collection. The only person with no items on the list is Melhaus. You can call your dog “nonessential mass,” too, though I doubt she’d come. Have you ever known of a crew being allowed to encumber a ship so? Do you realize how prohibitively expensive extra weight is?”

I admitted I hadn’t and didn’t. I still wasn’t exactly sure what Thompson was getting at but despite receiving no answers to his questions, he seemed to be gaining momentum.

“Just as I expected, you’re batting a thousand. To go on. A month prior to our departure I thought it useful to have a chat over a couple of drinks with the commander of the previous expedition to P5. By the third drink he informed me that elevated levels of stress had led to a serious morale problem during his voyage. By the fifth drink he let on that a violent argument erupted between two members of his crew. He grumbled about having been ordered to keep what happened under wraps. The Agency told him they had more than enough difficulty funding deep space missions. Said they didn’t need a private matter turned into a public distraction.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Yes, isn’t it?” Thompson said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll say one thing, a fight during a mission is almost unheard of.”

“I think I’m finally starting to catch on,” I said. “But wouldn’t you agree that the CSA, in addition to taking the remedial steps you pointed out, repeatedly informed us that we’d be exposed to stressful situations; that they warned us—in fact, trained us—to identify the obvious causes?”

An expression of doubt passed over Thompson’s face. “Of course they warned us, but I suspect the Agency was also reacting to something they could not put their finger on. And I’ll tell you what else I think. I think the Agency believed your psych minor would be an additional benefit to this mission. Especially so when coupled with your communications training and your ability as a writer to make observations about human behavior. Am I not right? You appear to be proactive in trying to lift the crew’s spirits. Like earlier today.”

“Am I so transparent?”

“Not transparent. Self-effacing perhaps.”

“Careful, there may be a compliment in there somewhere.”

“If there is, it’s the closest you’ll ever get to one. So I ask you, besides the usual reasons, what do you think is contributing to the heightened stress levels on this type of mission?”

I had been considering this very question, even without knowledge of the prior crew’s problems. Still, I hesitated to volunteer an opinion, for when an idea receives a voice it gains a life, one it might not deserve. I didn’t hesitate long. Based on what I knew about Thompson if my idea did not deserve to live, he would be the first, and best, person to kill it.

“I only have a theory of sorts, based almost exclusively on my own behavior and casual study of the crew during the last three months. I can factor in what you just told me. Plainly put, I believe deep space missions carry us too far from Earth for too long.”

“You have my attention,” said Thompson. “Go on.”

“Has there ever been a study of the psychological effects resulting from being outside Earth’s solar system for a protracted period? Of being completely separated from all forms of verbal and visual communication? Has an attempt been made to assess the behavioral changes brought about by being utterly devoid of contact with Earth?”

“Not that I’ve been privy to. There have only been five extrasolar voyages, including ours.”

“Perhaps the crews of extrasolar missions, on a subconscious level, are having problems coping with the realization that the Earth has been completely diminished. By that I mean both in actuality, due to the total lack of communication, and symbolically, by seeing our planet, then our sun, being relegated to seemingly inconsequential and disappearing specks. In a sense, what has been stripped away is the solace of the Earth as a place of refuge, as a sanctuary.”

I thought, for the briefest of moments, I saw a look of sadness register on Thompson’s face. If that look was there, it was soon replaced by one of skepticism as he contemplated what I had proposed. He wasn’t a person to be rushed to judgment. And he rarely equivocated. But he did now. “Must say, I’m torn between thinking that’s a pile of crap or a clever insight. Let’s say it’s the latter, how do we address it?”

“Stress is harder to deal with when the cause is unidentified,” I answered.

“Understood. Go ahead, advance your theory with the rest of the crew. It should make some amusing dinner conversation anyway. Not withstanding your theory, however, there remain the more obvious causes of stress to deal with.”

“Yes,” I responded, “and we have seen everyone onboard affected and coping in different ways … and not coping.”

“Which brings us to our principal concern, Doctor Melhaus.”

“You’ve been speaking to Kelly?”

“She approached me earlier. Said you’re the person that really started her thinking. She wasn’t comfortable with Melhaus’s blatantly antisocial behavior today. I agreed, but let’s face it, he’s always set himself apart. Arguably more now. Kelly believes he is putting too much pressure on himself. Has yet to see any other warning signs of a meltdown—with the possible exception of a sleep disorder—and medication is treating that symptom. She has additional drugs that may provide some relief, but Melhaus would refuse to take anything he felt would even remotely impair his cognitive abilities.”

“And let me guess, he’s not receptive to discussing this topic, is he?”

“No. I already tried. He was in here before you.”

“And so…?”

“…and so for the present we’ll do what we’re doing, which is letting him work his butt off. Keep an eye on him. Anything that represents a change, better or worse, I’ll probably see it, but keep me informed. As for the rest of the crew, they seem to be doing OK to you? Paul and Diana seem to be rock solid.”

“Seem so.”

“And you and Kelly? Together and separately, that is.”

“Fine,” I responded, electing not to elaborate. I was not surprised that he was aware of our relationship. There was no reason to hide our affection for each other, but we didn’t think it appropriate to flaunt it either.

“Good,” said Thompson, apparently satisfied with my brief answer.

“And now you’ll tell me about that bow?” I asked.

“What makes you believe there’s something to tell?”

“You’re being evasive.”

Thompson gave me a long scrutinizing look. As if he was sizing me up. “You’re a persistent pain in the ass,” he said.

I agreed.

“I have many pressing things to attend to before tomorrow’s set-down. You’ll have to be satisfied with the abridged version.” Thompson, looking down at his weathered hands, made two tight fists. He then slowly unclenched them, staring pensively at palms and fingers, almost as if his hands were triggering a memory or were an integral part of the story he was about to divulge.

“You’ve heard,” he began matter-of-factly, “of the huge wildlife preserve in South Africa known as Kruger National Park. The park was established in 1898 or 1926, I don’t recall the exact date, it’s not important, but anyone living then could scarcely have imagined how the planet would look three hundred years hence, how we would foul our nest so badly that the park would be one of the world’s last remaining sanctuaries for large mammals. In any event, I was afforded the rare opportunity to serve two years as a Park wildlife warden. Little salary, mind you, but I was permitted to hunt game when—and only when—doing so benefited the Park’s wildlife. Sanctioned culling, for example. Or if a veterinarian approved the removal of a diseased animal. But mostly I did a lot of walking and tracking, searching for snares—they’re a cruel business I can tell you—and apprehending the poachers that set them. The state government set a very high penalty for being caught, and poachers were heavily armed. For that reason, and the hunting, I carried a rifle. Nothing high-tech, mind you.

“I was out searching for snares when I stumbled upon three San poachers butchering a Cape Buffalo. You need only to comprehend two things about this: The few remaining San tribesmen are skilled trackers and hunters, often using nothing more than a bow and poison-tipped arrows to kill game; an average Cape Buffalo weighs eight hundred kilograms, stands one and a half meters tall at the shoulder, double that in length, has formidable horns, a thick hide, and a mean, some say vindictive, disposition. In short, you have to admire the San’s nerve.