Sectret of The Marauder Satellite (v1.0) Page 5

  The Cape has affected me like that ever since. It’s been hard really to control my emotions; I feel as if I have been reduced to something elemental and very small—yet very important, in the scheme of things. These are thoughts and feelings I’ve kept mostly to myself, but I know that others have thought and felt them; Bix has, and so has Mary, and she says her father too.

  The waiting room had been built in a concrete bunker—although the decorators had been at pains to disguise the fact—buried far below the actual launching pad on which our rocket sat. There were tunnels and elevators leading to the control blockhouse, and to the outside, but only one short tunnel to the elevator that was waiting for us now. The thirteen of us ordered ourselves into lines, the men in the lead, each of us suited up and carrying only what personal gear we could fit into the suit kit provided for such items as toothbrushes and the like. There was no one there to say good-by; our farewells had already been said. One by one we walked down the short tunnel, past the heavy bulkhead doors that would seal the tunnel off from any blow-by blast, and into the simple cagelike elevator.

  There was little talking. “This is it, huh?” I nodded to Bix, and he winked back. This was it. The climaxes were past.

  The cage door to the elevator slid automatically shut. We were standing on a platform, surrounded by a wire-link fence higher than our heads. Except for the boxlike girder structure that formed the skeleton of the elevator, the top was open. I could see a long shaft with light at the top, cables snaking up along the sides. They tightened and began to sway, back and forth. We were going up.

  The shaft ended at the surface of the pad, and for a moment our eyes were level with the base of our rocket, but the elevator was still climbing, half its journey still to be done.

  Now we were swinging up past an open latticework of girders, the umbilical tower that would hold and support the rocket almost until ignition, and the elevator cables were singing with vibration.

  Now we felt the heat of the open, the sun slanting down at us through the tower, shadows flickering over us. I was grateful for the way space suits had been modified and lightened; early astronauts had to carry portable air conditioners during this part of their journey to keep from roasting in their suits. But it still seemed to me foolish that we were required to suit up for the trip; the Russians discarded the practice long ago. Of course, their ships have airlocks too. On the other hand, Dr. Cramer pointed out to me later a point I’d overlooked.

  “Paul, you have to have a suit once you’re up here— everyone does. It’s needed for your work, and it’s an absolutely necessary safety precaution. How do you suppose your suit would’ve gotten up here, if you hadn’t carried it on your back?" Too true.

  The trip up that tower seemed as slow as the part in the shaft had been fast. It reminded me of a roller-coaster ride I’d once taken—the first part, while the cars are clanking up the first incline. As we’d gotten higher and higher, the cars had seemed to go slower and slower, heightening the suspense.

  Soon we were abreast the second stage, and the panorama of the launch complex and the Cape was spread out below us. The sky overhead was very blue.

  Then with a slight shudder, the elevator came to a stop. The gate slid open. Ahead of us was the entrance to the capsule.

  We use the Saturn C for commuting to the Station rather than the smaller rockets we’d originally used for orbiting trips, because of the payload—the number of passengers—we carry each trip. The C capsule can accommodate up to fourteen passengers, although it does the job rather the same way sardine packers do.

  We entered through the port in the nose. Inside there was a series of ladder rungs leading down toward what was now the bottom, and would soon be the back, of the capsule. Down there were four acceleration couches. The first four men in climbed down and into their seats. They then reached forward and released the next four couches, which had been folded against the side. These pivoted out over the bottom row, hiding the first four men from sight, and locked into place almost directly over them. Mary, Bix, and I settled into these; to my vast annoyance, Bob Krassner plunked himself down next to me.

  We each reached up and triggered the releases on the couches over us, and in the next moment I was fighting off a severe attack of claustrophobia.

  Although I’d been in the simulators enough times to know how it felt to lie flat on your back with your knees brought up into a semicrouch, the contours of another acceleration couch only inches in front of your nose, no room really to shift about or even to cross your legs—this wasn’t the same. For one thing, it smelled different. Don’t ask me how, but it smelled real, not like a mock-up of fiber glass and cardboard. It was dark in there, and I felt pinned, trapped in a box—or (this from an old movie on the late, late show) in a coffin. But what I really think did it was feeling Krassner lying there right next to me, his elbow and shoulder nudging me, making me feel cramped and making me want to edge over, away from him— which was impossible, since that would be crowding Bix.

  I can tell you, I felt pretty uncomfortable.

  There were grunts from the guys overhead climbing into their couches, then the clicks as they released the top two couches. I wish I could’ve been in either one of the outside couches on the third row, or one of the two on the top row—then, at least, I’d have had a little breathing space.

  A metallic voice from a speaker asked, "Everyone settled? Roll call. " ^

  We each spoke our name in turn. I was surprised; Dr. Cramer and his three associates sounded off just as we cadets did. Mary’s voice broke when it was her turn, and I heard Bix whisper something to her afterward. I don’t know what it was, but it was probably the right thing; she giggled.

  "Ok" the speaker said after a pause. "lt is now T minus 920 seconds, and counting."

  I was glad of that. About fifteen minutes left—the waiting was nearly at an end. The port was being dogged, and soon, I knew, the tower would be moving away from us.

  We had no pilot; it was unnecessary. We were in a passenger capsule—a third stage that would be guided directly by Houston until docking time, when the Station would take us over. We were just so many fish in a can, under shipment. There would be an equal number of returnees to take our places on the capsule* s return as well, all bundled the same way into this ultimate elevator. Everything was fully automated. Those daring space pilots of the old TV serials had never had a chance....

  The speaker droned the final seconds into a flat silence that gripped us all. Then, somewhere far below us, there began a distant roaring.

  The roar ascended the scale until it was a vibration we felt, rather than heard—and soon that was gone too.

  My couch had pushed up around me, and I found myself sinking back into it with the thrust of the acceleration, and all the time staring at the couch so close overhead. I hope it holds, I was saying over and over to myself. I just hope it holds. I dug the gloved fingers of my hands into the foam-covered handrests and if they’d been oranges, I’d have gotten all the juice out.

  Of course the seat held; it was designed to.

  I don’t know how long I was lying there grabbing on for dear life, but after a while it occurred to me that the sounds had disappeared, there was less thrust holding me down, and that I wasn’t going to get squeezed flat by the guy in the couch overhead.

  There was a solid ka-thunk, and then another, weaker thrust. The third stage booster had blown free, and we were using the second stage now. Soon we would be floating, in free fall, as we coasted out toward our rendezvous with the Station. -

  “A good launchcame the words from the speaker.

  “Everything on the nose. You're in the groove; you’ll be docking in seventy-five minutes.”

  Just then the acceleration stopped. There was another, closer jar, and I knew we’d separated from the second stage.

  We were coasting now. We were in free fall.

  Not that we were likely to float anywhere. Each of us was strapped down, and even if we h
adn’t been, we couldn’t have gotten far.

  The announcement from Houston Control broke the tension, and everyone started talking. Bob Krassner strained his face over toward me in the gloom and said in a whiny voice, “Why can’t they put windows back in this part of the capsule? You know, so we could see out?”

  It bothered me too, but I wasn’t going to let him see that. “Unlax,” I said, “you’ll get plenty of space in the next six months.”

  “Yeah, I know, but that’s not the same. I mean, I wanted to watch liftoff—I wanted to look out and see the old Mother Earth drop away, the way they do it on TV.

  I—urps,” he said. He brought his hand up over his mouth. “I—I feel kinda funny,” he said weakly.

  “You’re not going to get sick, are you?” I asked. I was pretty concerned. I mean, I was right next to him, after all, and he was facing me. “You had your shots, didn’t you?”

  He nodded, but didn’t open his mouth again.

  “You’ll be all right,” I said hopefully.

  He surprised me. He had the grace to turn his face toward the wall. Nevertheless, I hoped he wouldn’t be sick. In free fall, stuff just floats around, moving with the air currents. It would be very messy.

  Bix had been talking with Mary about something, but now he was lying back with his eyes closed.

  “What’s the matter? Are you sick too?”

  He opened one eye for a moment, and then closed it again. “Nope. Just taking a nap. Best time for it; weightless sleep is the best you can get, and we don’t know what time it’ll be at the Station when we get there.”

  “A good idea, young man,’* came Dr. Cramer’s voice floating up from the bottom layer. ‘‘There’s very little else you can do, you know.”

  I stared at Bix in disgust. He’d finked out, and was leaving me for Krassner.

  Speaking of whom... .

  “Hey, Williams—?”

  “Shut up, Krassner. I’m trying to sleep,” I said.

  I amazed myself. I actually did fall asleep. I’d been afraid the first time I’d thought of life on the Station and sleeping in free fall—I didn’t know much about the Station then—that I’d have nightmares, the kind where you fall. Floating, after all, is really the same as falling, from your body’s point of view; that’s what free fall means. I hadn’t yet had a chance to try moving much in free fall, • but I knew that if I hadn’t had those shots, my stomach would’ve flipped over, and I’d have grabbed the nearest solid-looking object.

  But maybe they’d slipped tranquilizers in along with the other shots, or maybe the antinausea shots were all it took; floating was just sort of dreamy... when my eyes closed it was hard to remember I had a body, and pretty soon I didn’t...

  I woke up to feel something tugging at me. It felt hours later, and I started to jerk up in panic. What had happened? Had I overslept? Had they overlooked me? What—?

  It was one of the little maneuvering rockets, jockeying us around, lining us up for docking. I’d slept only a little over an hour. If felt like a full night.

  That’s what weightless sleep does for you. Bix explained it to me later: It allows a deeper sleep, and gives your body a more complete rest. They’ve experimented with special sleep chambers, down on Earth, which simulate floating and allow you to compress a night’s sleep into a few hours, but nothing beats the real thing.

  I wondered why the sleeping quarters on the Station weren’t weightless, and Bix explained to me, “Just ignoring the matter of physical space—I mean, how are you going to get everybody sleeping on the axis? Just ignoring that, there’s the psychological factor. This is why those sleep experiments on Earth never added up to much. You see, you sleep for two reasons: for body rest, and for psychological reasons—to dream. I’m very much interested in that; it seems that you have to dream a certain percentage of time in order to stay mentally healthy. Now, according to Jungian theory—” At that point I’d cut him off.

  I looked to my left, and saw that Bix was also awake.

  “We’ll be docking soon," he said. “How do you feel, huh?’’

  “Oh, great," came a voice from the other side of me. "Just great. First we don’t get to see liftoff—now we miss seeing the Station. Boy!’’

  “Hey, Krassner!" came a voice from above. “Why don’t you quit your bellyaching, huh?’’

  “That’s all right for you—you’re up there where you can see it all!’’

  And that’s how we arrived at the Station—not with a bang, but a whine.

  Chapter 5

  SOME OF the old-timers on the Station call it the Tin Can, and there’s a good reason for that. Viewed from any distance, it does look like a tin can.

  It started out a whole lot differently. It was the direct heir of the orbiting laboratory the Air Force put up in the early seventies. There was a lot of beefing about a manned military satellite, however, so NASA took the lab over, and began building additions.

  The first lab was simply a short pipelike section that would barely hold two men in comfort. But it also held a lot of scientific gear.

  NASA began orbiting new lengths that neatly fitted on the ends, extending the length and capacity of the Station. Then when they had a good-sized pipe, they began constructing a wheel around it, spokes radiating out from the central pipe to the rim. The original lab became the axis of the new Station, like a wheel mounted on an axle.

  There was a very sound reason for building the wheel instead of just continuing to lengthen the central pipe, and it had nothing to do with the complaints of the early Station personnel about having to squirm the length of the pipe every time they wanted a different tool or instrument. What it boiled down to was the need for weight: some of the work simply could not be done under weightless conditions.

  We haven’t figured out how to make artificial gravity or antigravity yet—although that’s bound to be the next step in space travel—but we can simulate gravity in an age-old way: centrifugal force.

  Swing a ball on a string around your head, and it will exert a force away from your hand. This force is equal no matter whether the ball is above or below your hand, no matter from which direction gravity is pulling. Or—fill a pail half full of water, and start turning your body around, swinging the pail in a circle, and pretty soon the pail is on its side—but the water is still glued to its bottom.

  So they built a wheel around the old lab, and they rotated the wheel on the axis of the old lab, and out on the wheel itself they had a very respectable sort of pseudogravity: the outside of the wheel was “down” and the axis was “up.” As you climbed a spoke toward the center axis, the effects of the spin became less—“gravity” was lighter—until once you were back at the center of things, in the old lab, you were again weightless, and could float in the center while the walls revolved around you.

  The military stepped in again—the cold war seemed to be getting a little hotter about then—and demanded a share of “their” Station. NASA graciously let them build a second wheel, so that the Station now looked like two wheels at each end of an axle. The military boys have always kept their quarters very hush-hush, but it is known that they imported a number of missiles with nuclear warheads, and a lot of ballistic computers.

  Since space within the Station is always a bit cramped, despite the vast expansion over its original size, it was decided to enclose the two wheels in a cylinder, and close off the ends between the spokes. This turned the Station into the shape it is now: a vast spinning barrel, with two nubby fingers pointing out of each end to mark the original axis.

  Naturally, all this building took an awful lot of material—most of it plain sheet metal. Although this sheet metal would cost very little on Earth, F.O .B., Gary, Indiana, it cost quite a lot more to boost it into orbit. The Station has been under construction for almost fifteen years, now, and is far from finished.

  Well, anyway, that’s how the Station evolved. Physically, it measures two thousand feet long, and three hundred sixty feet in diamete
r. In addition to the main “can,” there are those two “fingers” pointing out each end that I told you about. One of them is an observatory, the other the docking facilities. Both are coupled to the Station in such a way that they do not turn with the Station’s rotation; gyroscopes hold them in a position fixed relative to Earth.

  The Station doesn’t sound very big the way I’ve described it—and it doesn’t even look that big when you’re close by in space. But it is big—it is the biggest thing Man has ever put into space. It’s as big in volume as a large office building—and the interior space is a whole lot more efficiently arranged.

  A good deal of the interior isn’t finished off yet, of course. That’s what we’re still building. The outer shell is in place, and under pressure; we have air throughout. But many of the levels haven’t been put in yet, and venturing into the uncompleted parts is like wandering into a vast and empty warehouse.

  There are a lot of unusual problems in building and maintaining a station that spins as this does. The most important is that of balance. This not only means that we have to build equally all around the perimeter, putting equal amounts of mass opposite each other, but that we must be careful about the actual movement of the Station personnel. If all the people moved into one area, it would seriously throw the whole Station out of kilter. Think of it like the wheels on your family car, they have to be balanced, or the tires wear unevenly, a wobbling vibration sets up at certain speeds, and you get a very rough ride.

  Well, if the Station got seriously out of balance, it would wobble too. And that wobble, unless caught very quickly, would feed itself, build, and increase—-not only throwing us and every movable item all over the place, but throwing the Station itself out of its stable orbit.

  So we have this computer system that does nothing but keep track of the movements of everyone in the Station. And when minor imbalances occur, it shifts ballast. And the ballast? I’m glad you asked me that question. The ballast is our water. Rather than keeping the water in central tanks, it has been distributed through a network of valves and pipes all over the rim of the Station.