17

 

June 4, 2052 (Launch plus 136 days),00:07 GMT.

 

I’m the last one left in the Tri-Comm. The others are cooking up a fiesta in the Beta hab, a celebration, Daniel said, that will include three kinds of salsa, roasted carrot and red pepper soup, chicken stir-fry, garlic-rice, breadfruit-cheese bake, sopapillas, and coconut ice cream with chocolate sauce.

Jepler still hasn’t arrived at NASA. They looked for him for over an hour before they found him at the Astros ballpark working on who knows what kind of deal.

“Dr. Chapman,” Ferris says, “word’s leaked out and we’re getting bombarded by media requests. Dr. Jepler will be up all night giving interviews.”

“Do you ever talk to them, Ferris? The media?”

“Don’t want to, Dr. Chapman. They pressure you and twist your words. I don’t want to talk about what you’re doing. I want to be out there with you.”

“I wish you could be.”

“Thanks.” Ferris pauses a minute to listen to someone in the background. “Dr. Jepler will be here in a few minutes.”

“Dr. C.,” His voice gets quiet, as if he’s speaking so I’m the only one who can hear him. “What would I have to do to be on the next FarSpace ship?”

The answer comes to me, one of those thoughts that’s not my own. “Become an expert on the pulse comm. Not many people know how to build and fix them. Every FarSpace ship will need someone to do that.”

“I’ll do it.” I hear a new ring of steel in Ferris’s voice. “Judy can apply as an ag-tech. She knows all about plants.”

“I hope you both make it, Ferris.”

There’s a moment of silence. What Jepler’s done is starting to sink in. He broke who knows what kind of regulations to send five more nauts. And he picked Marsha because he was thinking of me. I’m glad she’s here. Laughing yellow number 6s bounce in my stomach. They jump and spin and turn the color of Marsha’s red hair. How can I thank Jepler for what he’s done for the mission and for me?

“Grant!” Billy’s booming voice interrupts us. “You finally went to the Beta. I got the last signature I needed on a baseball tonight. Now it’s signed by the last seven World Series MVP’s. Of course, I got a dozen other balls signed, but this one’s a real bargaining piece.

“But what’s a million dollar baseball compared to your news? Here’s what you need to do right away. First, bring Beta back on line with SINDAS. The techs here can tell you what’s needed. In a minute, I need to talk to Jameson. He’s got some decisions to make...”

Indistinct 26s blur through my mind. “Jameson?”

Billy hardly misses a beat. “The new Captain of the Gal. After serving as a Navy pilot, he got a degree in management and personnel. He was commander of flight operations in the Navy. Grant, they all look up to you because you saved the ship, but he’s the best leader. Trust me, Grant, you don’t want it.”

I swallow an angry reply. This is the wheeling, dealing Billy Jepler. He’s an avalanche of 54759s crashing down a mountain slope.

Jepler doesn’t stop talking, “I’ve only got a couple of minutes before the press conference. We’ll get weeks of great headlines: ‘NASA Failsafe Procedures Avert Tragedy.’ ‘Galileo Mission Continues Toward the Stars.’ ‘Two Marriages in Space.’ I’ll need you all for a conference tomorrow…no, today, at 13:00. That will get us great coverage in the evening news. Grant, no more of this audio-only stuff. You’ve got to use the holo-vid.”

His ballpoint clicks furiously and, even on the Gal, I can hear Billy’s mind whirring. “I’ve got five deals that have been waiting for this moment. There’s a senator who’ll get a new manufacturing plant in his district. A museum in San Francisco will get a Brodraddy sculpture. A trucking company in Canton will get a new government contract. Perth, Australia, will open bids on a new sports center. And four reporters get exclusive interviews with the Gal’s married couples. You won’t believe the votes I’ll get for the Galileo II from those deals.

“I want you and Marsha to wait two months before you get married. Just when this breakthrough becomes old news, we’ll hit them with another wedding in space, one they can watch. I’ve been planning for this for months, Grant. Before the dust settles, Congress will approve funding for the Galileo II. Everything’s in place, scientific conferences, media interviews, and not a few of Jepler’s magic deals.

“Grant, the only thing that will top interest in your wedding will be the first child born in space.”

Orange 47s are simmering in my stomach. I grit my teeth, but can’t help interrupting him. “You had this all planned. You knew the nauts would marry.”

“Grant, don’t be thick-headed. NASA won’t admit it, but we select the crews with that in mind. We knew Ihor would never marry, but Bronson and Ushamla dated in training. Naomi and Vicente were an obvious pair, and we vetted Carmen and Thommas, so we knew they would have been a great match.”

Hearing their names, a wave of sad gray 8686’s washes over me. I start to tell him to have more respect for the dead, but Billy presses on. “Get real, Grant. It’s a twenty-five year trip in space. Of course the nauts will marry. And have families. Earth will go crazy over the first baby born in space. Jameson is conservative. He’ll want to play it safe, so I don’t expect a child for a year or so.”

Jepler’s voice is soaring, “Congress will approve Galileo II. That first baby’s my guarantee of continued interest and more votes. We’ll expand the size of the Galileo II. We’ll fund research on what additional plants and animals to include. We’ll start plans for further expansion of the Galileo III. It’s not one mission, Grant. We’ll send out six or eight Galileo’s before you return.”

The orange 47s threaten to boil over. I stammer, “How long have you had this planned?”

“A long time. But you were the key. When you went to space, I knew we were going to have more missions. Then the nauts died. That was a setback. If Carmen had taken them inside and prevented that cold radiation tragedy, we’d be building Galileo II now. But I knew when you found Marsha and the others, the good news would overcome the bad publicity and we’d be back on track.”

The orange 47s burn a hole in my stomach. This is the wheeler-dealer Jepler I don’t like. I’m more uncomfortable with him than I’ve ever been. I need to talk with Dr. H about it.

“The best thing would be if you and Marsha had the first child,” Billy muses. You’re the hero of the Gal. Earth would go crazy. Think about the things Congress would approve.”

Suddenly, I’m seeing flaming orange 47s smashing through glass windows. I clench my teeth. “Billy, let me get DeShawn for you.”

“Great. Grant, I’m really glad it’s you and Marsha. From the moment Weppler was disqualified, I wanted both of you in space. Don’t forget to talk to the techs about bringing Beta back on line with SINDAS.”

“I’ll get DeShawn.”

As I pull open the door to the Tri-Comm, Billy is saying, “He’ll need to do the first conference, to talk about how all three rings are healthy and how this puts the mission back on track. He’s a natural before the cameras.”

I leave him talking to himself.

 

****

 

June 8, 2052 (Launch plus 140 days), 10:54 GST.

Marsha and I stand beside the short potting bench in the small germination room in the Beta hab. The wooden bench is stained, the slats worn. The Beta is the oldest ring on the Gal. Captain Jameson is talking about us moving to Ring One. In a nomenclature that could only make sense to NASA, it’s the newest of the three rings.

“Everything is an adventure up here,” she says. “Even the normal things, gathering eggs, running enzyme identifications, analyzing blood chemistry. I’ve been caught in the wonder of space for five months, and now here I am excited about showing you seeds.”

Marsha leans across the bench and opens both doors of the deep cupboard above it. “Most of the seeds Jepler sent for you are in here.” She slides out one of the seed drawers. Stuffed in the narrow drawer are a long row of small sealed plastic bags, each one with a stark white label lettered in blue capital letters. She picks up a bag, points at the label which says “MARIGOLDS,” and opens it. She takes a deep breath. “They smell like Earth.”

I inhale and follow the scent. It’s like Louisiana farmlands on a windblown day. I lose her words for a moment, and then I hear her say, “I don’t know how many we’ll be able to plant, but it will be nice to have flowers in the ag and on the table.”

I remember on the farm, how often I saw Aunt Clara fill a vase with fresh-cut flowers. She would hum and smile as she slid the flowers into place. Once, when I was fifteen, Uncle Ralph came in unexpectedly. She didn’t hear him for her humming. As he stood and looked at her arranging the flowers, his face softened and his eyes grew moist.

For years, I thought I would never have that moment, never look upon someone who would spark that kind of joy in me. Now, here she is.

Marsha slides the thin drawer back into place and pulls out another. “Look, Grant, he sent us azalea seeds, and rhododendrons, and,”—she laughs as she points—”three bags of giant redwoods.”

I shake my head slowly. I know Billy is committed to the mission, but I hadn’t expected this. I feel a shiver of God’s warmth. It flares hot for a second, and I think of Carmen talking about Señor Jesús’s whispers. Marsha is silent, hushed, as if she feels it, too. These seeds are totally impractical, yet somehow, it seems Jepler heard God’s purpose for them, a purpose both of us sense but do not understand.

Marsha slides the drawer closed and pulls out another. “Here are your seeds.” She points to wide plastic bags, crammed full of orange, peach, cherry, and apple seeds. The brown apple seeds gleam in the light like sleek brown suns.

I open the bag marked “Peach” and take out one of the dull brown seeds.

Mouser bursts into the room. Ginger waddles along behind. They bark and jump with an infectious joy. We stoop down and pet them. Marsha coos at Ginger softly, “It won’t be long for you, girl. When you have your puppies, you’ll be able to keep up with Mouser again.”

After we untangle from the poodles, we stand up beside the bench. The dogs settle down at our feet, Mouser licking Ginger gently.

The peach seed sits in my palm, calling to me. I look at it.

“I saw you open a peach pit once,” Marsha says. “When you did, I thought about the tree that would grow from that seed, and, year after year, all the peaches that would grow on that tree, and how each of those peaches held its own tree. You’re holding an orchard. Did you ever think of that?”

The warmth of God floods through me again as I look up at her. Her lively green eyes are dancing with light.

“Marsha,” I stumble over the words, “the hardest thing for me, when I thought I was alone on the Gal, was thinking I’d never see you again.”

She gives a shy smile.

I can’t stop the words. “You’re the most kind, interesting, attractive person I’ve ever met. If you would have me, I’ll give you my best.”

She laughs, “Are you proposing marriage in a potting shed?”

The sound of her laugh is flowing 122. They blossom into 1212 and 12144.

“I’m not,” I stammer, “proposing to the room. I’m proposing to the unique woman in it.”

She laughs and takes my hand. “Yes, Grant. Yes.”

Mouser and Ginger erupt with barking. Marsha’s touch is warm, soaking into me, and suddenly the Galileo is our home.