CHAPTER the SECOND: OUTPOST--

OUTPOST
Chapter Two

“Yet still the lacy spires of Truth sing beauties madrigal. And she herself will ever dwell along the grand-canal.”
From ‘Along the Grand-Canal’ by Robert Heinlein

Reisling, the transport space-pilot, had a place when in Vandenberg, where he could stay. Guy wasn’t married, but knew a few women who were ‘more than friends’. After months in space, therefore, and on recommendation of numerous Space Program doctors, it was for his own health and enjoyment, and psychological well-being, when he returned, to get ‘down to business’ and have a good time for a bit. His home in the Vandenberg-area was very nice, but perhaps not extravagant by many standards, and on the lazy California afternoons in the heat beneath those high clouds, among the tender green leaves on the bushes in his very own backyard, where birds would play, and grass underfoot, short-cut by the handyman who watched the place---fresh air, quality gravity, food and friends---it was always good to be back, every single time. Earth is home forever, as any space-pilot knows.
The women he knew were mostly of the same variety who were impressed by race-car drivers, jet-pilots, bull-rider rodeo boys, surfers, heavy-equipment operators, and police or emergency workers. Space-travel was not yet truly a ‘normal job’, in 2075. But there were many runs these days, far more than in the past, and the Earth’s Space-Program back-and-forth to Mars, in particular, was now almost like any other very expensive and high-tech industry. So for Guy, it was a ‘cool gig’, and the ladies loved it. Guy was attractive and healthy, athletic, and he loved them right back. So any returning was a celebration, and barbecues in his backyard were a favorite mode of enjoyment---easy, private, outdoors, with music and friends.
Guy’s fast-grill wood barbecue lofted pale-blue wood-smoke into the air and sunlight. He was making hamburgers. Margie, one of the cafeteria-girls at the base, who had a wonderfully pronounced and appealing body for a woman of about age 35-years, had joined him, and for today it was just the two of them, rather than a ‘big deal’ party or anything. The better to eat you with, my dear, Guy thought to himself. He was cooking hamburgers, and other food, and they had beer and snacks. The radio was playing popular current tunes. It’s good to be back, Guy thought. I wonder if Margie is up for a hot shower with a cold space-man??

“Why did all the early science-fiction writers 100 years ago think that Mars had big canals, Guy? Have you ever wondered? You know---Arthur C. Clarke and Robert Heinlein, or Edgar Rice Burroughs and Ray Bradbury? They all invented stories where Mars was covered with these big giant ancient canals, like deep canyons. Why was that? Do you know?” Even for a cafeteria-worker, Margie was well-read, probably because it was a space-port, and all that. Everyone at the base got into the fun and glory of space-travel, the excitement and legend.
“Guy, your hamburgers are burning!”

Guy replaced his beer on top of a picnic table, and grabbed his spatula. He started flipping hamburger-patties as quickly as he could---the bluish smoke was getting thick. “Mars never had canals, Margie,” he answered her as he worked. “The idea was because the planet might have had plenty of water, in the past, which had created the canals, like deep rivers. There were early photos, and also early art-work, that perpetuated the myth, and caught on as a popular delusion. So, it was only a romantic notion. The whole canal thing had something or other to do with the Western or US common lack of world-travel experience, and the American’s desire to travel to places like Venice, Italy, where they had the famous gondolas, another popular cartoonish image.”
“Maybe a root canal,” Margie said. “Like at the dentist’s.”

Margie’s pronounced and very appealing 35 year-old female body had at this point cleverly maneuvered close by Guy’s shoulder, and she skillfully leaned her slightly rounded arm on his shoulder, and another on his hip. She sipped her beer. Guy finished flipping his seven hamburger patties---the fire was a bit too hot, but they were fine. He loved the way the smoke curled into the air. And he also loved the nearby local heavenly bodies, such as Margie’s.

In that year, 2075, the Mars program was now at least 20 years-old. Much progress had been made. The most significant was the establishment of a functioning base, on Mars. The Snikta-Ridge Volcanic-Basin Mars Base was a wonder. It had been built in about 10 years, for the first part, and really was always expanding with new parts or new sections. The US Space-Program was the lead agency, but other nations had participated---Japanese, Chinese, UK, Brazilian, Russian, Israeli. Guy was very proud to be a part of it all, and of course his job was merely to move equipment, gear and supplies, and sometimes people, from Earth to Mars, for the base and its various needs. The ships, the base-machinery, the staff and crews, the propulsion-systems, the navigation, and the things learned, were all a stunning victory for the program, at least to an extent.

So, of course, driving a transport back-and-forth, sometimes made beautiful women like Margie desirous of Guy’s company, he guessed as a status-thing for the gals on the base, who probably bragged later in their girly-talk about which space-pilot was the best lover. Margie was no favorite, or any long-term relationship or significant-other status for Guy. In terms of simple lust, he was a lot more interested in the hamburgers, at the moment. The in-flight food they ate on the ‘Penelope’, his Cundrum-21 Deep-Space Local Planetary Cruiser (by DuPont-Monsanto), was really pretty awful. No outdoor barbecues, cold beers, gently lofting smoke from a greasy grill, toasted bread-buns, mustard, ketchup and onions. So he always craved ‘that sort of thing’ when he was on his own, and back home. The doctors didn’t approve of much ‘junk food’ for his nutritional routine, but he and Margie had other plans.

He told Margie more about why he had been grounded. The story was now common-knowledge at the base, as far as his peers. They lay in bed in their afternoon-delight, later, full of beer, burgers and each other, between the cotton sheets, made from cotton-puff fiber clouds only Mother-Earth could yield, like her white-clouds above. For Margie it was a gossip-plumb she could cherish and savor for later---the inside scoop.

It was their fifth run of the season, for Guy and the crew of the Penelope. Because of the relatedness of each planet’s position as they would orbit the Sun, transports could only make so many runs to Mars with any real success. The two planets were only near enough during a short window of months. After that, the journey was almost insanely difficult. The so-called Mars Effect, back on Earth, was even calculated as far as gravitational-pull on Earth oceans, and other effects, of course seemingly minor, but others speculated the nearness of the planets could create emotional and psychological upsets among the common populace of Earth, during those seasons. Wars, market crashes, domestic violence, disease---it might just be Mars, or the Mars Effect, though of course it was impossible to really know. But during those seasons, when Mars and Earth were near enough, that was when Guy went to work, and voyaged in his ship, with goods for the Mars base. I guess everyone needs a scapegoat, Guy thought. In the case of Earth, we need an entire other planet!

“Just rub my back,” Margie moaned. “You have such strong hands.” Otherwise known as the Margie-Effect, as far as guy was concerned. He complied happily.

“Ohhhhh. Thanks, Guy. So go ahead. It was your fifth-run on your way back. They had the solar flares. Why didn’t you just---you know----just solve the problem like a good astronaut? You’re supposed to know how and everything, right? How else could you survive?”

Guy’s thoughts drifted back in his memories of the flight. How could he explain so a cafeteria-worker would understand? It was now three months in the past. They had performed their duties flawlessly, another great run. The chores as far as space-men and pilots were concerned, were now fairly routine. But, like any work of this sort, even a small irregularity, or unforeseen event, could literally create sudden terror, and death, for Guy and his crew. The Penelope had been required to ferry over a more-than-usual cargo of Condensed Water----things get dry on the Red Planet. Every transport run was essential, and there was no turning back after the Halfway-Point Docking at Molinari, the long-term orbiting deep-space rest-stop.

Memories of the abyss are only darkness, except aboard the ship, where they all lived every moment, the mother, the womb. Great place for Buddhists---emptiness it’s only feature, with the stars so distant, as to appear as non-real. So, he and his team did their thing, the ship was fine. But the solar flares, or what they call heated emissions---any movement there on the local solar tracking and monitoring, and Guy, as the pilot, had to take care. If he didn’t handle it properly, based on the ship’s position, the movement and speed of the hot gases, and the heat-levels of the hot gases---they could fry. Not a happy outcome. And in this case, apparently, even though they had a successful return to Earth, Guy had not handled it properly. Flight-path error. It means, ‘we don’t do things that way’. Space-flight is like running a huge stock-market fund. If you screw up, it can be like a very long row of very carefully stacked dominoes, which happen to be very expensive as well. One error leads to another and another. So the pilots are always on the spot. If he and his crew fry, that’s one thing. If he makes an in-flight decision, it’s more about flight-training and procedural methods. As anyone would guess, when making the choice that had landed him in bed with Margie that peaceful afternoon, incineration was the first-up motivating-factor, compared with being grounded.

Now Margie’s pink-white butt was in his hands, which he was kneading like bread-dough. “It’s obvious, Guy,” she was commenting. “You were just sick of space-travel and being out there so long in the dark. You wanted to come home, and be with me. So you sub-consciously chose to mess up the flight-plan, when maybe you could have done it another way.”

“Sure Margie,” Guy said. “But I also didn’t want to be burned to death along with my crew. Besides, you and I are NSA, you know? No-strings-attached. “

She smirked back at his talk. And here Margie thought it was all about her. What a heart-breaker!! “So you used the hydrogen-fuel instead of the regular fuel. Big deal. Or you changed course when maybe it wasn’t planned out. You still got home. You still saved their lives. Isn’t that enough?”

“Yeah, for me,” Guy said. He now had also had enough, and gave up on Margie’s massage. Later, as the afternoon rolled by in a bliss of warmth and welcome, they kissed and said good-bye. Great gal, Guy thought. Smart, too.

Burn, or----take a vacation back home. Not a difficult set of options. Maybe it was true, Guy thought. Maybe Mars wasn’t worth it after all. There was nothing there of much value. Someone at the base was talking about a Big Meeting that was ahead for Earth’s Space-Program leadership---something about the Snikta-base on Mars. There had been a lot of rumors, as usual. Whether Guy would still be flying any transports, whatever future was ahead, was ‘up-in-the-air’ for now. But he still wanted to be a part of it all. He still wanted the thrill of his job, the daring-do kind of tough-guy self-confidence, and the beauty and wonder. This was why being grounded meant so much. Because it’s not just a job. Oh no. Not just a driver’s spot on a transit bus. So much more. Maybe even---too much.

“There are no hamburgers in space,” Guy said to himself, watching the sun set over the Pacific after Margie was safely on her way home.

---Julian Philips
Oct. 10, 2009/OUTPOST
Tom Luong Films