I was less than comfortable with the thought of spending so many months in the company of so few. What if Bithras, Allen, and I did not get along at all?
A tiny elevator carried three passengers at a time from the primary lock down the length of the hull and debouched us into a small cabin forward of the drive shields. The steward for our cylinder — short, taut, sandy-haired and brown-skinned, male, about forty Earth years old, with sharp black eyes — greeted us formally and politely, and introduced himself as Acre — just Acre. He had the remarkable ability to change his feet into hands, and to bend his long tan legs backwards and forwards, which he demonstrated quickly and with minimal explanation. He escorted us in small groups to the secondary lock. Here, we climbed through an access pipe barely a meter wide into our cylinder, where we drifted in the observation lounge, surrounded by direct-view windows now shuttered and shielded.
The lounge had room for all of us. We crowded together waiting for instructions. Bithras headed the Jast contingent of passengers and conferred briefly with the steward before scowling and searching the crowd. His eyes met mine, the scowl reversed into a radiant smile, and he crooked his arm and waved twinkle-fingers.
The steward called my name from the access pipe. I floated forward, fumbling at the grips and bumping a few of my fellows apologetically before anchoring myself. “You’re in charge of our friend here, I understand,” he said, pushing forward Alice ’s box. Alice ’s arbeiter carriage weighed as much as she did and had not been brought along; we would rent her a carriage on Earth.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Please hold on to it while we check cabin assignments and get things organized.”
“Her, not it,” I said.
“Sorry.” He smiled. “We’ll stow her in her niche after orientation.”
I took Alice in hand and moved to the side of the lounge. She was endo not exo for the moment — her sensors and voice were inactive.
“Now that we’re all here,” the steward said, “welcome aboard Tuamotu. We’ll give out some important information and then off to your cabins to snug in.”
Bithras and Allen Pak-Lee floated beside me. “This is my second passage to Earth,” Bithras said in an undertone, “and your first, of course.”
“My first,” I affirmed.
Most Earth English accents were familiar to me from LitVid; the steward, Acre , might have been Australian, His features seemed indigene. Acre delivered the “doctro” crisply and clearly in less than five minutes. He gave us a few safety tips for the next leg of the trip — boost and solar orbit injection — and had us circle around the lounge to become familiar with weightless aids and procedures.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll discuss immunization levels and all the options available throughout the voyage. Some options are closed — all warm-sleep berths are taken for the duration. All temp berths and switchouts are closed, as well. We hope that causes no inconvenience.”
“Woe,” murmured Bithras.
Acre helped me stow Alice in her niche just forward of the lounge and showed me how to run the legally required connection checks. Bithras attended for a few minutes, applied a strip of ID tape to a seam to protect against unauthorized removal, and left the rest to Acre and me.
“Family thinker?” Acre inquired.
“A copy,” I said.
“I’m fond of thinkers,” he said. “Once they’re stowed, they’re no trouble at all. I wish they’d travel with us more often — Sakya gets lonely sometimes, the Captain says.”
Sakya was the ship’s dedicated thinker. I reached into the niche, palmed my ID on Alice ’s port, and asked, “Everything tight?”
“I’m comfortable, thank you,” Alice replied, coming exo quickly. “Bithras has sealed me in?”
“Yes.”
“I’m talking with Sakya now. This should be pleasant. Will you join me for a chat once we’re underway?”
“I’d love to,” I said. I closed the hatch on Alice ’s niche. Acre locked her in and gave me the key. “We raise them right on Mars,” I said.
“Might teach Sakya some manners,” he said.
Everything aboard Tuamotu was impressively high nano; she had been refitted with the lastest Earth designs before her last crossing. There were no telltale yeast or iodine smells during nano activity. The ship’s visible surfaces could assume an apparently infinite variety of textures and colors and were capable of displaying or projecting images with molecular resolutions.
I felt wrapped in luxury, examining my private cabin — two meters by three by two, private vapor bag and vacuum toilet. If I wanted, I could turn almost the entire cabin into a LitVid screen and be surrounded by any scenery I chose.
I pulled out the desk, ported my slate, and selected my scheme. The desk became the color and texture of stone and wood with gold inlay. I ran my fingers along the tactile surface; the sensations of polished oak, cold marble, and smooth metal were flawless.
It was traditional for passengers to gather for the boost. I wanted to have a seat, so I quickly unpacked my few things and went aft.
Allen Pak-Lee followed and hooked himself to a seat beside me. “Nervous?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“God, I am. Don’t misunderstand. I have a lot of respect for Bithras. But he’s very demanding. I took a brief from his assistant on the last trip. He said he spent several months in hell. There was a crisis and Bithras insisted on hogging the waves.”
Bithras returned to the lounge and sat beside us with a curt nod. “Damn them,” he said.
“Who?” I inquired.
“This ship reeks of progress,” he said.
The lounge filled as the gong sounded. The steward, with the aid of a few slim, graceful octoped arbeiters, served drinks and explained the procedure to the uninitiated. The boost would be comfortable, no more than one-third g. For a few hours, we would have a “lazy sense of up and down.” Actually, one-third g was just below Mars standard — not quite full weight for a red rabbit.
The passengers in the lounge who had claimed seats settled in, and those who drifted found grips and hooks and arranged for a place to drop their feet. I looked them over curiously — our companions for eight months. One family would be in our cylinder, a handsome man and woman with a daughter whom I judged to be about seventeen Earth years old — native Terries, by their appearance. The daughter, too beautiful to be completely natural, played with a faux mouse.
Acre looked at the ceremonial wristwatch on his left arm, raised his hand, and we counted backwards…
At five, the ship vibrated like a struck bell. At four, the ceiling projected a full-width view aft. Everybody looked up, jaws gaping. The drive funnels flexed. A methane-oxygen kicker motor would take us out of Martian orbit.
Streamers of violet played against the blackness and the limb of sunrise Mars: warmup and test. Then the kicker fired full thrust, throwing a long orange cone that quickly turned translucent blue.
Gently, we acquired weight. The weight grew until it almost felt as if we were on Mars again. The unseated passengers laughed and stood on the floor, and a few even did a little jig, slapping hands.
We severed our bonds with the world of my birth.
In my cabin, just before sleep, I studied diagrams from the ship’s operations manual, things I normally wouldn’t give dust for… Charles would, however, and I felt again a perverse obligation to think about him. I attributed these thoughts to simple fright and homesickness.