Martin thought he had misheard. “Did you say several billion? That can’t be.”
“No, you heard that right,” Cusack said. “You are worth several billion dollars. Each region sending an astronaut must participate in financing this expedition. We were lucky to find a private sponsor for you at the last moment.”
Some billionaire was willing to pay several billion so I can fly to Saturn in a spacecraft? Martin was puzzled. Couldn’t this person have sent me a thousandth of that sum and just been happy about saving his money?
“Be that as it may, we have to streamline your training. Normally, you would get a jet pilot license first, but that would take weeks, and it wouldn’t help you anyway. Who knows if you’ll ever return?” Cusack waited to see how he would react.
He seems to have expected some kind of shocked expression, Martin thought, showing no reaction.
“Well. You seem to realize what your chances look like. We are flying without any safety nets. So far, neither the spacecraft nor its drive has been really tested. You already saw what teething troubles Valkyrie had. Compared to this, the moon landing was well-prepared back in its day.”
Martin knew his history well. In retrospect, it had been by sheer luck that the American astronauts had made it to the moon and back.
“Are you trying to talk me out of doing the job?” Martin asked.
“For heaven’s sake, no. No one knows his way around the drill vehicle like you, as both of your bosses have assured me. You are our first pick for that position. Of course, we are also training a substitute, in case you drop out at the last minute. Just think of what happened to the Sikh.”
“I would like to meet the guy you are training as my substitute.”
“The person is a woman, and you are not supposed to meet her. She has been a member of the Astronaut Corps for a while and will participate in a mission to Mars unless you drop out here,” Cusack said.
“So what’s going to happen next?”
“Right, let’s not waste any time. Next week you will meet all of your colleagues for the first time. They are all waiting for that moment. We will send the entire group of you on wilderness survival training.”
It won’t help me if I know how to light a fire with wet wood, neither in space nor on Enceladus, Martin realized, though he knew the main goal was to test them as a group.
“Afterward there will be underwater training in spacesuits, and then off into space. We are going to skip the parabolic flights. Otherwise we won’t be able to meet the deadlines. You will get plenty of zero-gravity training aboard the Chinese Tiangong-4 station.”
Martin asked, “Will I still be here for Christmas?”
“I wouldn’t count on it. The construction of your spacecraft is proceeding unexpectedly smoothly. If we manage a December launch, your journey will be as short as possible. If we wait any longer, your journey will take longer, since Saturn wouldn’t be in such an advantageous position.”
“Well. I would like to have a week off before launch.”
“If you promise me you won’t go skiing or mountain-climbing …”
“No, I am just going to visit my mother.”
“You do that, Mr. Neumaier. We trust you.”
Martin and Willinger shook hands with Cusack when they said goodbye.
“Typical for NASA,” Willinger whispered to Martin when they were in the corridor. “I could have told you all of that. Instead, they fly in some guy from California.”
“He probably had nothing else to do,” Martin mused.
Willinger nodded. “What would you think about going out for some drinks tonight? You will leave us the day after tomorrow, and we haven’t even had a beer together.”
“Sure,” Martin nodded. “Are you going to pick me up? I don’t have a car here.”
“I will be in front of your door at eight.”
Willinger was punctual. “You’re not one of those vegetarians, are you?”
Martin shook his head.
“That’s good, because I would like to take you to PJ’s. It’s steak night there tonight. And tonight they don’t have karaoke scheduled, or football or baseball on TV, so we’ll even be able to have a decent conversation.”
While they were driving through Houston’s wide streets—with his trainer even taking the wheel himself—the streetlights were coming on. Willinger finally stopped in front of a building Martin would have initially mistaken for a private residence that had seen better days. It had two stories and small windows, of which only those on the ground floor showed signs advertising karaoke and steaks. Willinger parked the car at the curb.
The tavern was small. On a crowded night, it would seat barely more than 20 or 25 people, and this evening it was almost empty. Two couples sat at a table, and three men were playing cards at the bar. The bartender, who was probably also the owner, came from behind the counter and greeted Willinger.
“Nice of you to show up again,” the man said as he extended his right hand.
“This is a young colleague of mine. His name is Martin.”
Martin hadn’t been called young in a long time.
“Hi, I’m Steve. I own this place. I hope you like steaks. There’s nothing else on the menu tonight.”
“Of course he likes steaks,” Willinger answered for him. “And bring us two beers.” Willinger pointed at a corner table with two chairs. “That’s perfect for us.”
Martin chose the chair with its back to the wall. The table had not been recently wiped, and displayed countless marks left by glasses.
“PJ’s hasn’t been remodeled for at least 50 years. That’s his specialty,” Willinger explained. “You won’t find another tavern like this in Houston anymore.”
After the first sip of beer, Willinger’s demeanor became more personal.
This beer is served in a glass, and it’s surprisingly good, not as tasteless as the usual beer that comes in cans, Martin discerned.
Willinger noted his appreciative look. “It’s made by a local brewery, according to the German beer law, the Reinheitsgebot.” He pronounced the last word almost flawlessly, with hardly any accent.
His curiosity piqued, Martin shot a look at Willinger and asked, “German ancestors?”
“Only on my mother’s side,” Willinger said. “My father met her in Germany while he was serving in the army, but I have forgotten most of the words.”
It had been almost the same with Martin, except his father never served in the army. Martin realized Willinger had not once uttered his raucous laugh today.
“Is there trouble at the office?”
Willinger put his glass on the table. “Oh… I’m in more of a farewell mood.”
“But I will be back after the survival course, for the underwater training, won’t I?”
“No, it’s not because of you.” Willinger gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “When you come back, I won’t be here anymore.”
“Did you get a promotion?”
“No, they are forcing me into retirement.”
“How old are you, Dave?” He must be in his mid-fifties, Martin guessed.
“I’m 58. Because of my achievements and all that nonsense, they’re giving me a so-called honorable retirement.”