I’m working with, and occasionally locking horns with, my counterparts in the arts and humanities. We’re all vying for the same precious tonnes of mass and cubic meters of storage. They’re both preoccupied, it seems to me, with taking along artifacts of Earth culture. If they had their way they’d empty out New New’s museum, lock, stock, and dinosaur bone. I’m fascinated with these things myself, and probably have more emotional attachment to them than they do. But we have to be realistic. Even if we could cull all the treasures of Earth, we’d do best to leave them be. The computer can reproduce the Mona Lisa down to the last brush stroke; give us a solid cubeshot of Winged Victory from any angle. I know it’s not the same—after all, I’ve seen them. But it will have to do. Every kilogram of souvenirs means one less kilogram of redundancy in life systems. Michelangelo we will always have with us, in a matrix of charmed hadrons. But if all our mung beans die we can’t send out for more.
(Besides, the only classical originals of any worth in New New’s museum are some Bosch triptychs that were on loan from the Prado before the war. We’ll have our own nightmares, I think.)
Elections are next week, one year before Take-off. John declined to run, which is probably for the best. He’s harried enough. Daniel wasn’t asked, since he’s Engineering Liaison with New New. For several years he’s going to be as busy as either Coordinator.
I honestly think I know more about Newhome than either of the Policy candidates. But neither track has ever elected a Coordinator under forty, and I don’t suppose the tradition will be challenged aboard ship. I’m not sure I’m ready for it anyhow.
Whoever wins, I’ll have to be working closely with him for the next four years. I hope it’s Staedtler, rather than Purcell. I had Purcell for economics in tenth form, and we didn’t get along. He remembers, too; he brought it up jokingly when I contacted him about becoming a colonist.
Even if he loses, though, he’ll have another crack at it in two years, when we choose Coordinators-elect. I’d better start getting used to the idea.
The Engineering Coordinator will undoubtedly be Eliot Smith. No problem there; he’s an old friend. Bruno Givens is running against him pro forma, but he says if elected, he’ll convert to Devonism and stay home to raise a large family.
Our own expanded family is working out better than I’d expected. I had feared that we would become two more or less independent couples. But I’ve actually grown closer to Daniel, rather than losing him to Evy. John and Evy did have adjustment problems, but we worked them out with the aid of a marriage counselor and sex therapist.
It’s good to have another woman around. Makes it harder for John and Daniel to gang up on me. And there are things I can talk to Evy about that would bore or confuse a husband; it’s like getting a full-grown younger sister.
(My own sister Joyce won’t be aboard Newhome. At twelve, she’s not allowed to make such a decision for herself, and Mother thinks the whole project is insane. Joyce admits it would scare her, too, but would like to go if Mother did.)
Evy won’t be moving into Newhome with the rest of us; she has to wait until her internship is over at the hospital. Geriatric nursing, a useful choice.
Last night I packed everything I’ll be taking. Aside from clothes and toilet articles, it all fits into one small plastic bag. The diary I kept on Earth, the shamrock Jeff gave me, three precious bamboo reeds, and a jar of Russian caviar that I hope is still good.
2 
Yesterday Sandra Berrigan had a long talk with me about the waning possibility of my staying on track in New New. The Board tells her I’d make Grade 18 in a couple of years if I stayed. I could begin setting up an Earth Liaison program, waiting for the situation to improve.
It was only then I realized how thoroughly I’ve lost heart, or how thoroughly I’ve transferred my hopes for the future onto Janus. Another tragedy like New York would be too much for me. And there are sure to be setbacks, even disasters. I’ll be content to watch from afar.
Three times I went to Earth, and each time I left the planet on a wave of chaos and death. Maybe Daniel is right about my being a nexus, or a nemesis. At any rate, I don’t want any more of it. If Newhome offers only a lifetime of glorified housekeeping, then so be it. I’ve had more than a lifetime’s worth of adventure.
I’m commuting now, spending two or three days a week in New New. Mine is one of the few jobs that requires personal contacts both places. Both Dan and John are permanently aboard Newhome.
I didn’t wind up in the Uchūden part of the ship after all. I’m spending most of my time with John, and there aren’t any low-gravity living quarters in the Japanese structure. John’s quarters are quite roomy, more than twice as big as he had in New New, since he requested a combination of living space and office. I have my own small place for work, but almost never sleep there. Quarter gee is like a soothing drug.
(If I were smart I’d spend more time in high gravity, since I’m getting almost no exercise. I’ve gained five kilos since we got back from Earth, and all of it’s gone straight to my bottom. I’m going to wind up looking like Mother.)
S-1 is halfway back now. Eight months to go.
3
What a terrible week. To put added stress on the ship’s systems, to test them, they slowly increased its rate of spin, finally doubling it. My work area is normally at a comfortable three-quarter gee. At one and a half gees it was like walking around with a plump ten-year-old grafted onto your shoulders.
The low-gee areas near the axis of Newhome became very crowded. Nobody stayed in the main area after their work shift was over. So our “upstairs” rooms and corridors were full of people talking, playing games, trying to sleep. Two doors down from John’s place is the quarter-gee recreation room. Even the swimming pool there was shoul-der-to-shoulder.
I scratched twice on John’s door and let myself in quietly. Dan and Evy were sharing the place for the duration, and I never knew who might be off shift and trying to sleep. John was alone, though, lying in bed but not asleep. He had the computer’s tapboard on his lap, and the wall screen was full of numbers.
“Busy? I can come back later.”
“Just amusing myself.” He made room for me on the narrow bed, and I sank into it with relief. “So how are things in the lower depths?” he asked.
“God. Let’s say it doesn’t get any easier with practice.”
He nodded. The strain of being trapped in a half-gee world showed in his lined face and slump. “I’ll get some respite tomorrow. Got attached to an engine inspection team; we’ll have six or seven hours in zerogee.”
“Don’t suppose they need a demographics analyst?”
“No more than they need me, actually. Pays to have friends. Has anything fallen apart yet?”
“Nothing mechanical. You hear about the goats?” He shook his head. “It’s like what happened when we landed at Kennedy. They can’t handle the extra gravity; we’ve got an epidemic of broken legs. More than half our stock, before the vet could get them sedated.”
“I sincerely hope they don’t move them up here. It’s aromatic enough already.”
“Moosie wasn’t sure. You know, the assistant vet?”
“Oh, I know Moosie. She comes up to the Light Head. Used to. I try to keep out of her trajectory.”