FSF, April 2007 Read online

  "But Windy, you didn't say a thing about my li'l pal Robin Redd. Can she come, too? I gotta bring her, Windy, or not come myself. She's on the lam from a ex who beats hell out of her. She's got an Order of Protection and all that crud, which he doesn't give a rat's ass about. I know he doesn't, Windy. I was with her on Wednesday when he kicked her door down. Scout's honor! I grabbed the carving knife and screamed my cute li'l head off.

  "Windy, honeybear, I can't leave Robin high and dry. I won't! Not after what we went through Wednesday night. So can she come? It's me, Windy. This is Kit, and I'm begging."

  March sighed and leaned back in the control chair, collecting his thoughts before he spoke.

  "Gee, Kit, here I thought you were longing for the sight of my manly profile. Okay, I've got it now. Bring your friend. I trust she's too well-mannered to push back the curtain when she hears funny noises from a bunk. Trust me, I'll wash the sheets this time.

  "But Kit, you're going to have to wear something under that see-through suit. Get used to the idea if you want me to show you below the neck."

  * * * *

  As March edged his hopper just a little nearer Number Nineteen, he turned up a new memorial, an asteroid circling Jupiter well outside the orbit of Sinope. Earlier he had thought it only a rock, a piece of pocked debris too small to hold even the chips knocked loose by meteorites.

  Now he could see the entrance of the tomb. It was closed, though most such entrances gaped open, and square, though most were rough circles. As he zoomed in on the tumbling asteroid, the neat lettering before that entrance grew clear: Please Wipe Your Feet. This was one he wanted.

  His own suit, orange and strictly opaque, was starting to show signs of wear. Nothing dangerous yet, but it would have to be watched. A military suit....

  Well, a military suit wore pretty much like armor. A military suit got rid of built-up heat and kept the wearer warm no matter what. The wearer could relieve himself right there in his suit, and eat and drink whenever eating and drinking seemed necessary or advisable. Three kinds of lights, a score of tools, and half a dozen weapons were built into the suit; so was a mini computer with enough capacity for a whole lot of AI. That little on-board could and would offer warnings and advice. It would watch the wearer's back and even stand guard while he slept.

  A soldier in a military suit could reach up into his helmet and pick his nose, or even take a suitless comrade—wounded or otherwise—into the suit with him.

  A military suit....

  Cost more than March Wildspring had been worth before his divorce, and twenty times more than he was worth at the moment. His own space suit, this dull orange suit that was beginning to show wear, provided propulsion, communication, and breathable air for four hours plus. Little more beyond a fishbowl helmet that would darken when hit with a whole lot of ultraviolet light—Twentieth Century tech, and he was lucky to have even that. Shrugging, he closed his suit and buckled on his utility belt.

  Spaceboots over the feet of the suit were not strictly necessary, but were (as March reminded himself) a damned good idea. Suits tore. Cheap civilian suits tore pretty easily, and tore most often at the feet. Small permanent magnets in the boots would keep him on the sheet-metal body of his hopper without holding him there so tightly that he would have trouble kicking off.

  With the second boot strapped tight, he hooked his lifeline to his belt and put on his helmet. On Earth, his suit weighed fifty-seven pounds. Here it weighed exactly nothing; even so, his irritated struggles against its frequently pigheaded mass provided a good deal of useful exercise. People tended to get soft in space.

  Kit would be another source of salutary exercise, he reflected, if things went as well as he hoped.

  The airlock was big enough for one person in a pinch, if that one person was mercifully free of claustrophobia. March shut the inner door and spun the wheel, listening to his precious air being pumped back into the hopper, to its whispering, whimpering departure. Then to silence.

  Fifteen seconds passed. Half a minute, and the outer door swung back. He kicked off from the inner door and turned on the suit's main jet. Steering jets and seat-of-the-pants flying kept him on course for the asteroid into which some unlucky tourist's tomb had been carved, and enabled him to match the asteroid's rotation.

  The inscribed welcome mat before the door was, on closer inspection, wrought iron. His boots stuck to the iron nicely. Was he to knock? He did, but there was no response. Presumably there was no atmosphere inside the tomb, but it would have been possible—even easy—for a mike to pick up sound waves transmitted through the stone walls. Checking a third time to make certain his digicorder was running, he searched the doorframe for a bell button and found one.

  The wood-grained steel door opened at once, apparently held by a bald, pleasant-looking man of about sixty. “Come in,” the bald man said. He wore an old white shirt and faded jeans supported by red suspenders. “It was darned nice of you to come way out here to see me, son. If you'll just come inside and sit down, we can have a good chat."

  March switched on his speaker. “I'll be happy to, sir. I know you're really a holographic projection, but it's very hard not to treat you as living person. So I'll come in and chat, and thank you for your hospitality."

  The bald man nodded, still smiling. “You're right, son. I'm dead, and I'd like to tell you about it. About my life and how I came to die. I'd like to, but if you don't want to hear it, I can't keep you. Will you stay and make a poor old dead guy happy?"

  "I certainly will,” March said, “and half the world with me.” He indicated his digicorder.

  "Why that's wonderful! Sit down. Sit down, please. I hate to keep my guests standing."

  It was just possible that there were knives that would slash his suit concealed in the fluffy pillows of the sofa behind the long coffee table. March chose what appeared to be a high-backed walnut rocker instead, tying its cord so that he floated a few inches above its seat.

  The bald man dropped into an easy chair that showed signs of long use. “I'd make you some iced tea if you could drink it, but I know you can't. It doesn't seem right not to offer a guest something, though. I've got some little boxes of candy you could take back to your hopper. Maybe give to the missus, if she's in there? You like one?"

  March shook his head. “She's not, sir. It's very kind of you, but what I'd really like is to hear about you. Won't you tell us?"

  "Happy to, son. Glad to recite my little adventures, at home and out here in space. Frank Welton's my name, and I was born in Carbon Hill, Ohio, U.S.A., one of a pair of twin boys. Probably you never heard of Carbon Hill, it's just a little place, but that's where it was. I was a pretty good ball player, so I played ball for eight years after high school. See my picture? The kid with the glove and bat?” The bald man pointed, and March swung his digicorder to get it.

  "That was taken when I played for the Saint Louis Cardinals. I played left field, mostly, but I could play all three outfield positions and I generally hit pretty close to three hundred. The money was good, and I meant to stay in baseball as long as I could. That turned out to be eight seasons, but for that last season I was a pinch hitter, mostly. An outfielder has to have a good strong throwing arm, and my shoulder blew out on me."

  March said, “I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

  "Well, I got out of baseball and went home to Carbon Hill. A friend of my dad's was in the sand and gravel business in a small way. He was getting on and wanted a younger partner with some money they could use to expand the business. I threw in with him, and when he died I bought his widow out. Pretty soon I was making more in sand and gravel than I ever had playing ball. I got married....” The bald man took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.

  March cleared his throat. “If this is too painful for you, sir, I'll go."

  "You stay, son.” The bald man swallowed audibly and wiped his nose. “There's things I got to tell you. Only I got to thinking about Fran. She died, and I didn't have the heart an
ymore. Business is like baseball, son. If you got nothing but heart, you can still win on heart. Not all the time, mind, but now and then. That's what they say and it's the truth. But if you don't have heart, you're done for."

  March nodded. “I understand you, believe me."

  "That's good. I turned the business over to our kids. That's Johnny, Jerry, and Joanie, and they're the ones who built this memorial for me. They owed me a lot, and they still do. But they paid off a little part of what they owed with this. Like it?"

  "One of the best I've seen, sir, and I've seen quite a few."

  "That's good. I bought me a hopper when I retired. I told everybody I wanted to see Mars because of all the sand and gravel they had there. I thought it was true, but what I really wanted was to get away from Earth. Maybe you know how that is."

  March nodded.

  "So I did. Spent a little time on Mars and a few days on the moon, then I thought I'd have a look at Ganymede, Callisto, Titan, and so forth. The big satellites of the outer worlds, in other words. People don't realize how many there are, or how big they are, either.

  "It was Io that did me in. Not the li'l gal herself, but trying to get there. Oh, I knew all about old Jupiter. How far out his atmosphere goes, and the radio bursts. All that stuff. What I hadn't figured on was just what all the gravity meant. Just how quick it grabs you, and how quick a hopper heats up when it hits ol’ Jupiter's atmosphere. I guess I've ‘bout talked your ears off now."

  March shook his head. “If you've got more to say, sir, I'll listen."

  "Then I'll say this. My dad was a good man and a hard worker, but he was a day laborer all his life, and he died at fifty-four. Go back a few generations, and my folks were slaves. I had a better life than my dad did, and one hell of a lot better life than they did. I'd like a prayer or two, son, and I'd like to be remembered. But I'm not complaining. I got a fair shake, and I had a lot of luck. Want to see how I looked when I was dead, son?"

  "I don't understand how that's possible, sir.” March hesitated before adding, “You were pulled down to Jupiter, and your hopper must have been burned away completely before it hit the planetary surface."

  "Well, son, I can show you just the same. This is pretty slick, so have a look.” Leaning forward the bald man touched the top of the coffee table, and it became as transparent as glass.

  A dead man lay just below the transparent surface, his eyes shut and his hands folded. His white shirt and casual jacket were well-tailored and looked expensive. After studying his features, March said, “That's you all right, sir. Computer modeling?"

  "Nope.” The bald man had turned serious. “It's an actual tridee, son, taken at the funeral. That's my twin brother, Hank. He died forty-six days after I did. That happens a lot with twins. One gets killed and the other dies. Identical twins I mean. Which is what we were. Nobody knows why it happens but it does. Hank turned in for the night like usual. Barbara went to get him up in the morning, and he was dead. You want to be dead, son?"

  March shook his head. “No, sir. I don't."

  "Then you take a lesson from me and watch out for that ol’ Jupiter."

  * * * *

  Back in his hopper, his on-board signaled Ethermail. He touched the keyboard, and Kit's arresting eyes and perfect complexion filled the screen. “Hi, Windy! If you don't want us, say so. One more should get us there, so this's your last chance.

  "But first, stop worrying about what I'm going to have on under the suit. I am going to wear a bra. Guaranteed. Haven't you seen what zero-g does with boobs the size of mine? I have. They go all over, and believe me it's not a pretty sight. So I've got this wonderful little pink bra. You're gonna love it! The saleswoman got out a needle and pulled the whole, entire thing through the eye."

  Kit had a charming laugh, and she used it. “Don't look at me like that, Windy. Put down that fatal eyebrow. Okay, it was a big needle like you might use on denim or leather. So it had a big eye. But she pulled it through, exactly like I said. I'll show it to you—by golly and geewhillikers, I'll model it for you. So if you don't want us you've gotta be quick."

  March clicked REPLY. “Kit, darling, you know I want you more than life itself. Please hurry! Now don't get mad, but I'm a little bit curious. Why didn't I see your pal Robin Redd in the background. Is she really that ugly?"

  He had hardly resumed his search for memorials when his on-board signaled a fresh Ethermail.

  "She's in the can, Windy. That's all. She'll be out in a minute. Not bad-looking, either, if you dig redheads with bruised faces. So if you're all hot to fantasize, go right ahead. Just don't try to make ‘em real, ‘cause you know damn well there ain't space enough in your hopper for three bare-ass bodies playin’ games.

  "Speakin’ of space, I got a li'l surprise. Have a look out your driver's-side window. Wanna couple?"

  It was Kit's hopper, as he knew it would be, a new one gleaming with chrome and unscarred maroon paint and roughly the size of one of the compact pre-fabs older people still called mobile homes. Twice the size of his own hopper, in other words.

  Suiting up again, he grabbed his line launcher and went out onto the hull.

  A tiny figure emerged from the big maroon hopper, and the icom in his helmet buzzed and clicked. “You got a launcher, Windy? I didn't bring mine, but I can go back in and get one."

  "Right here.” He aimed his launcher, activated its laser guide, and launched, the solid-fuel rocket trailing a slender but strong Kevlar line.

  "You got us, Windy. Want me to pull?"

  March started his winch. “We'll just get it tangled. I'll reel you in."

  "You gotta wench winch. Ever think of that?"

  "Saying things like that cost you ‘Building People for Kids.’”

  "I didn't care. I'd already done the parts I liked. Got anything to eat in that tin can?"

  "Self heats. Stuff like that."

  "We've got that beat hands-down. Robin can't cook worth a damn. I, upon the other well-washed hand, am an internationally famous cheffettej. One who—"

  March said, “There's no such word and you know it."

  "There is now. One who, I was saying, knows there's nothing for getting the ol’ pencil sharp like a real, authentic Caribbean pepper pot. Be ready in an hour or so, but if you'd like to come over now for a long-time-no-see kiss...."

  With their hoppers grappled, it was not necessary to turn on his suit jets to go from his own to hers. He kicked off, somersaulted in space, and landed feet-first next to her airlock.

  "Nicely done, Windy,” she said as he was taking off his helmet and just beginning to appreciate her flowery perfume. The long-time-no-see kiss followed, and lasted a good two minutes. When they separated, she added, “If you weren't wearing all that machinery, I think I might've raped you."

  He leered. “Men aren't supposed to make jokes about rape. You told me that—"

  "I'm not a man. You failed to notice."

  "Therefore, madam, I will say quite seriously that if I had not been swaddled in all this gear, I believe I might have ravished you."

  She had put her finger to her lips; he lowered his voice as he said, “You escaped by merest chance."

  "Rape's a sensitive topic with Robin,” Kit whispered. “I shouldn't have shot off my mouth. Only when a man does it, it's ten times worse. I think her ex raped her. Maybe a couple times."

  "I see."

  "Okay, she'll cramp our style verbally. Not in bed. I'll see to that."

  "So will I,” March said. “Marry me, Kit. I mean it. How the hell do you kneel without gravity?"

  "You meant it last time. I know that."

  "And I mean it this time."

  "I turned you down.” Kit's face was somber. “Did I say why?"

  "No. Just that you weren't ready."

  "Then I'll say it now. I love you to pieces, but I've got a career and they print your name on the toilet paper in the executive washroom. You think I'm kidding?"

  "Damn right I do.” March opened his sui
t. “You've never set foot in the executive washroom."

  "Wrong. When I was talking to Bad Bill about the cooking show I had to powder my nose, and he loaned me his key. It's on the paper."

  March scowled, then chuckled. “And you used it."

  It got him the sidelong glance and sly smile he loved. “I'm taking the Fifth, Windy."

  "It wasn't a question. Speaking of washrooms, when are we going to see what's-her-name?"

  "Robin. How would I know? She's been in there forever. Do you understand why I said no, Windy? You don't have to agree with it. Just understand it."

  He shrugged. “Does it mean you'll be wearing a fake mustache when you narrate for me?"

  "That's not the same thing, and you know it. I'm not with the network right now. Not officially. My contract's run out. It'll probably be renewed, but it might not be. Nobody's going to raise hell because I took a stop-gap job narrating a documentary. Besides....” Her sudden silence betrayed the thought.

  "Besides,” March rasped, “'Vaults in the Void’ may never be broadcast. Go ahead and say it. You'll be saying something I've thought a thousand times."

  "There's not much market for documentaries, Windy,” Kit was trying to make her voice kind, something she was not particularly good at. “Yours is sure to be a complete downer, even with me in it acting all respectful. So if—"

  A latch clicked five steps away, and one of the flimsy doors opened and—very softly—shut. He turned.

  And froze.

  "Hello, Marchy.” The woman with her hand on the latch was a head shorter than Kit. The small face beneath the mop of blazing red hair looked pinched and white. One eye was bruised and swollen nearly shut; there was a second bruise on the cheek below it.

  "Sue.” March did not realize that he had spoken aloud until he heard his own voice.

  "That isn't my name now."

  Shrugging was difficult, but he managed it. “You've sued me so often that I don't see how I can call you anything else."