Orb (33 page)

“He has somehow managed to implicate us all,” Diana admitted. “I guess we only have ourselves to blame.”

“Thing is, I believe the idea may have some merit.” Thompson remarked.

“Hey,” I said, with an elaborate show of modesty, “I’m only standing on the shoulders of giants.”

As I pushed back from the table I spied Kelly, smiling, enjoying the fun I was having. Her patient was doing well, at least physically, primarily due to her ministrations. She had been adamant about letting him convalesce outside in the bright, palliative sunlight. In deference to her, and the logic of the circumstances, Thompson did not object.

Over-and-above the draining effects of his injury there was, we noted, a markedly subdued aspect to Melhaus’s manner; he was, in large measure, pitiable. The amount of compassion we showed to him, however, was not without bounds. We were, after all, only human, and could never forget the vicious threats made upon our lives. Only Angie completely forgave him, bringing him the stuffed duck as if the whole affair never happened. I guess she saw him as ready and willing to play, he sitting there, helpless, back to the exterior bulkhead, legs straight out in front. Immobile.

The measured compassion Thompson felt, and I’m convinced he was saddened to see one in his charge brought so low, had to make his duty that much tougher. He issued specific orders that Melhaus, for his own protection and ours, would henceforth be subject to constant watch. In practice, this meant he was either to be under someone’s visual surveillance or confined to secured quarters under electronic monitoring. In three months, Thompson would be required to offer him up to the appropriate authorities who, for good or ill, would be in a position to judge him more dispassionately.

As the day progressed, the horizon stayed empty of Orb, and the natural, unsustainable high we felt (the result of stepping back from the brink of disaster) began to slowly dissipate.

“Will they ever return,” Diana lamented, “so we can, somehow, make amends?”

She had touched on the one subject troubling us most: How abysmal the Orb’s perception of us must be.

When Thompson heard Diana, he turned to me and said, “Let’s grab some tools. There’s something that needs fixing.”

A moment later I was grasping the servicing footholds and handholds built into the metallic skin of
Desio
, following Thompson up to the laser turret.

“A laser doesn’t belong on this ship, never did,” Thompson remarked. “You and I are going to dismantle it.”

“And when we return to Earth? Don’t we need protection from orbiting pirates and space junk?”

Thompson scowled. “From my conversations with other ship commanders I’d say the presence of space pirates is no more than a rumor started by certain multinational companies looking for an excuse to establish a significant space presence. Started, and deliberately cultivated, to foster militarization of space.” Thompson’s scowl deepened. “Space junk? What in hell would a laser do except create numerous smaller molten pieces, each harder to detect, each more dangerous.”

We began to tackle the laser’s connections and electronics. In places, old-fashioned nuts and bolts needed to be removed. As the weapon began to come free of its mount we had time to trade insults. One of the things I appreciated about conversing with Thompson was how easily we went back and forth between the inane and the sublime, sometimes mixing the two.

“Your shoulder up for this?” I asked Thompson.

“Shoulder’s fine. Kelly treated it. What about you? Still afraid of heights?”

“Kidding, right? We’re only five meters off the ground.” To prove my point, I moved closer to the edge and balanced myself on one leg. “Does this look like I’m afraid of heights?”

“I meant Kelly.”

“Shithead,” I said, moving back from the edge. Over his shoulder, I watched as Thompson concentrated on removing, from a secure housing, three delicate and incredibly valuable rose-colored crystals. “Seems our weapons have come a long way from the bow and arrow. Too bad our sensibilities haven’t kept pace.”

“The so-called primitive San used the bow primarily as a means to hunt. To survive as a people.”

“Some good came of your encounter with them,” I said. “You brought away their bow, and with it, appreciation of their culture. A small part of their way of life. Think on this: Without the use of their bow, Melhaus would have continued to provoke the Orb and we would likely have all perished here. Help me out. Is this an example of irony or Thompson’s law of unintended consequences?”

“Probably the most stellar example of an unintended consequence in the storied history of unintended consequences.”

We continued working. Eventually I held the offending laser weapon in my arms. “What do we do with this?”

“Temporarily, let’s deposit it near the shore.”

“For the Orb to see?”

Thompson nodded. “A token gesture that likely will never be seen. But it makes me feel better.”

“You want a more demonstrative gesture
and
gratification?” I asked. “Melhaus is below us. How about I deposit the laser on him?”

Thompson laughed. “Anywhere
but
him is OK.”

I made sure nobody was in harm’s way, yelled out a general warning to expect a loud noise, and then heaved the laser as far out as my strength would allow. There was a satisfying crash followed by a resonating echo bouncing off the spires. We climbed down, picked up the laser (one piece each, since it had conveniently subdivided) and carried it to the shoreline. As I was placing my piece on a ledge, I asked Thompson, as ship’s commander, if he’d like to say any last words. He deferred to me.

“I’m not a big fan of long eulogies,” I said. “Here lies laser. Unlike Lazarus, never to be resurrected.”

“Heartfelt,” Thompson said. “Now let’s get back to work.”

Thompson hurried off to examine the spire rubble while Angie and I headed into
Desio
.

I proceeded to catch up on my writing. Halfway done, and Kelly popped her head in.

“You’re busy,” she said from the doorway. “Come back later?”

“Please. But if you don’t return,” I warned, “I’m going to send Angie out looking for you.”

I had promised myself, and for the most part it was a promise kept, to chronicle mission events contemporaneously. Half of the time this task was accomplished by timely entries made on a voice-activated miniaturized personal recorder. At regular intervals these entries were automatically archived as audio files, simultaneously converted into text files, then relayed to both my AID and my workstation. The other half of the time, usually after the day was done, I worked at reviewing and editing recent text files; clarifying and smoothing the language and sifting through my memories to add commentary and insights. I had done this faithfully—except, that is, during the difficulties of the last day or so. As I caught up with the work, an aspect of the writing was harder than I anticipated. A particular word kept tripping me up.

Ocean
.

In the course of my life, and through the many times that I spent on, or immersed in, the ocean (I have been in all seven, but they are connected, they are one) I presumed to know exactly what I was looking at. After all, being the most prominent physical feature on Earth makes identification pretty hard to mess up: A large body of water, usually in liquid form, saline. And so, when similar identifying features were found here on Orb, the overwhelming logic was to immediately apply the same designation and to use the same word: Ocean. In Spanish,
Océano
. In Chinese,
Hai Yang
. In Arabic,
Moheet
. In any language, who would otherwise define what we saw on Orb? Only it turns out we were proven very wrong.

Wrong, but the mind, and the written word, strains to embrace the concept of an OceanOrb. This, I believe, is a fundamental problem when you are compelled to take one of your lifelong assumptions and throw it out an open window. And once open, what else flies out? Revisit the ocean of Earth. Does the vast and insanely beautiful biodiversity within, and dependent on, that ocean make it any less wondrous a living entity than the “ocean” of Orb? I’ve posed, and answered, this question for myself. You can devote a great deal of time looking at something, believing it is one thing, when it really is something else.

There was one other word giving me trouble.

I laid the writing aside to play with my sorely neglected pooch who was quietly waiting down by my feet, mouth chock-full of toy duck. By acknowledging her stare, playtime became as inevitable as Thompson’s sunrise. I cleared a space for her to run, opened my cabin door, put my back to the bulkhead and flung that silly little toy into the hallway. A sparkle came into her eyes, followed by several delighted little yips that carried on the warm air to beckon Kelly, who appeared in my doorway. An excited little dog, tail vibrating, duck in mouth, peered up at her expectantly.

“Can I play, too?” Kelly pleaded, affecting a childlike voice.

Before I could presume to respond, the duck was deposited at her feet. We humans do not always catch on right away, and so, to rule out a mistake on our part (as a species we had made a bunch of late), Angie deliberately stared down at the duck, up at Kelly, down at the duck and, for extra measure, doubled the side-to-side speed of her oscillating tail.

“Come,” I said to Kelly, motioning and making room, “sit beside me.” The space was tight, but I didn’t mind. We were dressed in shorts and T’s. The bare skin of our arms and legs touched and a feeling akin to a mild tingle of electricity passed between us.

“How’s your patient?” I asked.

“Serious, but stable. Resting comfortably. How’s the writing?”

“I guess about the same as your patient.”

“We only have one more day here,” Kelly said. There was more in those words than the obvious.

“Yes, one more day.”

I was saying very little. Typical.

I threw the duck. As it pirouetted through the air, Angie bounded into the hall. In one supple and athletic motion she rotated and leaped, snatching the toy in midair. The only times she missed were when a throw was bad. Funny-strange how, for nearly every toss—and there were a slew—she alternated returning the toy to Kelly, then to me. The way I figure it, she didn’t want to play favorites. At last tired, she collapsed on her back, front paws folded up on her thorax like the forelegs of a praying mantis. The triangular shape of her head formed by her snout and protruding ears did nothing to dispel the image.

When something desperately wants to be said, context means practically nothing.

My heart thumped in my chest with apprehension. I turned to face Kelly.

“I love you.”

Stunned, she stared at me, her black and gold eyes widening, searching, questioning. “I want you to feel me say it.” Taking her hand, I put the tips of her fingers to my lips. “Kelly, I love you … I love you, I love you, I love you. Once for every star in the night sky, I’ll repeat the words. Until you believe me.”

Before I knew what was happening she was facing me, twisting her body and flipping one leg over me to sit astride my lap. My back pinned against the bulkhead, her full weight on me, I found her looking down into my eyes, penetrating deep into me, insisting—demanding—that I be telling only the truth. I felt a moment of solemnity, that wondrous sadness often proceeding utter joy. Showing that feeling was her answer, and I saw then that she was deliriously happy, and I began to laugh—laugh for her justifiable need for assurance, laugh for her happiness and mine, laugh in relief that I had at last found the sense to break my abject silence.

Laughing, too, and kissing me feverishly, she said, “More than I believe anything, I believe you. I believe you because I believe in you. Because I love you.”

We kissed, and through our kisses we loved and whispered and promised as lovers do until Angie, feeling left out, nuzzled her way between us and began licking the tips of our noses. This was the scene Diana interrupted when she appeared in the doorway of my cabin.

“Thought I’d find you two … uh,
three
, in here playing kissie-face.”

There must have been an intangible quality to the smiles we beamed up at her that temporarily derailed what she had come to say. Scrutinizing our faces, she said, “Something is up here.
Isn’t there
, Kelly? Anyway, come quick. You need to see what’s happening outside.”

Hoping for the return of the Orb, we untangled ourselves and followed Diana. We were disappointed to see Thompson and Paul staring intently at an empty horizon where a freshening breeze seemed to be originating. I heard Paul, apparently responding to an inquiry from Thompson, state: “Not with any certainty, but it will be here soon. Very soon.”

A sudden gust of wind cleared several empty juice containers from our outside table.

“Paul?” I said.

“Feel that wind?” he responded, not taking his eyes off the horizon. “My instruments are registering an intense storm approaching. Look! Look there!” Paul pointed to a thin black line off in the distance. “That’s the leading edge of the front. Only it can’t be. Not by any meteorological definition I’m aware of. We’re missing a key ingredient: Two air masses with different densities.”

“Any idea how severe?” Thompson asked.

“No.” Paul answered.

Thompson frowned. “I need ten minutes to get
Desio
above the storm. Do I have them?”

“Not a chance. This is happening quickly. In the time we’ve been talking the wind has increased to a fresh gale.”

“Get everything that wasn’t damaged inside. Fast!” Thompson ordered. “Kelly—”

“I’m on it! Kyle, Paul, help me with Larry.”

Aided by Paul and me, Kelly had the physicist standing; it was much more difficult getting him onto
Desio’s
landing and through the narrow hatchway and into his cabin. Once Melhaus was safely inside we helped Thompson secure the few undamaged items left at the geology and marine biology stations. With nothing remaining to turn into a dangerous projectile, Paul made preparations to launch a small weather balloon into the raging wind; the rest of us watched the advancing storm.