Authors: Anne McCaffrey
“Take a while to make your suit up, Reidinger,” and he tapped the clipboard with his lightpen. “Next lesson’s 0900 tomorrow.”
“Yes, Chief. Thank you, Chief Silversmith.” And the kid sort of flowed out of the room.
Silversmith was surprised when Reidinger’s EMU came up from downside two days later. He inspected it, to be certain the dimensions matched his exact measurements. The helmet was fitted out with unusual toggles and pressure switches and the two halves of the EMU had far more sensor pads than regulation ones. Even those for officers. He called downside for an explanation, ready to chew out the manufacturer if needed.
“Additional specs came in with your figures, Chief. Tongue-switches and special pressure points so the wearer can use the jetpack. Sensor pads to register heartbeat, respiration, bp, that sort of medical stuff. Everything’s according to the special instructions I got from the admiral’s office. Initialed by him, too. Know his fist.”
Chief kept his opinion of special instructions he didn’t know about to himself, though he examined the additions carefully. There were some odd things about that kid. Was it wishful thinking on the admiral’s part that Reidinger would pass without a hitch? Or did the admiral know something about the kid that he didn’t already know from scuttlebutt?
Instruction nearly came to a halt on the day when the chief considered Reidinger was ready to put on his space suit for the first time. He had already drilled the kid on the special tongue-switches and pressure points in the headpiece. “Minute your helmet’s locked in place, you gotta have air and it’s smart to have your comunit operating, too. You got that?”
“I got it, Chief.”
“Now, Reidinger, you start with the pants of a space suit, like this,” and Silversmith stepped into his pants, one leg at a time, and demonstrated the private connections. The kid looked squeamish. Well, if he wanted to get into space, he’d better get used to it. When Silversmith had the pants on, he sat down. Activating the automatics, he held his arms above his head as the
upper part of his suit lowered slowly, enclosed his arms, and enveloped his torso until it settled on his shoulders, leaving his head free. There had been many changes in space suit manufacture since the Russian Yuri Gagarin was launched above the Earth. If they were now less cumbersome they were still awkward to put on. Even if a man could get suited up by himself these days.
Reidinger gave the most imperceptible shake of his head.
“What’s the matter, Reidinger? It’s simple enough. Step in, plug yourself up to the sanitary stuff, sit, then activate this button,” and the chief touched the control again.
“I can’t do it that way, Chief.”
“Whaddya mean, you can’t do it this way? Only way you can …” The chief stared, shook his head, because the kid was somehow in the pants with the top coming down over him and the chief
knew
no one could get into a space suit
that
fast.
“You gotta attach the evacuation tubes,” he said.
“I did.” The kid’s face fired up.
“I didn’t see you,” the chief said bluntly.
“I did. I just have to do it differently.”
“I’ll just check you out on that,” the chief said, separating his words angrily. Giving a practiced heave to his feet, he strode over to Reidinger who got to his feet, oddly more graceful than most their first time in a suit. The chief lifted the kid’s right arm to see the read-out on the belt. “How’d you do that?”
“But I did, didn’t I?”
“
How’d
you do that?” the chief repeated.
“I’m a kinetic.” Reidinger offered that as a complete explanation. That did nothing to mollify the chief’s growing annoyance. “I don’t move the way you do.” With that, the helmet lifted from its rack and settled over the kid’s head. Without assistance, it locked into place. “Like this.” His voice was muffled.
The chief stared at his suited pupil. Automatically he grabbed the kid’s shoulder and twisted him to inspect the suit lights. If the kid suffocated himself, who’d they blame? Air was flowing and the comunit light was green. The chief snapped his mouth shut on a desire to snarl at the kid. He got control of his temper.
“All right then, let’s run through the purpose of all those fancy switches so I know you know why you’re pressing what.”
The chief’s tone bordered on the sarcastic. He swallowed his disappointment when Reidinger ran through the additions, naming each one correctly. Of course, neither wore jetpacks for this session. If, and the chief paused lovingly after the conjunction, if the kid got any further in his EVA training and ever needed to use a suit’s jetpack.
“All right, Mister Reidinger!” The chief placed his helmet on his head and locked it into the safety position with a jerk that almost put him off balance. He backed up to Reidinger. “You check my EMU lights now.”
“All green, Chief.”
“Right, Reidinger.” The chief moved with accustomed ease from the ready room to the airlock. He almost wished that the safety net was not in place outside. That the kid would freak out when he saw nothing between him and anything else beyond the airlock. He hadn’t placed a bet since that went against his scruples. Now he wished he’d had Chief Turnbull place an anonymous one with Kibon. Winning would do much to absorb his growing irritation. Then there was his suspicion that the kid had somehow faked the sanitary connections. It’d be his own fault if he messed himself.
The chief punched his glove at the wide pad that closed the inner hatch. He waited until it had cycled from green to red. He walked to the outer one, and his peevishness increased when he saw how smoothly Reidinger moved in the EMU, like he was still gliding. Chief tried to damp down his reaction but this skinny kid in a custom-made suit that must have cost the Station critical credits was getting on his wick.
“Right! I’m going to open the airlock,” and he slammed his fist on the red-colored pad. The green light went off and the warning blink of “airlock activated” came up. The “open door” hooter began. The hatch moved slowly into the hull. “Reidinger, what’s the first thing you do now?”
“Clip on my safety tether,” Reidinger said.
“Do so!”
With a grand gesture, the chief waved him forward, keenly anticipating that the kid would draw back in horror as he caught sight of wide-open, black space. Of course the net was there and the area floodlighted so the full impact was reduced. But he’d seen so many freak out. Most needed a little push and he was lifting his arm to give one. Before he could make
contact with the kid’s back, he’d stepped off the edge like a willing sacrifice to this challenge of his courage.
Silversmith listened hard to hear panic breathing, a cry, anything. What he heard was one quick inhalation of breath, and a small, soft sigh. No freaking out, no scream of terror. Reidinger floated gently outward, without flailing his arms or legs, his initial step into space taking him slowly to the end of his tether. Then he made an expert turn and faced up, looking out beyond the lights of the Station Wheel to black space.
The chief gave a surprised grunt and, clipping his tether onto the bar over the hatch, he pushed off to the upwardly dangling Reidinger. The kid was unaware of his approach and, before Silversmith reached him, he began hauling himself down the net, turning his head in every direction as if he couldn’t get enough.
From the moment the Chief gestured him out of the airlock, Peter was oblivious to anything else. He paused only a moment and let himself fall into space. Oh, he was peripherally aware that there was a space net but it did not obscure his view of the black. And he could hack it! Gratefully! Yes, he thought to himself, remembering to breathe after what was an almost overwhelming spiritual awakening, yes, I am in space. I can hack the black! I love the black!
Then he let himself float outward, completely in control of his body. He had taken good heed of the maxim “action causes reaction in space.” He had never felt such utter freedom, even the moment he had learned to move his body kinetically. That was a poor second to his elation now. He felt the little tug of his space tether and, making exactly the appropriate move, turned to face up, the lights of the Station Wheel glittering in his face plate, a benediction from Padrugoi herself. Smiling to himself, Peter began to explore the limits of the net, looking constantly around him, taking it all in! At last! This was where he belonged. In space!
“S
o young Reidinger can hack the black. Well done, Chief,” said the admiral’s voice on Silversmith’s helmet comm, startling him into a violent action of dismay. “Well done, Chief.”
Catching himself with a deft twitch of his safety line, the chief closed his eyes and mentally reviewed the last half hour. How long had the
admiral been watching? Listening? Had he said anything to the kid that he’d be called on to explain? Who’d patched his comunit to the admiral’s private channel?
“General Greene said he’d be a natural. He was right,” the admiral added to the chief’s utter chagrin.
“Aye, sir, he certainly is,” Silversmith hastily agreed. “Like he’d been in space all his life.”
“Well, certainly the past four years or so,” the admiral remarked enigmatically. “Tomorrow you can belay that net and use a longer tether. Drill him on maneuvering. I want you to put him through every emergency routine we’ve got in the manual.”
“Aye, sir. Of course, sir.” With a sense of reprieve, Silversmith heard the faint click that meant the admiral was off-line. “All right, now, Reidinger. See if you can get your ass back to the airlock.”
Increasing the chief’s vexation, Reidinger gave just enough of a twitch to the safety tether to drift slowly back to the lock.
“Now,” the chief said in a steely voice, “see if you can make a smooth passage to the downside of the net.”
If the admiral wanted this kid to be competent in space, there was no time like the present to begin the drill. Silversmith kept him at it until he heard the click again.
“Are you still out there with him, Chief?” asked the admiral.
“Aye, sir. He’s a natural, sir.”
“That’s enough for his first space walk, Chief.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Silversmith had to haul on Reidinger’s tether to get him back to the airlock. When the chief removed the kid’s helmet in the ready room, there was a rapt look on his face that worried Silversmith more than any other reaction could. Reidinger was space-mad. He was going to have to watch this one.
S
ilversmith was also present in the mess when he heard that the heavy offie bettor had to pay up, damned near roughing Kibon up. The winners in the CPO’s mess were loud with celebrations of an easy win. Silversmith made a note of the man’s name—Bert Ponce—so he could check
the records on what the guy had done to get him sent up to the Station. The chief was a little surprised not to be able to access those records but he did find out that Ponce was stuck up here as a menial worker until his natural death. Whatever he’d done, it had to have been worse than awful. One thing sure, after losing every credit in his account (and Silversmith did discover that Ponce had a
lot
of credits), the guy wanted the kid’s guts. The Chief hated a sore loser.
So, for two good reasons, Silversmith never took his eyes off the kid as he put him through every space acrobatic he knew of, ready to lasso the kid in if he started drifting to outer space. Grudgingly, the chief had to admit that the kid never disobeyed him, never lost control, never resorted to any of the antics some space-happy yeomen did. But he was always alert. You never knew with that type. The chief made sure Reidinger could cope with a damaged oxygen connection, with drifting, with tumbling, with suit pressure dropping (and a “technical” leak in his EMU). Since the admiral said the kid’s main job would be matching construction units without causing any action that would, in turn, cause displacement, Silversmith made him “join” empty tanks over and over. Reidinger acted as if this was the greatest treat in occupied space. Silversmith got more and more nervous. Something would happen. He was sure of it. The training could not go on without some sort of glitch. Somehow that sonovabitch Ponce would take revenge on the kid for losing him so much credit. The situation wasn’t normal.
After Silversmith had to agree that Reidinger could hack the black, he welcomed the addition of General Greene to the team working on the
Arrakis
’s hull. Not that that put a stop to Reidinger’s fascination with space. The general, Silversmith noticed, was keeping as close an eye on the kid as he was. As if the brass didn’t think the chief was making a thorough job of training the kid.
Admiral Coetzer made matters worse by joining the three of them to watch Reidinger’s first assignment—taking a heavy drive component from the net and manipulating it across the fifty yards of space to the hole in the hull left open for convenient insertion.
“Nice work, Reidinger,” the admiral said with, to Silversmith’s mind, just the right degree of approval. “I think we would certify him as spacesafe now, wouldn’t you, Chief?”
Silversmith hoped that Admiral Coetzer, or the general who was hovering even closer to the chief, did not accurately interpret his gargle of surprise.
“Aye, sir, I do believe you could, sir,” he responded hastily and with appropriate sincerity.
“Good. Continue, Reidinger. We’ve got a deadline to meet and you’re going to make all the difference. Carry on, Chief,” Coetzer added to Silversmith. Then, with due care, the admiral activated his jetpack and returned to the Station.
Silversmith was acutely aware that the general remained for the duration of the EVA, observing Reidinger and limiting his remarks. He kept himself tethered to the net rim, which suggested to the chief that the general was not as happy in space as the kid was. He wondered if he should mention Bert Ponce to the general. Of course, he had nothing but a gut feeling that the offie wanted to get back at the kid. And how could he get to Reidinger when he was wearing an offie’s double wristband?
Silversmith had to spend a full six days space-dogging Reidinger as he worked in and outside the
Arrakis
hull. On the second day of this purgatory, Silversmith noticed that the construction crews must have been detailed to keep their eyes open, too. There were always at least five nearby, just in case the kid tumbled himself or some of the expensive units he was handling. It aggravated the chief no end that the kid moved expertly among the components moored by tethers around the hull. It was like watching a quarterhorse—the chief had spent the first eighteen years of his life on a cattle ranch outside Austin—work a calf out of the herd. Reidinger would home in on the required item, give it just the right spin or push to send it out of the net and to the exact place it would spend the rest of its working life in the hull.