Orb (3 page)

Thompson broke my reverie by asking her a question.

“And, doctor, your report on the physical condition of the crew?”

Thompson wasn’t just looking for generalities here. Given the closeness of quarters, and how interdependent we were for survival, there was necessarily no doctor-patient privilege. An exception to the rule could be invoked by Kelly, and even then she was not permitted to withhold patient information from Thompson. Once medical information was in his hands he had sole discretion as to whether the crew needed to be apprised.

“Under the circumstances,” Kelly began, “we are in good health. Larry was complaining of mild insomnia. Since he wasn’t responding to non-pharmaceutical alternatives, I issued him a mild sleep aid. Time-released liposome capsules with a short warning label. You know the type: Do not take if you are nursing, pregnant, might be pregnant, want to become pregnant, know someone who is possibly pregnant…” her voice trailed off.

“What if you inflect a sentence with a pregnant pause?” the writer in me asked.

“Is it working?” Thompson asked, ignoring me.

“Too soon … to tell,” Melhaus answered. His timing was pretty good. He had paused mid-sentence to get an easy laugh. I was glad to see he could, on rare occasion, interact with the crew.

“We haven’t heard from you, B.A.,” Thompson said, centering his attention on me.

“B.A.?” I inquired. I should have known better.

“Bachelor of Arts. The rest of us have useful science degrees.”

I had taken up writing as a career a dozen years ago. My educational background, as the crew well knew, was in communications. I had also completed some limited coursework in psychology.

“Somebody,” I answered back, “has to rein in you mad scientists.”

“And just how do you propose to do that?” Thompson inquired.

I considered for a brief moment. “Shall I entertain you with a short story?”

“You have the ultimate captive audience,” Thompson replied. “Make the most of it.”

“I intend to. Have you heard the tragic tale of the
Mars Climate Orbiter
?”

“Can’t say I have,” Thompson said.

“Good, because it’s the only pertinent nonfiction story I know. By way of introduction—minus some slight literary embellishments I’ve added to help hold your interest—this story was passed on to me by an old college communications professor.”

“I love a good story,” Diana said. “Any sex?”

“No. A long time ago, in a land far away … Earth … humankind explored the nearby planets using unmanned spacecraft. One of these craft was
Mars Climate Orbiter
. In a moment you’ll appreciate why it was a
very
good thing it was unmanned.

“The objective was to journey to the Red Planet, enter into orbit, then collect and transmit climate data back to a waiting Earth. The brightest scientists and engineers labored years designing and building the mission and he cost was, forgive the pun, astronomical. On launch day all involved watched the intrepid little spacecraft as it ascended through the clouds to speed off on its year- long, seven-hundred-million-kilometer journey. Can imagine the excitement, the nervous anticipation when, twelve months later, it finally approached Mars? When all that remained before obtaining a treasure trove of information was an orbital maneuver? As planned, there was a short engine burn and the
Orbiter
passed behind the planet. I ask you to picture hundreds of scientists and engineers on the edge of their seats waiting for the craft to signal its reappearance.”

I paused briefly. For effect.

“Only the signal never came! All contact was lost!”

“Saw that coming,” Diana interrupted.

“The scientists were devastated. ‘We must have answers,’ they cried.

“What, you may want to ask, could cause such a calamity? Computer glitch or thruster failure? Breakdown of complicated electronic components?”

“Micrometeor?” Paul suggested.

“Good guess, but no. It was a gross misapplication of thruster force that sent the
Orbiter
closer to the planet than intended—near enough to become compromised by the planet’s atmosphere and send it crashing to the surface. And here is where the tale gets interesting.”

“I was wondering when,” Diana said.

“The misapplication of thruster force had nothing to do with computer or equipment failure. It was human error. The team who designed the computer-operated thrusters had programmed them to
receive
commands in the metric system, specifically in Newtons. A second, independent, team of scientists had programmed software to
send
commands to the spacecraft thrusters in the old English system, pounds of force. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that won’t work, that a fourfold misapplication of thruster force was the
technical
reason for mission failure.

“Blatant incompetence,” Melhaus commented, a bit irritated. “Your point being?”

“I’m getting to that. The Space Agency conducted a thorough investigation. Their report stated that blame, if you want to word it as such, could be shared by several of the scientists and engineers involved in the mission. The report emphasized that the crucial navigational commands had been handled by two separate teams and it was their
failure to communicate
which was ultimately responsible for the Orbiter’s destruction. And that, boys and girls, is why my professor told this story.”

I didn’t expect a standing ovation and I didn’t get one. Then again, it didn’t look like I put anyone to sleep either.

Thompson, who had listened with an impassive expression, chose to speak up.

“Interesting story,” he said. “Really brought us scientists back to Earth.”

I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or sarcastic. Sometimes he was real good at being both at the same time.

AFTER THE MORNING meeting and the informal discussions that followed, I headed back to my cabin to record my thoughts. Naturally I was accompanied by Angie. Sporting what can only be described as a happy face, she had unilaterally decided it was playtime, whipping her head back and forth to throttle her stuffed toy duck, and then ceremoniously dropping it at my feet.

There was no denying her. Sitting on the floor, my back to the bulkhead, I threw the toy out the open cabin door and into the corridor. Anticipating, she emitted a short, excited yip, ran, caught the duck in her mouth, throttled it anew, then trotted back to dump it in front of me. Jubilant, eyes glistening, she gazed up expectantly. Long ago I learned that this sequence could be repeated three times or three hundred, all depending on her mood. Funny thing is neither of us tired of this game, simple as it was.

She and I were an unbreakable pair, discovering each other three years ago when I decided to take on the responsibility, not to be taken lightly, of caring for a puppy. And so I headed to a reputable breeder who had a litter of miniature poodles that were somewhat larger and sturdier than most—exactly what I wanted, since I had no intention of raising a lap dog.

I had been forewarned by an acquaintance, a veterinarian, that a puppy displaying an overtly aggressive temperament would be harder to raise. One puppy frolicking in the litter stood out as being a bit more playful; rambunctious, but not belligerent. I snatched her out of the pen to play with and we connected. What happened next I didn’t see coming, but probably should have. The breeder subjected me to an extensive battery of questions that, in retrospect, was good preparation for the psych profile testing I endured at the hands of the Crew Selection Committee. Long story short, with the help of Angie vouching for my character, and with a significant damage to my dwindling bank account, I was allowed to take her home.

Of course neither of us suspected what would come to pass, the environs that would masquerade as a home. Nevertheless, she had adjusted well.

After nearly an hour of bolting back and forth, and no indication that she was tired except a sloppy wet tongue hanging loosely from the side of her mouth, Angie decided it was time to quit playing. I was just about to settle at my workstation when I heard a quiet rap on the door. An obligatory bark from Angie told me she was on alert.

Kelly.

“Would you like company?” she asked from the doorway.

“What do you have in mind?” I said, pretending I didn’t know.

“You’re way overdue for a routine physical exam,” she responded, pushing inside and closing the door behind her.

“So you’re making house calls now?”

“Lie down,” she ordered, shoving me backward onto the bed. “Try to relax. This won’t hurt … much.”

“Maybe I want it to hurt,” I responded. There was a better than even chance that I was going to respond a good deal more: Somehow I was flat on my back, straddled, with a shirt being pulled over my head. Damn, she was quick.

“Good muscle tone,” she breathed, skilled hands moving slowly over my bare shoulders and onto my chest and stomach. “Shall we proceed?”

“Let’s.”

“Ears,” she said, gently biting my earlobe, then tugging slightly. “Normal.”

“This is your
routine
exam?” I asked, caressing the small of her back.

“Eyes,” she answered, kissing each lid. “Normal.”

“I don’t have medical coverage…”

“Mouth,” she said, kissing me softly, then hard. “Normal. Now open.” Her tongue touched mine.

I began unbuttoning her clothes. “Doctor,” I managed to say, “I have these two lumps … one’s in my throat, the other, lower, much bigger…”

Trying hard not to laugh, continuing the game’s pretense, she flattened her body against mine and pressed a delicate ear against my chest. A tumble of long, straight, silky jet black hair cascaded unto my bare skin.

“Hmm. I detect an elevated heart rate,” she said. “Perhaps you are a bit anxious, afraid of doctors.” Clasping my hand, she slid it slowly down her stomach, slipping it below the unbuttoned waist of her pants to where she was wet and warm.

Her hand was resting on top of mine, but I reversed the positions, my hoarse voice urging self-examination. She locked our fingers together as her hips rose. A silvery sheen glistened her skin. A hazy, faraway, look came into her eyes, and I heard a low, throaty, expression of passion, not at all sure if it was hers or mine.

Afterward, we rested, having slipped into the security between sleep and wakefulness where the only sensation is that of floating above and away from the physical part of oneself. But the fleeting feeling receded, disturbing thoughts intruded, and I was forced to open my eyes and accept where I was; that surrounding me was an uncompromising emptiness, the stark and deadening silence of space.

Struggling to fight off a feeling of isolation and loneliness, I found myself staring at Kelly, who lay on her side, unguardedly naked, eyes still closed. Her lips, the deepest red, formed a slightly suggestive smile as if she was aware of being completely exposed and vulnerable. Did she realize how achingly beautiful I thought she was? I had yet to tell her in any but a casual, guarded way.

Her smile widened as I slowly traced a path on warm skin, one finger delicately traversing the contour of her leg, pausing at the inviting curvature of her hip. Her eyes, with their alluring Asian arc, fluttered open. For the first time I noticed their deep black irises were infused with tiny flecks of gold.

“I felt your stare,” she said, stretching luxuriously, her expression growing more provocative. Reaching down, she twisted the bed sheet into something resembling a thick rope and seductively wrapped it between her legs and up and over one breast.

I wanted to express how much I cared for her, but couldn’t find the right words. Ludicrous when you consider my chosen profession. My lame excuse: Language is inadequate to communicate the depth and subtlety of human emotion. The right words, if they exist at all, often evoke feelings other than those intended; the commonest words, so carelessly bandied about, become all too commonplace, completely losing their meaning. Words such as “soul” and “god” and “love.”

Best to avoid these words.

Only thing is my logic was flawed. I was merely rationalizing my own shortcomings. There are a quarter-million words in the English language. A staggering number of word and punctuation combinations. Making it a damn good possibility that if I opened my mouth to speak, one or more of those combinations would do magnificently well right now. Perhaps my hesitation to do so was more a symptom of indiscriminately applying a lack of faith in people in general to one person in particular.

Whatever the cause, I was letting an opportune moment to speak slip away. Recalling that Kelly was born and raised in Japan, and that Japanese was her native language, I hedged my emotional bets, asking, “How do you say ‘I need you’ in Japanese?”

Hesitating, she afforded me a strange look, and then answered, “
Aishiteru
.”

“
Aishiteru
,” I repeated to her.

“
Aishiteru mo
,” she replied, a bright smile lighting her face.

Neither of us spoke as she slipped into her clothing.

Feigning jealousy, I said, “You don’t give this complete a physical to the entire crew?” When I didn’t get an immediate response I widened my eyes with a pretend look of shock and added,
“Do you?
”

“You idiot,” was her response.

“I’ll take that for a ‘no.’”

I let Angie leap back on the bed. Kelly had become her second favorite human.

Admittedly, I had a small advantage by dispensing Angie’s food supply: A dwindling supply of treats was one way to keep her occupied within
Desio’s
restrictive confines. One game was to place her in a ‘sit-stay’ while I discovered new and clever places (including the crew’s cabins if their doors were open) to hide dry kernels of food. She never failed to find each and every one. My crewmates (all right, maybe not Melhaus) found this entertaining, welcoming Angie’s inquisitive visits.

Another diverting trick I taught her was to sneak into Thompson’s cabin, snatch a T-shirt off his bed, and scamper back to me for a waiting morsel. What made this antic more enjoyable were the profanities hurled in our direction from down the corridor. I don’t think Thompson really minded the temporary abduction of a shirt. Why else would he consistently leave one in the same exact location?