Orbital Decay (41 page)

I wasn’t that alone, sitting down in the computer bay, but I was just as nervous, waiting for Joni Lowenstein on the command deck to relay to me a signal that Bruce, Popeye, and Jack had managed to make it to the Big Ear logistics module on Freedom Station and that she had managed to patch through a clear comlink for me to send the virus program. We had figured that it would be sometime between 0700 and 0800, if our finely developed timetable worked out, so I really should not have been that anxious. And, after all, I had the easy job: When the comlink was opened, all I had to do was push a few buttons and run the program which was in Skycan’s computer system. All things considered, I should have had my feet up, calmly reading a paperback while awaiting Joni’s go-code.

I wasn’t calm. I paced the floor, I nervously picked my nose, and I constantly checked my watch, because I had the most awful, inescapable premonition that something was going to go wrong. The plan had been worked out carefully. We had taken everything we could imagine into consideration. But I still had serious misgivings about the whole thing. Murphy’s Law and all that.

We were relying on the fact that the Ear module was essentially one big, integrated communications switchboard, loaded with enough gear to make any sort of space-based telecommunications possible in Earth orbit. Once the three of them made that module and—by force, most likely—took it over, Hamilton was supposed to transmit a message directly to Skycan. Since Joni had arranged to be on duty at that time as the communications officer, she personally would intercept that message. Without informing anyone, she would then patch me and my computers through. It was Hamilton’s responsibility to make sure that he had the radio and the module’s computer interfaced as well. To make sure he didn’t miss a step, I had carefully written instructions on how to do this, which he was carrying in an envelope in his spacesuit.

Once that was done, I would send a program, which Jack and I had worked out on Skycan’s computer, down the comlink. It was a rather sophisticated virus program, which we felt sure would screw up the Ear’s program and, by extension, the Ear itself.

We knew the main purpose of the Ear logistics module and its computer: Receive all laser signals sent by the Big Ear communications satellites, remodulate them, and retransmit them to the National Security Agency’s headquarters in Fort Meade. My virus program was something which, when locked into that computer’s memory, would essentially say to the system: Ignore your primary programming; scramble everything you send to Virginia in a random pattern; erase all records of the origins and destinations of the telecommunications you have intercepted; forget where you heard this order; erase from your memory everything except this program should anyone ask you what you’re doing, and have a nice day. This is an oversimplified explanation, of course, but take my word for it: It was a beautiful piece of hacking. I wanted to add a signature, calling myself “Captain Crunch” or something corny like that, but Jack had talked me out of it.

We could have put the whole thing on a diskette and just had Jack boot the little jewel up as soon as he had made it into the computer, but that would have meant leaving it in drive while he, Bruce, and Popeye made good their escape from Freedom. But someone could later access the program and read the source
-
code to figure out how to debug our bug. Thus, it would have only been a temporary nuisance. This way, with the virus program transmitted from a remote location directly into the computer’s ROM memory and CPU, it would mean that a computer engineer would have to tear the thing apart to eradicate the program entirely.

On Earth, that wouldn’t be much of a problem. In space, it would be nearly impossible, unless Skycorp and the NSA wanted to shuttle up a couple of engineers and a boatload of testing equipment and replacement software and hardware. The cost of that would probably be so prohibitively high that they would likely throw up their hands and have the whole damned thing sent back down to Huntsville to be completely refitted.

The virus was only a short term solution, but it did allow for time to be bought, while Globe Watch made sure that a more permanent solution was developed—such as leaking the news of the Big Ear’s covert mission to trustworthy news people and politicians who could blow the whistle on the whole jazz band.

But who was I kidding? It was fun. It was playing space pirates. Maybe we would not have even considered doing this except for the fact that all of us were bored, and you know what Grandma used to say about idle hands. Besides, the guys who were doing the dirty work were getting a free ride home for their trouble, and even if Virgin Bruce and Popeye had their stated and unstated reasons for not wanting to go back to Earth right away, Virgin Bruce had been long since fed up with being a beamjack and Popeye had been wrestling with homesickness for longer than he could remember. I knew that Popeye still had some private demon with which to contend, but… well, no one knew, except himself, what was going through his mind.

I knew what was going through mine, though, in that last hour of anxiety. However, I wish we could have known what was tumbling through the twisted cerebrum of Henry George Wallace, the demented project supervisor of Olympus Station.

Edwin Felapolous had been making it a point, for the past couple of months, of making regular house calls on H.G. Wallace. He tried to arrange his visits in a certain order which would not alarm his patient or let him realize that Felapolous was not merely dropping by for social reasons. So Felapolous had learned to stagger the times of his visits; skipping a day here and there, stopping in during the morning on one day, an afternoon the next, waiting a day and then dropping by the following morning.

It was the only time that Felapolous had the opportunity to see Wallace. In fact, it was probably the only regular occasion that anyone on the station had for seeing the project supervisor since Wallace had begun his self-isolation. Hank Luton had moved out of Module 24 weeks ago, preferring the crowded conditions of a bunkhouse module in the east hemisphere to luxury shared with an obvious paranoid, and Phil Bigthorn was now delivering Wallace’s meals on a tray from the mess deck.

It was becoming evident that Wallace was going over the deep end. As Felapolous touched the intercom switch next to the hatch, just above the orange sign which read “Administration,” he wondered how much longer it would be before he was obligated to advise Skycorp’s management in Huntsville that their veteran space hero was bordering on a complete mental breakdown.

“
Who is it
?” Wallace’s voice barked through the intercom.

“Edwin, Henry,” Felapolous said, making the effort to keep his voice easy: Shucks, friend, just decided to pop down for a visit. Hiya doing? “Mind if I come down?”

“
Enter
!” There was an audible click as the electronic lock on the hatch was disengaged, and Felapolous kneeled, cranked open the hatch, and climbed down onto the ladder. That in itself took an effort; the compartment was almost totally dark, and he had to be careful that his feet didn’t miss the rungs, which he could barely see.

The only lights in the compartment came from a gooseneck high-intensity lamp arched over a desk, the small reading lamp which was switched on in one of the two bunks, and the blue and white glow from a computer screen and a TV monitor at the end of the compartment. Wallace was seated in front of the terminal, his back turned to Felapolous. “Come in, Edwin,” he said in a voice which was more relaxed than the one that had come over the intercom, but which still held a ring of self-conscious authority.

Over Wallace’s shoulder, Doc Felapolous could see that the TV screen displayed a shot of SPS-l’s long grid, stretching out for two miles from a camera angle which was obviously from the side of Vulcan Station. The computer screen held tabulated lists, data relayed from Olympus’ command deck. Wallace wore a communications headset, and he was hunched forward, studying the computer and the TV screen. “Make yourself at home,” Wallace said. “I’ll be with you in a moment, old friend.”

Felapolous walked a few feet into the compartment, looking around as he did so. It was doubtful he could make himself at home here. The place was a wreck: food trays containing half-finished meals on the floor and the desk, a long scroll of computer printout lying unfolded across the floor like a tapeworm, clothing scattered here and there on the floor, on the back of a chair, on the unmade bunk. One of the station cats—Clarke, or was it Asimov?—leaped from its perch on the bunk, sprinted between Doc’s legs, and bounded up the ladder, raising one of Felapolous’ eyebrows, because Henry had always claimed to detest “the inbred little creatures.”

Wallace’s fingers tapped at the keyboard in his lap. Felapolous noticed a few paperbacks lying on the desk, their covers illuminated under the lamp, and walked over to see what Wallace had been reading. An ancient edition of
The Third Industrial Revolution
by G. Harry Stine; a fairly recent spy-fiction bestseller;
The First Three Minutes
by Steven Weinberg; a science fiction novel. He spotted another book, lying open with its spine broken, on the crumpled pillow underneath the reading light over the bunk. He tiptoed over and raised the cover to peer at the title.
Dianetics
by L. Ron Hubbard. Felapolous grimaced and carefully put the book back in its place.

“There’s something rotten in the state of Denmark,” Wallace announced.

“What?” Startled, Felapolous jerked up from his bent position over the bunk. Wallace, to his relief, was still facing the computer, his finger pointed at the screen. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Price’s report,” Wallace said in a dead voice. “Chang claims in his report that a full second-shift crew was dispatched to Vulcan at 0700 today. But here, Price reported that two men didn’t go on
EVA
at Vulcan. Hooker and Neiman.”

He tapped another command into the keyboard and leaned closer to study the screen. “The list of comlink channels being used,” he said softly. “The frequencies assigned to Hooker and Neiman for this shift aren’t being used.” He continued to stare at the screen. Then, suddenly, he barked a laugh. “Ah, so,” he said with cynical humor.

He pushed a tab on the right lobe of his headset. “Mr. Bigthorn? I want you to make a quick search of the station. Look for Hooker and Neiman. That’s right, Popeye and Virgin Bruce.” He rolled the nicknames off his tongue with disgust. “Search all the obvious places, and don’t forget the Hydroponics bay. In fact, see if you can find Jack Hamilton also. If they’re around, find out why Neiman and Hooker didn’t report for their shifts and write it up in a report. If you don’t find any of them, let me know at once. Over and out.”

Wallace cut out, then picked up the keyboard and put it in its slot on the console. He then turned around in his chair to face Felapolous, and looked straight at the doctor. “So it begins,” he said in a hollow, solemn voice. Then he stood up from his chair.

Felapolous couldn’t help but notice that Wallace was stark naked. The only thing he wore was his headset. “I’m not sure I understand you,” he said, trying not to appear as if he noticed Wallace’s uncharacteristic nudity, or the fact that Wallace’s physique was shot to hell; where once he had firm muscle, now there was flab and uncontrolled paunch.

Wallace didn’t seem to notice. He walked past Felapolous and bent to pick up some trousers left dumped on the floor. Neglecting to put on underwear, he stepped into the legs and pulled up the pants. “Because I’ve been doing my work, and my studies, down here doesn’t mean that I haven’t ignored the situation on Olympus, Ed,” Wallace said. “In fact, I would have to be pretty stupid if I didn’t admit how much the environment has deteriorated over the past few weeks.”

He reached for a short-sleeve uniform shirt and slipped it on. “Rock music playing in the crew quarters,” he murmured. “Graffiti on the walls. Uninspirational films being shown in the rec room, even pornography. The men smiling. Sex with the female crew members. It’s a disgrace.” He looked in the direction of the ladder. “It started when we brought those cats aboard. It wasn’t entirely your fault, Ed, but I said that there was no room for animals up here, and especially not cats. It was the cats that started this mutiny.”

“Pardon me,” Felapolous said. “Did you just say that the cats are inciting a mutiny?”

Wallace brayed laughter, which sounded just slightly hysterical. “No, no, no. You misunderstood me, Doctor. The cats were only symptomatic of the problem.” He shook his head. “No, the real problem is that these men have become adjusted to living in space. They’ve come to enjoy themselves, and that’s the way to disaster.”

Felapolous tried not to return Wallace’s stare. Instead, he absently studied his fingernails and said calmly, “Ah, yes. I agree.”

Wallace nodded quickly and began to pace. “It wasn’t the cats that started this, it was Skycorp, and before them, NASA. It was all the space experts like Clarke and O’Neill, the groups like L-5 and the National Space Society, claiming that outer space was meant to be colonized by the so-called common man.” He laughed again. “All the common man is good for is to pave the way for
homo superior
, those who have disciplined themselves—trained their minds, hardened their bodies, become ready to live in this environment. This frontier was never meant for the common man, Ed, it was meant for…”

He searched for the right word, waving his right hand in the air. “The master race,” Felapolous supplied slowly.

Wallace smiled and jabbed an index finger in his direction as he walked away, his eyes searching the floor of the darkened compartment. “Yes, although not by the classic Hitler definition. I would hate to have my theories compared to his.”

“No, of course not,” Felapolous murmured.

“But that hasn’t been the case, now has it?” Wallace bent suddenly, opened a cabinet door and began rummaging inside, not bothering to switch on the lights. “So now we have a crew of people up here running from taxes or their wives or the law, trying to make a fast buck, playing out simplistic romantic fantasies, without the slightest consideration that what they might be doing could advance the destiny of the human race. I thought Hamilton was different, that he was one of us, but I know now that he was a clever impersonator. Indeed, he’s the head of the conspiracy.”