Orbital Decay (49 page)

BOOK: Orbital Decay

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They all nodded their heads. He nodded his own head in acknowledgment, then took another swig of beer. “What’s the name of this town?” he then asked.

“It’s called Mexican Hat,” the bartender said after a moment.

“Oh,” the white guy said. “Mexican Hat.”

After another long moment, one of the customers said, “Where’re you from?”

The white guy smiled and traced his finger around the edge of a small puddle of beer on the bar. “I’m originally from Florida,” he said, in slow, carefully chosen words, “but lately I’ve lived in outer space.”

“I guess that explains the boots,” another man said,
sotto voce.

“Yeah, it does.”

There was another long silence between them before the white guy said, “Do any of you know Phil Bigthorn?”

They all shook their heads, not taking their eyes off him. “That’s good,” the white guy replied. After another moment he asked, “Does a bus come through here?”

“Where do you want to go?” one of the regulars said.

“Wherever the next bus goes.”

The bartender pulled out a Greyhound schedule and told him that the next bus was due in three hours, destination Flagstaff. He could catch it at the Texaco station across the street. The gringo nodded his head, finished his beer, then bought a bottle of cheap red wine and some freeze-dried beef jerky. As he finished his beer and headed for the door, one of the customers said offhandedly, “Going back to space now, man?”

The gringo turned and smiled as he pushed his back against the screen door, stirring the dozing mutt just outside. “Nope,” he replied. “Thanks for the directions home.”

As he walked clumsily down the steps, the dog yawned and stretched and, having nothing better to do that late afternoon, followed him down the stairs and across the sandy parking lot. The man walked across the cracked highway to the Texaco station and bought a ticket to Flagstaff from the fat old Navajo woman, who also tried to sell him some turquoise jewelry. Then he climbed up on a gravel-and-sand hillock overlooking the highway and sat down, putting his back against a mesquite tree. The dog followed and lay down nearby, his tongue lolling moistly out of his mouth as he eyed the strip of jerky in the man’s hand.

As the sun began to set, the man opened the bottle of cheap red wine and stripped off a little bit of jerky to feed to the dog. That morsel was all he needed to win the dog’s loyalty; he crawled closer and lay his head in the man’s lap, his dirty tail thumping in the dirt as he gnawed on the tough jerky.

After a little while the sun blazed out in a haze of orange and yellow, and the stars began to appear. The man put the back of his head against the wiry trunk of the tree and stared up into the sky. Once his eyes had become adjusted to the darkness, he could make out a tiny, twinkling constellation, a round sparkle of starlight, like silver appearing against the black. He smiled and raised his bottle to the little constellation in a silent toast, then drank deeply. The dog stirred a little, tail swishing once, twice, in the dirt, and the man petted him as they both contented themselves with the warmth of each other’s company. It was a good night to be out in the desert with a friend.

Acknowledgments

T
HE AUTHOR EXTENDS HIS
deepest gratitude to the people who helped make this novel possible:
Rick Dunning
, who designed Olympus Station and aided in the design of Vulcan Station, and otherwise acted as an unofficial science adviser in the creation of the backgrounds and technology;
Jim Ball
of NASA’s Public Affairs Office at the Kennedy Space Center, who gave me a first-class tour of the facilities and answered many questions about flight operations at the Cape;
David Moja
, also of the Kennedy Space Center, who lent me an enlightening half-hour of his time;
Joye Patterson
and
Roy Fisher
of the University of Missouri School of Journalism, for enabling me to take off on a couple of off-campus trips to the Cape and Washington, D.C., which allowed me to gather material while conducting postgraduate research at the same time;
Ken Moore
,
John Hollis
, and
Dan Caldwell
of the Nashville Science Fiction Club, who supplied me with invaluable insights, criticism, and magazine articles during the genesis of the book (and to Ken’s cats—Avco, Big Black, Pinhead, and Toker—for educating me in feline psychology);
Ginjer Buchanan
, who rescued this novel from the slush pile and gave me encouragement when it was needed the most;
Ian Ralph
, who volunteered to be the novel’s first reader and survived the experience to give me a critique; and, definitely not the least,
Linda
, for back rubs, patience, beer runs, and all the other big and little things.

September, 1983–October, 1986;
Columbia
,
Missouri
;
Nashville
,
Tennessee
;
Washington
,
D.C
.;
Worcester
,
Massachusetts

About the Author

Before becoming a science fiction writer, Allen Steele was a journalist for newspapers and magazines in Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Missouri, and his home state of Tennessee. But science fiction was his first love, so he eventually ditched journalism and began producing that which had made him decide to become a writer in the first place.

Since then, Steele has published eighteen novels and nearly one hundred short stories. His work has received numerous accolades, including three Hugo Awards, and has been translated worldwide, mainly into languages he can’t read. He serves on the board of advisors for the Space Frontier Foundation and is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. He also belongs to Sigma, a group of science fiction writers who frequently serve as unpaid consultants on matters regarding technology and security.

Allen Steele is a lifelong space buff, and this interest has not only influenced his writing, it has taken him to some interesting places. He has witnessed numerous space shuttle launches from Kennedy Space Center and has flown NASA’s shuttle cockpit simulator at the Johnson Space Center. In 2001, he testified before the US House of Representatives in hearings regarding the future of space exploration. He would like very much to go into orbit, and hopes that one day he’ll be able to afford to do so.

Steele lives in western Massachusetts with his wife, Linda, and a continual procession of adopted dogs. He collects vintage science fiction books and magazines, spacecraft model kits, and dreams.

Linda Steele

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The excerpt from
The Space Enterprise
by G. Harry Stine, copyright © 1982 by G. Harry Stine, has been used by permission of the Scott Meredith Literary Agency.

Permission has been granted by Ice Nine Publishing Company, Inc., for use of lyrics from the following songs:

Cover design by Michel Vrana

978-1-4804-3992-4

This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com