Gregory Benford - Jupiter Project

I told her about the way the whole social thing looks to me—and to a lot of boys growing up. We’re driven by a big urge— get laid! the hormones sing. But everybody says, no, you’re too young. You’ll get in trouble. You sort of expect your parents and The System to keep saying no —they always do; they’re cautious. So you discount that. But the girls say it, too. That’s because they’ve been sold a bill of goods, just like us. They have everybody wagging fingers at them, saying Watch out! Don’t give in. Don’t even think of giving in. You’re not ready for it, emotionally ready. And you could get pregnant. And they’re right, in a way. Girls pay the bigger price. Their whole growing-up process is filled with fears of things that might happen to them. Boys never have to worry about getting pregnant. Or raped. And suppose you’re a thirteen-year-old girl and you decide you’re going to have sex no matter what anybody says? If you do anything to prevent pregnancy, you’re in trouble. The doctor tells your parents and then they come down on you. And if you don’t see the doctor, then maybe you wind up having a baby or getting an abortion. Some choice, uh?

I could see all that. Girls had it hard. Maybe harder than we did. Or maybe the trouble was just different. Boys had this drive and it seemed powerful as hell. You thought about it all the time.

Jenny said, well, sure, she thought about sex; but not all the time. Maybe for boys it was different. For girls, sex was an expression of something else a lot of the time. Of affection. Or of a sense of self-esteem (I’m a woman; somebody wants me). Or sometimes as a reward to the boy for something. And a girl sees images of women all over the place while she’s growing up—magazines, 3D ads. And they’re all actresses’ pinups, beautifully groomed and busty and leggy. “Most girls get a kind of inferiority complex out of all that,” Jenny said. “So sex gets to be a thing you’re kind of shy of, because compared to those gorgeous women on 3D, you’re not so much. How could any man desire you? ”

There were two reactions to this, she murmured, making a sour expression. A girl could go out and try to prove herself—and run all the risks I had been talking about. Or she could just hang back, shy. Neither solution really worked. It just delayed the real problem, which was coming to grips with your own personality, who you really were.

Maybe so, I said, but it seemed to me we all got wounded. After a while of frustration, a guy got to seeing girls as the enemy. They were the ones doing the rejecting, the ones who were holding out. They could come across if they wanted to. So a guy builds up this resentment of women, and he keeps it. Even after he’s got things sort of straightened out, there are always those years when he was a teenager and every hand was turned against what his body told him to do. Walking wounded, yeah. A guy doesn’t forget.

Jenny said softly, “I think I see what you mean. The training we get from our parents and others—it makes us think the other sex is different, an enemy. Sure, maybe they don’t intend it to have that effect. But it does. ”

“Right.”

“We’re all victims, then.”

“Yeah. I can understand how things got this way…”

“Especially out here in the Can.”

“Right. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

She nodded solemnly and looked at me. “I don’t either.”

The talk sort of dribbled off. We started to get tired. We buckled in and got some hours of zero- g sleep.

When the bridge of the Can called. I woke up. I felt pretty well rested. The Can was already a glowing dot, spinning patiently.

I jockeyed Roadhog into the bay and we both did the refueling; it was beginning to look like we would make a good team. Most shuttle hops weren’t so long and one operator would do, but on jobs like this one the bridge liked two pilots along.

I felt good. It seemed like something to celebrate, so I invited Jenny for a drink—a real one, not a milkshake.

I unsuited, went through the ’fresher—ever smell someone who’s been working in a space suit for over thirteen hours?—and waited for Jenny in the tube outside the women’s area. I had planned on taking her to the small officer’s bar on one of the outer levels, where a big 3D screen gives views of Earth and I thought we wouldn’t meet anyone we knew. It was 20:00 hours, ship’s time, well past the cocktail hour.

I had just leaned against the wall when Zak came loping along, panting.

“I figured you’d be here,” he gasped. “Want—wanted to catch you.”

“What for?”

“Commander Aarons called a shipwide meeting, it’s starting right now. I thought you’d probably missed the announcement while you were coming inside.”

Jenny appeared. “What announcement? What is it?”

“Come on,” Zak said.

“I think we ought to go,” I said apologetically. Jenny and I looked at each other. We shrugged. “A little later, maybe…”

Jenny smiled and nodded. We followed Zak, who was already walking away. I felt bad about interrupting our little private party. Alcohol holds no fascination for me—I’ve had plenty of chances to drink at home, so it’s nothing new—but there is something about the rituals of drinking that can cement new ties, formalize a relationship. And I suppose I wanted to mark the occasion. I wanted to make a bench mark that said, here is when I opened my eyes a little, and saw her clearly for the first time.

Zak told us about a flurry of rumors that had run around the Lab during the day, most of them contradictory. I half-listened on the way to the auditorium. The bowl was nearly filled. The 3D cameras were operating, so that people who couldn’t leave their posts could listen in. We found three seats together on the very last row.

The auditorium buzzed with speculation. I spotted Mom and Dad sitting together, the Motos, and several others. The lights dimmed slightly. People stopped chattering and Commander Aarons walked to the podium at center stage. He seemed smaller than I remembered him, and awfully tired. He reached up and nervously plucked at his moustache before speaking.

“It is my duty to make a grave announcement. Two hours ago I received word from the Executive Council of the International Space Administration. For the last several weeks the Council has deliberated on the future course of research and exploration throughout the solar system.

“The discussions were extensive. Plans for construction of the first unmanned probes to the nearby stars were even considered; the Council elected to set aside such a program for the foreseeable future.

“As many of you may have suspected, it was an order of the Council that delayed the departure of the Argosy. I did not know why until this evening.

“We are all aware—however divorced we may be from our home planet—that the economic crisis there is steadily worsening. Overpopulation has not been solved. Raw materials are running low, despite the self-supporting mines in the asteroid belt. Gradually the ‘extras’ are being whittled away.

“I am afraid the Council has decided that it is the Laboratory’s turn to be trimmed. No, no—” he looked toward the top of the bowl, directly at me—“that is far too mild a word. The Council has informed me…that all research operations here and on Ganymede are to be ended. The Laboratory is finished.”

Suddenly everybody was talking at once. The Commander let the noise build for a moment and then cut it off by raising his hand.

“The Argosy will leave Earth orbit within the hour. It is flying empty; none of the cargo we asked for is aboard, nor are food supplements. The Council has given orders that the Laboratory be stripped of useful scientific instruments. All personnel are to return to Earth on the Argosy. ”