Frederik Pohl - Man Plus

“I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw them!” Brad flared.

“Well, we’re not going to put much reliance on their bird, you can bet on that. But there it is: they say they want the mission to work. Well,” he said, “that’s just one more complication, but it all comes down to a single decision right now, correct? I have to make up my mind whether or not to put Roger on hold. Okay. I’ll do it. I accept your recommendation, Major Carpenter. Tell Roger what we’re going to do, and tell him whatever you and Dr. Ramez think you should about why. As for you, Brad” — he raised his hand to ward off Brad’s protests — “I know what you’re going to say. I agree. Roger needs more time with you. Well, he’ll get it. I’m ordering you along on the mission.” He slid a sheet of paper closer to him on his desk, crossed out one name on a list, wrote in another. “I’m going to drop one of the pilots to make room for you. I already checked. There’s plenty of back-up, with the machine guidance systems and the fact that you all have had some pilot training anyhow. That’s the final crew roster for the Mars launch: Torraway, Kayman, General Hesburgh as pilot — and you.”

Brad protested. It was only a reflex. Once the idea had settled in he accepted it. What Scanyon had said was true enough, and besides, Brad perceived instantly that the career he had programmed for himself could not help but be enhanced by actual physical participation in the mission itself. It would be a pity to leave Dorrie, and all the Dorries, but there would be so many Dorries when he got back…

And everything else followed as the night the day. That was the last decision. Everything else was only implementation. On Merritt Island the crews began fueling the launch vehicle. The rescue ships were deployed across the Atlantic in case of failure. Brad was flown to the island for his fitting, with six ex-astronauts detailed to cram in all the touch-up teaching he needed and could get in the time available. Hesburgh was one of them, short, sure and smiling, his demeanor a constant reassurance. Don Kayman took a precious twelve-hour relief to say good-by to his nun.

With all of this we were quite content. We were content with the decision to send Brad along. We were content with the trendline extrapolations that every day showed more positive results from the effect of the launch on world opinion and events. We were content with Roger’s state of mind. And with the NPA simulation of Roger we were most content of all; in fact, that was an essential to our plans for the salvation of the race.

The long Hohmann-orbit trip to Mars takes seven months. All previous astronauts, cosmonauts and sinonauts had found them very wearing months indeed. Each day had 86,400 seconds to fill, and there was very little to fill them with.

Roger was different from all the others in two ways. First, he was the most precious passenger any spaceship had yet carried. In and around his body were the fruits of seven billion Man Plus dollars. To the maximum extent possible, he had to be spared.

The other way was that, uniquely, he could be spared.

His body clocks had been disconnected. His perception of time was what the computer told him it should be.

They slowed him down gradually, at first. People began to seem to move a little more briskly. Mealtime came sooner than he was ready for it. Voices grew shriller.

When that phased in nicely, they increased the retardation in his systems. Voices passed into high-pitched gibberish, and then out of his perception entirely. He hardly saw people at all, except as flickers of motion. They sealed off his room from the day — it was not to keep him from escaping, it was to protect him from the quick transition from day to night. Platters of room-temperature, picnic-style food appeared before him. When he had begun to push them away to signal he was done or didn’t want them, they whisked out of sight.

Roger knew what was being done to him. He didn’t mind. He accepted Sulie’s promise that it was good, and needful, and all right. He thought he was going to miss Sulie and looked for a way to tell her so. There was a way, but it all went so rapidly; messages were chalked as if by magic on a board in front of him. When he responded, he found his answers snatched away and erased before he was quite sure he was through:

HOW ARE YOU FEELING?

Pick up the chalk, write one word.

FINE

and then the board is gone, brought back with another message—

WE’RE TAKING YOU TO MERRITT ISLAND.

And his reply:

I’M READY.

snatched away before he could add the rest, which he scrawled rapidly on his bedside table—

GIVE MY LOVE TO DORRIE

He had intended to add “and Sulie,” but there was no time; suddenly the table was gone. He was gone from the room. There was a sudden dizzying lurch of movement. He caught a quick glimpse of the ambulance entrance to the project, and a quick phantom glimpse of a nurse — was it Sulie? — with her back to him, adjusting her panty hose. His whole bed seemed to leap into the air, into a brutal blaze of winter sunlight, then into — what? A car? Before he could even question, it sprang into the air, and he realized that it was a helicopter, and then that he was very close to being sick. He felt his gorge rising in his throat.

The telemetry faithfully reported, and the controls were adequate to the problem. He still felt he would like to vomit, feeling himself thrown around as though in the most violent sort of cross-chop sea, but he did not.

Then they stopped.

Out of the helicopter.

Bright sunlight again.

Into something else — which he recognized, after it had begun to move, as the interior of a CB-5, fitted up as a hospital ship. Safety webbing spun magically around him.

It was not comfortable — there was still the hammering and the twisting vertigo, though not as unbearable — but it did not last long. A minute or two, it seemed to Roger. Then pressure smote his ears and they were taking him out of the plane, into blinding heat and light — Florida, of course, he realized tardily; but by then he was in an ambulance, then out of it…

Then, for a time that seemed to Roger ten or fifteen minutes and was actually the better part of a day, nothing happened except that he was in a bed, and was fed, and his wastes were removed by catheter, and then a note appeared before him:

GOOD LUCK, ROGER, WE’RE ON OUR WAY.

and then a steam hammer smote him from underneath and he lost consciousness. It is all very well, he thought, to spare me the inconvenience of boredom, but you may be killing me to do it. But before he could think of a way to communicate this to anyone he was out.

Time passed. A time of dreams.

He realized groggily that they had been keeping him sedated, not only slowed down but asleep; and in realizing this, he was awake.

There was no feeling of pressure. In fact, he was floating. Only a spiderweb of retaining straps kept him in place.

He was in space.

A voice spoke next to his ear: “Good morning, Roger. This is a tape recording.”

He turned his head and found a tiny speaker grille next to his ear.

“We’ve slowed it down so that you can understand it. If you want to speak to us, you just tape what you want to say, in a minute. Then we’ll speed it up so we can understand it. Ain’t science grand?

“Anyway, we’re into day thirty-one as I tape this. In case you don’t remember me any more, I’m Don Kayman. You had a little trouble. Your muscle system fought against the takeoff acceleration, and you pulled some ligaments. We had to do a little surgery. You’re mending nicely. Brad rebuilt part of the cybernetics, and you probably can handle the deltas when we land in good shape. Let’s see. There’s nothing else important to say, and probably you have some questions, but before you take your turn there’s a message for you.”