Phil Geusz - Lagrange

So I didn’t linger at the bar, instead carrying my drink with me as I began my preflight inspection. Aphrodite floated in solitary splendor outside the Dock Sixty-Nine windows, her violently pink paint glowing warmly in the sunlight. I took a moment to visually inspect her hull, which encompassed the first items on my checklist. There was no visual damage, check. No extra mooring lines affixed, check. No workers present, check. Lurid big-breasted cartoon-chicken murals spread out for all the world to see, check…

I sighed as I entered the elevator and lowered myself down into Aphrodite herself. The Pussy Pod, everyone else called her, even her passengers. Once she had been a mining pod, ferrying gasses and other volatiles from station to station all around cislunar space. Beauregard had bought her for a song, however, and then converted her huge internal volume into multi-decked short-hop passenger seating. Aphrodite , as Beauregard had renamed her, had far more power than was needed for the kind of start-and-stop work that she and I performed every day. However, her engines would last forever under such low demand, and otherwise she suited her new role perfectly.

There was even plenty of room for free advertising on her swollen, billboard-like flanks.

Everything came up green as I sipped on my cola, and soon Arnold was speaking to me over the intercom. “We’re about ready out here,” he said. “Just a couple more to strap down.”

“Right,” I agreed.

“It’s a huge crowd,” he added. “I’ve never seen anything like it. We’ve topped out.”

“Really?” I asked, checking my mass-meter. Sure enough, it indicated the largest figure that I’d ever recorded.

“Really,” Arnold replied emphatically. “We’ll have a full three hundred aboard the Henhouse. I actually had to turn people away. That’s a first.”

I shook my head. Three hundred? The Henhouse was just a collection of orbital shacks, really, assembled together into two equal masses and then spun about a center for gravity. It was certified safe for three hundred, I knew. But where would we put them all? And how could the girls possibly serve so many customers in a mere twelve hours?

Well, neither of those were my problems. I was just the pilot, after all. And the maintenance man. And the piano player, for the next twelve hours. “Three hundred,” I agreed. “Well, Beauregard will be pleased, at least. Up ship in about five minutes?”

“About,” Arnold agreed. “See you at home, hon.” Then he made a kissing sound into the microphone, and switched off.

I sighed and shook my head before getting down to business. “PT-Sixty-Nine to Control,” I said formally into the radio. “Peter Thomas-Six-Niner to Control. This is Aphrodite . Do you read me, over?”

“Poon Tang Six-Niner,” a voice responded instantly. “This is Control. We have you loud and clear. Our computers have received your flight plan. Clearance is granted. You may fly the coop at will.”

I clicked my beak together angrily. Damnit, I was a certified Command Navigator! I outranked this guy! Then I closed my eyes and counted ten. “Roger, Control” I replied, my voice cool and formal once more. I could be professional, even if no one else around Lagrange seemingly could. “I estimate departure in approximately three minutes. I will advise you when we up-ship.”

“Roger,” the voice replied. “We’ll set our egg timer. Control out.”

Once more my fists balled up. A launch was a launch, damnit, even it was just the Pussy Pod making a lousy hundred-click hop! This was serious business! There were human lives at stake! Then the door buzzer rang.

“Who is it?” I asked angrily. “What do you want?

“Commodore Tottson,” a very deep voice said from the other side of the hatch. “Commodore Tottson, come to pay his professional respects. Would you allow me the honor of cockpit privileges, sir?”

“Holy shit!” I cried out, leaping to my feet. No one had ever paid me a courtesy call before, least of all Commodore Tottson! Heart racing, I pressed the intercom button. “Of course, sir. It would be an honor.” Frantically I leapt around the cockpit, straightening papers and making sure that all was shipshape. Then I very carefully brushed back my comb, inhaled and exhaled slowly three times, and opened the hatch.

“Good afternoon,” the Commodore greeted me in his deep bass tones. He extended his hand.

I took it in both of mine and shook it firmly. “Good afternoon,” I repeated rather inanely. “I am deeply honored, sir.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “The honor is all mine, Mr. Mackleschmidt.” The Commodore paused for a moment. “I believe that we’ve rather gotten off on the wrong foot with each other. I’ve come to try and make things right.”

My beak dropped open. The Commodore was apologizing? To me ? “I… I…”

The big man smiled, flashing his perfect white teeth. “That, and I’ll admit that I’m planning to cut off a little bit of trim, as well. I’m a single man, as you know. Deep space can be a mighty lonely place at times.” He cocked his head to one side. “May I call you Marvin?”

Somewhere deep within my brain, important gears were spinning at high rates of speed without engaging anything at all. “Uh-huh,” I replied dully.

“Great!” the Commodore replied. “I’m Alexander, or Alec to my friends.” He looked at the copilot’s chair, and I took my cue.

“Please,” I gushed. “Please, be seated. Make yourself at home! I’m, uh, in final sequence and, uh….”

“Right,” Tottson replied with nod. “Of course. I’ll just sit and watch until we’re under way.”

I watched as he strapped himself in with practiced ease, then rang up Arnold. “How are the cattle doing?” I asked once I had him on the line.”

“Just about… Wait! Peggy Sue is giving me the high sign now. You’re clear on this end, Marvin.”

“Roger,” I acknowledged formally. “We are clear in the cabin.” Then I checked in with Control. “This is Peter Thomas Six-Niner,” I enunciated one last time. “I intend to up ship in three-zero seconds.”

“Roger that,” Control replied. “You are clear to fly, Poon Tang Six Niner. Another Venus expedition departs!”

“Those guys looked mighty horny to me, Poon Tang Six Niner!” an unknown voice added. “Watch out for Uranus!”

My eyes narrowed in rage; this was the usual drill whenever I left Lagrange, of course, and that was bad enough. But it was a hundred times worse with Commodore Tottson sitting beside me, silent as a sphinx. Once again, I forced myself to breathe naturally and behave like a professional. “Up ship in three, two, one… Now!” I declared as the computer released the docking ring at precisely the correct second.

In the old days, I knew, science fiction writers had predicted that transorbital craft like Aphrodite and Excalibur would inevitably dock in the center of spinning stations like Lagrange, for ease of navigation. They had not, however, anticipated either the overcrowding that had developed at Lagrange’s poles or the degree to which fusion power and high-speed computers would simplify the art of celestial navigation. Only the very heaviest and most unwieldy craft docked at the poles; there simply wasn’t room for anyone else. All other traffic docked at the rim, where there was plenty of surface area and docking space was therefore cheaper. When the computer released our docking ring, Aphrodite was flung like a stone from a sling, and we went from one gee of acceleration to free-fall conditions in nothing flat.

It only lasted for a second or so, however; almost immediately Aphrodite ’s engines began to fire, and presently we were keeping station and watching Lagrange’s huge hull spin merrily by. I turned to Tottson. “We’re routed via the South Pole, sir” I informed him. “I didn’t know that you were going to be aboard, but it worked out quite well.”