Free Voyage to Alpha Centauri: A Novel by Michael D. O'Brien Page B

his off-hours pass quickly.
    “Books”, he replied. “What kind of books?”
    “All kinds.”
    “And what about the other maintenance people?”
    “Plugged in.”
    “Pardon me?”
    “Plebeian mind-nummers.”
    “They like Math?”
    “Numb. Numbing. Nummers, not num-bers.”
    “So, what are plebeian mind-nummers?”
    “The old maximum e-drug. Surfing, vids, films, holo-porn.”
    “Digital environmental chambers?”
    “DECs? Yup, there’s a lotta people hooked on them too.” He paused and looked me squarely in the eyes for a moment. “Um, I think you should avoid using the max as much as you can, Doctor.”
    “Really? Why?”
    “Uh, it’s addictive. Sorry, I gotta go now. Bye.”
    I had supper with Xue and raised the topic of boredom, something from which he has never suffered. I was certain he would have projects on the go, and I was right. We also chatted about the problem in general: the nine years of time to kill for more than two hundred people on board.
    “Didn’t you know, Neil? Didn’t you read the contract you signed?”
    “That ridiculous contract, Owly! No, I most certainly did not read all 180 pages of it, including the numerous appendixes and small print. I’m still trying to make headway in the Manual, and that’s 2,200 pages.”
    “Right. But in principle, it’s better to read the documents you sign, don’t you think?”
    “Yeah, in principle.”
    “Well, my point is, in the contract, it states that the scientists who are designated only for planet work are mandated to do research and write papers during the outward bound flight—‘as a contribution to humanity’ the contract says. It may produce some useful developments, but I believe it’s mainly a make-work project to keep people busy.”
    “I see. And why don’t I know about this? Nobody’s making me do research.”
    “You really didn’t read the fine print. The contract exempts the Nobel winners from that stipulation. I expect they thought we’d suffer from the opposite problem, too much intellectual eagerness.”
    “Well, they’re wrong, at least in my case.”
    Later, in the lounge, I happened upon Maria Kempton and asked her if she was doing “mandated” research.
    She frowned. “Yes, well, we have to, don’t we? Otherwise, they would dock our pay and mandate counseling sessions with DSI.”
    I shook my head. “Sounds kind of pushy to me.”
    “We signed the contract”, she shrugged. “It was the only way to be part of this expedition. Fortunately, we’re permitted to choose our own topics.”
    “Have you chosen yours?”
    She smiled. “I’ve got a project on the go. It’s a sociological study.”
    “That’s a big leap from biology.”
    “Yes, but the overseers don’t see it that way. They think everything about humanity is biology. Care to read my manuscript?”
    “Uh . . . in all frankness, Maria,. . . much as I. . .”
    She laughed. “Good. A healthy reaction, Neil. You don’t have to read it. But let me say this: While I never tell lies, I do sometimes enjoy having a little joke. May I give you a thumbnail sketch of my thesis?”
    “Of course, please, sketch away and don’t hold back.”
    “Did you know that for the past three generations the declining kangaroo population has been a problem in Australia?”
    “I thought their overpopulation was your perennial problem.”
    “Right, ever since colonial days. But about seventy-five years ago, the ratio of human to roo began to reverse itself. Protein-deprived Aussies began to kill the creatures in large numbers, as well as the rabbits imported in the 1800s, which are the real pests, since they strip the country bare and multiply at astounding rates. Then the Green governments made it illegal—endangered species and all that. Aussies, as you may know, are a race of former criminals, and most of the time, we just function on basic common sense. Despite the laws, the roos and rabbits continued to decline, and the country continued to