Free The Only Words That Are Worth Remembering by Jeffrey Rotter

friends, is the reason I halted the cruise-ship terminal project,” said Terry. Four bulky objects, partly concealed by scaffolding, gleamed in the hard light. “The Constellation program. Designed and built in perfect secrecy by the last Astronomers, as the Gunts squandered the billions they had stolen from our people. The purpose of these machines is the conveyance of humans to the surface of a distant moon. Everything seven adults need to endure an eight-year journey—food, waste disposal, sleep—is contained inside.”
    First came the Orion Block IV, a squat cone mounted on four stumps. This would be our ride to Europa, he explained, a capsule built to pierce the Night Glass and turn circles around Earth. A connected payload stage would contain two other vehicles and a mobile home of sorts. He walked us around a buglike garbage truck with twelve wheels. The Space Exploration Vehicle. Faron was assured he would get a chance to drive her soon enough.
    Suspended above the SEV hung a dull gray form that looked like an enormous plumb bob or an upside-down teardrop. Part diving bell, part drill, Nguyen said the Astronomers called this machine the Penguin. At the business end was a thermal probe powered by “advanced Stirling radioisotope generators”—nonsense words that the Reades registered with satisfaction. “My engineers tell me the Penguin can penetrate a kilometer of ice per hour. Once the saline ocean is breached, it becomes a fully functioning submersible that can support a two-person crew for up to four days.”
    Next he showed us the Deep-Space Habitat, a moon cabin with a rotunda as big as a grain silo. It doubled in size by deploying an inflatable loft. Nguyen handed around a stack of photos. There it was, pitched beside an arroyo way out west. With the pneumatic loft raised it looked like a tinfoil popcorn skillet, so we took to calling our future home the Popper. In the pictures, two men in those white fat suits stood around it with pickaxes. They were migrant workers, same as us, but their lean-to was considerably fancier than any the Van Zandts had ever slept in.
    Mae Reade was not impressed.
    â€œIt’s antiques.” She rapped the Orion with her fist. It sounded solid enough to me. “You dig this coffin out of the ground and expect me and Bill to fly it? Do you have no respect for human life?”
    â€œTo answer your first question: yes. I do expect you to fly it.” Nguyen was already heading back to the Tyvek tunnel. Our tour had ended. “I will point out that no one studied flying like the Astronomers. If you’re saying you don’t have the skills to execute our plan, we can certainly review the terms of your contract.”
    Umma shared her worries a different way, by sitting down on the steel floor to hug her knees. “Miss Van Zandt,” Nguyen said, “this bunker has not been compromised for centuries. Not a fire ant passed through its hermetic walls until that front loader fell through. My engineers assure me this equipment, though old, is in pristine condition. And we know how to use it.”
    This was true. At the end of their run the Astronomers anticipated a brief exile before Gunt rule was restored. They buried the Orion until such time as it could be safely retrieved. In the case, however, that their learning did not survive the intervening age, they left behind detailed instructions. They prefabbed every piece of hardware and automated the guidance system so that even barbarians like ourselves could use their antiques. It was, as they wrote, turnkey technology.
    â€œSounds like a solid deal to me!” Good old Pop. He stroked my mother’s hair. “See, Umma,” he said. “It’s space ships!” I loved my father, he meant well, but he had more spirit than brains.
    â€œSounds like they thought of everything but one,” said Bill. “What happens when that module of yours smacks the Night