Free Rescue Mode - eARC by Ben Bova, Les Johnson Page B

said. “May I ask what it’s about?”
    Her smile turning impish, Clermont said, “It is a love story about a field geologist who becomes an astronaut and a handsome news reporter, of course.” Arching an eyebrow, she asked, “Any more questions?”
    Treadway swallowed visibly, then answered, “No, I think that’ll wrap up this session. Good luck with your, er, novel. This is Steven Treadway, reporting virtually from the Arrow .”

    All eight of the crew got together in the galley at the end of the work day. It was a tight squeeze: although the galley had been designed to seat all of them, there was scant room to spare. Lanky Hi McPherson had to pull himself up over the chair’s back and slide his long legs under the table.
    “We ought to just float,” he complained, “while we’re still in zero-g. Take advantage of the weightlessness instead of wedging ourselves around the table.”
    Virginia Gonzalez started to shake her head, but caught herself in time. “I’m having a tough enough time keeping from tossing my cookies, Hi. If you were floating over my head, I think I’d lose it.”
    McPherson cinched his seat belt. “Sorry, Jinny. I wouldn’t want to upset you.”
    Though the inflated habitat module was less luxurious than the tourist hotels in low Earth orbit, it was still a big improvement over the more Spartan accommodations of the earlier space shuttles and space stations built by governments. The Arrow ’s habitat had been built by a non-traditional contractor, Harris Space Corporation, which had made its mark by constructing the Earth-orbiting hotel getaways for the uber-rich tourists eager to “go where no one has gone before”—and pay for the privilege.
    The orbiting Harris hotels had entertainment options that the Arrow did not, such as three-D virtual reality couches and gourmet meals. Plus acrobatic weightless “play” areas that some tourists used to join the ‘Zero-G Club.’ Harris himself often attributed his corporation’s profits to the thirst of millionaires who were quite willing to part with their money for the excitement of sex in orbit.
    The space agencies that funded the Mars mission officially frowned on the idea of their crew enjoying sex during their mission to Mars and back. But they knew that eight healthy, intelligent men and women cooped up together for nearly two years were bound to make their own arrangements. “I just hope they’re discreet about it,” NASA chief Saxby said with a resigned tone.
    Benson looked around the table at his seven crewmates. They all looked expectantly at their commander.
    “Ginny, your troubles will be over in about an hour,” he said, “when we start spinning up the ship. We’ll have a one-third g the rest of the way to Mars, so we won’t be invalids when we get there.”
    Taki Nomura closed her eyes for a moment. She had seen the results of long-term exposure to microgravity: loss of muscle tone, including the heart muscle. Loss of bone mass, making the bones so brittle a man could not stand on his own feet without danger of snapping a bone. Spinning the ship was necessary, a prudent solution to the problem of long-term weightlessness. Should they for some reason have to make the journey to Mars without artificial gravity, the ship had a pair of treadmills stowed on the ceiling just above the galley—complete with a gyroscope to keep it stabilized and a harness to keep the person using it from simply floating away with each step, a stationary bike and even a bench press that used tensioned cables instead of weights. The whole setup could be used where it was, if they were in zero gravity, or lowered to the deck in the space now occupied by the dining table in artificial gee. Both were modular and easily repositioned. But spinning the ship to simulate gravity was much the preferable solution. They would arrive at Mars fully conditioned to walk and work on the planet’s surface.
    “Ted will fire the minithrusters that will spin