Free No Place Like Home by Dana Stabenow Page A

empty.
    “Cold,” Hiroshi said, emerging from his goonsuit shivering and pinch-faced.
    “Er than a witch’s tit,” Roberto agreed cheerfully. He'd been nauseous for two years; he didn’t care how cold the planet was so long as it had enough gravity to keep his feet and his dinner down.
    I’d been rearranging the furniture in the galley, unbolting tables and chairs from the bulkheads and placing them on what was now the floor. I’d reduced our dining room from three to two dimensions and our ten-man crew was shoulder to shoulder but no one complained. Betty cooked, making a praise-worthy effort at extracting flavor from foil envelopes of alleged food packed two A.U.s away. Betty was a genius in the galley, but Betty Crocker herself would have been culinarily challenged by what we had left in the pantry. I’d have killed for a hot, meaty chili, smothered in onions and shredded cheese.
    Grady made a little speech and raised a toast of eighteen, now twenty year-old single malt scotch, hoarded carefully for just this occasion. It didn't taste as smooth here as it did back home, but the flush started hot and low in my gut and spread up and out.
    Esme followed the toast with a ceremonial chant. The UCB liturgy has a chant for everything, and encourages lay participation. Hiroshi, a Buddhist and very polite, bent his head. The rest of us waited with varying degrees of patience for it to be over, and went to bed.
    It was Grady's night, and either the Glenmorangie or the gravity or both inspired him, because it was an inventive few hours before I got any sleep.
    Engineers do it anyway they can.
    · · ·
     
    I was a mechanic. I’d spent the voyage out minding the drive, not that demanding a job given the passive nature of a nuclear propellant system: detonation, reaction, thrust, course adjustment, coast, detonation. After turnaround about all I had to do was make sure the next charge was in the chute prior to launch, and that the thrust plate hadn’t suffered a meltdown following detonation. Yawn. I was looking forward to handling tools again.
    Landing+1 found me breaking out the components of the rover, essentially a perambulating platform with four enormous wheels. The engine was solar-powered, which made for a relaxed cruising speed and a guaranteed fuel supply. We weren’t going anywhere in a hurry, but we would get there in the end. The cabin was a plated half-sphere. I christened it the Tortoise and the name stuck.
    There wasn’t enough oxygen or enough atmosphere to work unsuited, and working with gloves slowed me down. It took until lunch to get the platform assembled, and I’d just started to inflate the first segment of the first tire when Grady called us inside for a break and lunch. I unsuited in the airlock, indulged in a futile wish for a long, hot shower and climbed through engineering and hydroponics to the galley.
    Lunch was an herb omelette with a dusting of parmesan and fresh radishes. Grady complimented Betty, and Esme, our hydroponist, and inquired as to the menu for dinner. “Hot beef sandwiches,” Betty said.
    “Shit on a shingle,” Hiroshi, the only ex-Marine in the group, said sotto voce.
    “I’m going to need water,” Betty said. “Soon.”
    “You’ll have it,” Hiroshi said, brightening. Half our crew complement were mining engineers; they were happy to be digging up anything. The sooner I got the Tortoise operational so they could go prospecting, the better.
    That night was Esme’s. He was very sweet, but he always had to be in love, and his brand of foreplay involved a lot of verbal reassurance that he was loved in return. If we hadn’t been short one woman, and if I hadn’t lost the toss between Aya, Betty and myself with Kirsten already committed to Roberto, I would have been happy to forego the pleasure. As it was, I murmured a lot of sweet nothings that seemed to satisfy him and fell asleep as soon as possible.
    Farmers plant it deep.
    · · ·
     
    By noon on Landing+2, we