One of the trivial and yet serious problems for the scientists in setting up the two-year mission had been finding a surefire way of suppressing follicular activity. Otherwise everyone would have woken up to find their pods brimming over with their own hair and beards.
The next capsule along belonged to Steve Romero. “Steve Romero. Radio honcho on this tub. Been interested in communications since I was knee-high to a beanbug. I’m thirty-seven and a skinny six feet two. I’m a vegetarian and I practice meditation. Been married but it didn’t work out.”
There was a hesitation in the voice. “Son called Sly who lives with… with his mother in Aspen. She’s married again. Twice more, in fact. Boy’s eighteen. Wish I saw more of him. That’s all, folks.”
In the identical capsule to the right of Steve Romero was a shorter, paler figure whose light blue eyes were beginning to flicker as though he was going through a period of REM-induced heavy dreaming.
“Thomas. Jefferson Lee. Twenty-four. Average height and build.” The records showed him at five-seven and one sixty-five. “I’m the superstar supercargo on this can. Journalist for the West American, who put up a big pile of dollars to get me aboard. I live on Jackson Street in San Francisco, and my hobby’s battles of the Civil War. Got a sick daddy in San Luis Obispo. Hope he’s pulling on through while I’m away. Absence makes his heart grow stronger.”
After a pause, he continued, “Oh, and I got a steady little girl who can’t wait for me to get home and show her what she likes best.” The tape finished on a cackle of sniggering laughter.
“MAC. HENDERSON MCGILL. Some of the squids on this jaunt call me Grandad, because I’m forty-five and the oldest crew member. Actually by the time we get home again after the big sleep it could be I really will be a grandfather. Specialty’s astrophysics. Don’t get much chance to use it. Machines have took us over. Got two marriages, one still running. Seven kids here and there. Wife numero uno is Jeanne. Lives on Mount Vernon Street in Boston. We get on all right, I guess. Angel…that’s her real name…lives not far away in Mystic, Connecticut, with the four youngest. We get on all right, I guess.” He laughed. “Hobby’s keeping fit and paying alimony. Jim Hilton fancies himself with a gun. But he can’t bench press half what I can. That’s all I got to say, except that there’s times I prefer being out in space to being stuck back here on our own sick old planet.”
MOM’S VOICE WAS ERRATIC. Every minute or so it would slow to a bass slurring, like a fat old drunk on a park bench.
“Thirty hours to reentry and thirty-four hours to projected landing. Wake up, boys and girls. You’ve slept long enough. Rise and shiiine. Recovery proceedings are on line and—”
There was a loud snapping sound on the tape, like a dry branch cracking under a heel. The voice went on, calm and unhurried. “There appears to be a minor malfunction with off-target reanimating proceedings. Thisthisthis investigated soonest.”
THE LAST OF THE PODS at the end of the first row held the youngest member of the Aquila’s crew, who also happened to be the only black on board.
Kyle Lynch was tall and slender. “Navigator. Me and Mac feel the same about our jobs.” His voice was very quiet. “I watch a screen controlled by a preprog computer. Anything needs changing in course or any other nav-factor input, then I still sit and watch. I’m only there for a worst-worst scenario. Triple-red days for Kyle. But if that ever happened to the Aquila, then I guess we’ll all be chilled meat anyway. I double up as the main stills and vid photographer for the mission. Load, point and press. Ansel Adams I’m not. I live in Albuquerque down in New Mexico and I surely hope my fiancee, Leanne, is still waiting for me when I get back.”
His lips moved in the stillness of the capsule as he whispered the name of his dearest love. “Rosa,” he said.
TIME HADN’T meant anything to the twelve men and women on the Aquila for almost a year. Now it was forcing its way back into their lives.