“Miss Friday, we can’t have this.”
The passenger next to me said, “Young man, aren’t you making a fool of yourself? This young lady is a first-class passenger; I’ve noticed her in the dining roomÄat the Captain’s table. Now get that silly clipboard out of my face and find something better to do.”
Looking worriedÄjunior pursers always look worriedÄMr. Woo went away. After a bit the red light came on, the siren sounded, and a loud voice said, “Leaving orbit! Prepare for surges in weight.”
I had a miserable day.
Three hours to get down to the surface, two hours on the ground, three hours to get back up to stationary orbitÄthe trip down had music varied by an amazingly dull lecture on Outpost; the trip back had nothing but music, which was better. The two hours on the ground might have been okay had we been able to leave the landing craft. But we had to stay inboard. We were allowed to unbelt and go aft to what was called the lounge but was really just a space with a coffee-and-sandwiches bar on the port side and transparent ports on the after end. Through these you could see the migrants getting out on the deck below and cargo being unloaded.
Low rolling hills covered with snow . . . some sort of stunted growth in the middle distance. . . near the ship low b.uildings connected by snow sheds. The immigrants were all bundled up but they wasted no time in hurrying toward the buildings. The cargo was going onto a string of flatbed trucks pulled by a machine of some sort that puffed out clouds of black smoke . . . exactly the sort of thing you see pictured in children’s history books! But this was not a picture.
I heard one woman say to her companion, “Why would anyone decide to settle here?”
Her companion made some pious answer about “the Lord’s will” and I moved away. How can anyone get to be seventy years old (she was at least that) without knowing that no one “decided” to settle on Outpost. . . except in the limited sense that one “decides” to accept transportation as the only alternative to death or life imprisonment?
My stomach still felt queasy so I did not risk the sandwiches, but I thought a cup of coffee might helpÄuntil I whiffed it. Then I went straight to the rest rooms forward of the lounge, and won the title of “Ironjaw Friday.” I won it fair and square but nobody knows about it but meÄI found the stalls all occupied and had to wait. . . and wait I did, jaw muscles rigid. After a century or two a stall was vacated and I grabbed it and threw up again. Dry heaves, mostlyÄI should not have smelled the coffee.
The trip back up was endless.
Once in the Forward I called my friend Jerry Madsen, the junior ship’s surgeon, and asked to see him professionally. By ship’s rules the medical department holds clinic at oh-nine hundred each day, then handles only emergencies at other times. But I knew that Jerry would be willing to see me, whatever the excuse. I told him that it was nothing serious; I just wanted to get from him some of those pills he prescribed for old ladies with jumpy tummiesÄthe motionsickness pills. He asked me to meet him at his office.
Instead of having the pills waiting for me he ushered me into an examination room and closed the door. “Miss Friday, shall I send for a nurse? Or would you rather be seen by a female doctor? I can call Dr. Garcia but I hate to wake her; she was up most of the night.”
I said, “Jerry, what is this? When did I stop being Marj to you? And why the prissy protocol? I just want a handful of those seasick pills. The little pink ones.”
“Sit down, please. Miss FridayÄokay, MarjÄwe don’t prescribe that drug or its derivatives for young femalesÄto be precise, females of childbearing ageÄwithout making certain that they are not pregnant. It can cause birth defects.”
“Oh. Set your mind at rest, lover boy; I am not knocked up.”