“Ever watch this?” asked the bartender. “They do a segment every week, live from Trikon Station. That guy there, he’s Kurt Jaeckle. His that scientist writes all them books about Mars.”
Freddy and Lance grunted in recognition. O’Donnell gnawed on a burnt section of his toast. Seeing that his patrons were less than talkative, the bartender retreated to a well-cushioned stool set up next to the cash register.
Kurt Jaeckle was smiling earnestly into the camera. His face was thin, pallid except for heavy dark eyebrows that shadowed his eyes.
“One of the problems of extended space missions,” said Jaeckle, “is the effect of weightlessness on the muscular system of the human body. In microgravity, objects retain their mass but not their weight. Tasks that require the exertion of muscle power on Earth require virtually no effort in space. Hence, without a planned exercise regimen, a person’s muscles will atrophy.”
The camera pulled back as Jaeckle floated effortlessly toward the blond puffing away on the exercise cycle.
“Ms. Gamble here is demonstrating our stationary cycle, which exercises the leg muscles and, more importantly, the heart as well. The heart, remember, is nothing more than a muscle. On Earth it pumps blood against the force of gravity, but here in space there is no such resistance. Therefore, the heart can atrophy just like any other muscle.”
At a nod from Jaeckle the blond stopped pedaling and tried to smile prettily into the camera.
“I require each member of the Mars training mission to spend a minimum of eight hours on the cycle each week. The station commander has a separate set of exercise requirements for his crew, and the teams of research scientists on board are advised by the station’s medical officer to exercise on a regular basis.”
“Ho boy, I’m in trouble,” said Freddy.
“You can pedal with your hands,” said Lance.
“Where do I sit?”
“You don’t need to sit.”
“Tha’s right,” said Freddy. “Maybe we can pedal with her, eh?”
“She’s a local girl,” the bartender piped up. “First name’s Carla Sue. She was a beauty queen at the University of Florida a few years back, though you wouldn’t know it to look at her on that cycle. Space travel don’t agree with her. Professor Jaeckle talked about it last week. Somethin’ about the body fluids rising from the legs to the chest and face in micro-gee. Carla Sue was prettier’n a movie star down here. But up there her face kinda looks like one of them big all-day lollipops, don’t it? Not that I still wouldn’t give her a lick.”
Freddy giggled; Lance’s face reddened. O’Donnell didn’t know whether the kid was embarrassed or angry.
“Don’t none of you guys get any ideas about Carla Sue,” said the bartender. “She’s Jaeckle’s.”
“She hasn’t met us yet,” said Freddy.
“I oughtta know,” the bartender went on. “The two of them were in here makin’ kissy-face enough before goin’ up.”
No one picked up on this morsel of gossip, so he folded his arms across his gut and swiveled his head back to the television. Jaeckle was in the midst of explaining that the stationary cycle, for all its virtues, did not provide enough exercise for the calf muscles. To demonstrate, Carla Sue unzipped the bottom of her pants leg. Her calf was as straight as a rail and so thin that Jaeckle was nearly able to encircle it with one hand.
“And, as you can see, it is quite flabby, too.” Jaeckle rubbed his hand up Carla Sue’s calf. A ripple of flesh preceded his fingers toward her knee.
“In order to exercise these muscles, we have a treadmill,” continued Jaeckle. “Now Ms. Gamble apparently has not been spending the required amount of time on the treadmill.” He smacked her calf sharply. “Better work on these.”
Lance tapped O’Donnell’s wrist.
“Did I ever show you the picture of my girl?”
O’Donnell grunted noncommittally. He had tried talking to Lance Muncie during preflight instruction and had received nothing but a hard stare in return. His initial impression was that Muncie somehow knew of his past and disapproved on a deeply moral level. Later, from talking to Freddy, he learned that Lance came from a Pentecostal community in the Oklahoma panhandle. Just what we need, he had thought, a fundamentalist aboard the space station.