I must have a word with him, thought Jaeckle. He stopped at his office door and consulted the blister reservation list attached to the bulkhead. Carla Sue Gamble was in the observation blister now. As usual, none of the other Martians had reserved the following hour. Jaeckle wrote his name into the next slot.
Inside his office, Jaeckle powered up his communications console and called TBC headquarters in New York City. As Mars Project head, he was exempt from Trikon’s restrictions on secured communications and had a selection of voice encryption chips at his disposal. The chips broke up the voice transmission into meaningless signals that would be reassembled by another chip at the receiving station. Eavesdropping ham-radio operators would hear nothing but Chinese violins. Jaeckle didn’t often use encryption when talking to TBC, but today the language could become dicey. He pressed a chip into its slot.
The link was shunted from receptionist to secretary to executive secretary and finally to Jared Lewis, the vice president in charge of “Good Morning, World.”
Lewis was angry, his fleshy face blotchy red. Jaeckle was exactly one sentence into his explanation of the morning’s event when Lewis launched into a tirade. He railed about confusion in the control room and about the co-anchor who had taken a break from the set during the live broadcast from space and then could not be located when the transmission abruptly ended.
“You think we like showing an empty chair!” shrieked Lewis. He started ranting about advertising dollars and market share.
Eventually Lewis slowed down and Jaeckle had a chance to talk. He used all of his narrative skills to paint a picture of confusion and horror on the stricken space station.
“Jesus,” said the chastened Lewis. “Hey, maybe we can start the next broadcast with a reenactment. I’ll get one of the segment directors to contact you about it pronto. How is Carla Sue doing?”
“Actually,” said Jaeckle, shifting narrative gears, “I think the mission is beginning to wear on her.”
“You know, it’s funny,” Lewis said. “I was thinking the exact same thing this morning. Those legs. I mean, come on. We’re talking anorexic.”
“I’ve explained the fluid shift several times on the air.”
“Words are words. Pictures are what counts,” said Lewis. “We don’t want people coming away with images of anorexic astronauts.”
“Unfortunately, it cannot be avoided.”
“Maybe if you had someone else,” Lewis suggested. “Someone with a little more heft or a little less fluid shift. Paint a prettier picture for our viewers.”
“There is someone,” Jaeckle said slowly, as if the idea had just entered his mind. “But she isn’t a part of the Mars Project.”
“Hey, there’s nothing in the contract that says your assistant has to be a part of the Mars Project. She could be a Venusian for all I care.”
“I don’t know how Carla Sue would react to being replaced.”
“It’ll a rough business, Kurt.”
“This other one may not even want to be on television.”
“Everybody wants to be on television,” said Lewis. “Who is she?”
“Lorraine Renoir.”
“I like it,” Lewis said. “French?”
“French Canadian, actually. She is the station medical officer.”
“Nice tie-in. She could interest the Canadian audiences. Ratings have been low there. Attractive?”
“Well,” said Jaeckle. “Not anorexic.”
“Talk to her and let me know. Have to run.”
The telelink broke. Jaeckle snapped off his communications console. He felt encouraged, expansive. Talking to TBC always was entertaining, especially since Jared Lewis was so malleable.
Jaeckle propelled himself toward the observation blister up at the tip of the module, a dome of strong and perfectly transparent Lexan. The outer surface of the dome was covered by an aluminum clamshell shield that could be closed to prevent damage from meteoroids or debris. Retracting the shield in different ways offered stunning views of the Earth, the night sky, or both.
Everyone on the station was allowed to use the blister for personal R and R on a reservation basis. In the context of the Mars Project, the blister was more than just a place for quiet solitude or spectacular scenery. Since transit to Mars would entail long stretches of time out of Earth view, project coordinators assigned specific viewing privileges to the two groups. The segregated group was allowed to view only the empty night sky; they never saw the Earth. The other group had no restrictions. Psychologists on the ground were eager to see if the two groups differed in long-term adaptation. Carla Sue Gamble was part of the “free” group.