The Trikon Deception by Ben Bova & Bill Pogue. Part three

18 AUGUST 1998

— LAUSANNE

Of all the problems facing space workers who spend months aboard a station such as Trikon, the worst is boredom. Although we designed Trikon Station with the help of a small army of ergonomists, environmental psychologists, and experienced astronauts, there was no way around the fact that a space station is a small, cramped, and terribly limited closed system.

The danger that this raised was, of course, that the space workers might resort to altering their internal environments in order to relieve the monotony. That is, they might turn to using drugs. Remember, we were dealing with very bright men and women, mostly young, mostly with personalities bordering on the aggressive side. In addition, most of them were biologists, chemists, and biochem technicians! They could invent new drugs easily; they had all the equipment and raw material that they needed.

I was very concerned about this possibility, so much so that I insisted that the medical officer of Trikon Station be equipped to test for narcotics of every type. I had Trikon’s medical staff develop procedures for testing individuals suspected of drug abuse.

Some of the medical researchers wanted to go even further. They wanted to experiment with a controlled drug program for long-duration space flights, to develop specific recreational drugs that would have no dangerous aftereffects. I absolutely forbade it. I knew that such an experiment would be both dangerous and foolish.

—From the diary of Fabio Bianco,

CEO, Trikon International

Fabio Bianco peeled back the curtains on a bright August afternoon. In the distance, a sliver of Lake Geneva sparkled in the sunlight. The peaks of the Jura Mountains fell away from Mont Tendre and formed a scalloped horizon of white and gray against the brilliant blue sky.

Lausanne was so different from New York, Tokyo, Berlin, Rome, or any of the other cities Bianco visited in his capacity as CEO of Trikon International. The Swiss city’s cleanliness was seductive. Casting an eye across that sweep of water, mountains, and sky, feeling a snap in the midsummer air, one could almost believe that the world was not collapsing into filth.

Bianco let the curtains fall together, and for a moment the room went black. His tired old eyes reacted slowly these days. The onset of cataracts? Why not. He was afflicted by every other malady of old age.

The room slowly brightened. As usual, he had taken a suite: bedroom, bath, and sitting room for solitary meals, balcony, and an alcove with a desk, several electrical outlets, and a telephone jack. On one side of the desk was a laptop computer, its fuzzy white cursor blinking slowly on the blue field of an otherwise empty screen. On the other side was a portable laser printer. A rivulet of accordion paper tumbled from the printer to the thickly carpeted floor.

“You look tired, Uncle,” said Ugo. He had dragged an ottoman across from the deeply cushioned sofa and leaned with his elbows on the desk.

“Mezzo-mezz’,” said Bianco, fluttering a hand.

He was very thin, fragile, his wispy white hair almost entirely gone. Once he had been able to glare down anyone who dared stand against him, his face as haughty as any Caesar’s with its proud Roman nose and penetrating brown eyes. Now, riddled with hypertension, ulcers, a weakening heart, he felt old and used up. But the will remained. The drive to master whoever or whatever stood in his way, even if it was his own slowly failing body.

He pulled open the mouth of a black satchel resting on the floor and plunged his hand into it. Made of the finest calfskin, the satchel was a gift from an old friend who was also Bianco’s physician. It was stuffed with all manner of medical necessities: transdermal nitroglycerin pads, vitamins, anti-inflammatories, an extra pair of reading glasses, and pills to regulate blood pressure, heart rhythm, cholesterol, and water retention. He dug out his antacid and swigged it directly from the bottle. It tasted more like chalk than cherry.

“Your ulcer is bad today?”

“Always bad,” said Bianco. “Meeting with the French makes it worse.”

“I thought you were meeting with more than just the French.”

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