There was kindness in her voice, thought Lance. An accent, too. German, maybe. No, French. Renoir was a French name. There was an artist named Renoir. He painted ballerinas. The picture on the wall was a small painting of a vase filled with flowers. Really pretty.
“Breathe deeply,” she said.
The stethoscope was cold on his chest. He forced a breath and felt his stomach start to churn. Instinctively, his body tightened.
“Pleasant thoughts,” trilled Dr. Renoir.
He tried, but his thoughts kept trailing back to his stomach. Thinking of the farm evoked the image of his father gunning his pickup toward a rise in the road to town. “Here we go, Lance, here we go. Your tummy. Wheeee!” Becky reminded him of a trip to Kansas City and the roller coaster that had delighted him and terrified her.
Dr. Renoir removed the thermometer. Lance gagged and hastily stuck his mouth in the plastic bag. Nothing came out, and after a moment he relaxed. Dr. Renoir instructed him to continue staring at the picture until the examination was complete.
“Haven’t been sick in more than twenty years,” he said.
“Is that so,” said Dr. Renoir.
“I had a stomach virus when I was only a tyke. Couldn’t keep anything down. I kept losing weight and losing weight. My ma and pa thought I was going to die. Then they heard about this faith healer that was going to be at a revival up near Alliance, Nebraska. Dr. J. Edward Moorhouse was his name. Pa drove all through the night to get there, with me tucked in the back seat and a throw-up pan on the floorboards.”
Dr. Renoir turned to her desktop computer and pecked out a few numbers.
“I remember a huge tent way off in the middle of a prairie and people singing hymns as we drove up. My ma carried me down past all the people and up onto the stage. I was crying like crazy. And Dr. J. Edward Moorhouse wore this thin black skullcap with a point that came down the middle of his forehead. He had crooked teeth when he smiled. My stomach was rumbling and heaving, like there was a jackrabbit inside that wanted to get out. But Dr. J. Edward Moorhouse laid his hands on my stomach and I became as cool and as calm as I ever was. That was the last time I got sick before today.”
“Sometimes we all need a little faith.”
“You think so? I sure do.”
“Psychosomatic healing,” said Dr. Renoir. “The mind/body interface…”
“Those are all fancy words for faith, aren’t they?” Muncie said.
“Perhaps.”
“Well, I haven’t been sick since then. I keep myself fit. I don’t put anything in my body I think will cause me harm. Taking care of your body is doing God’s work, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” Dr. Renoir replied gently.
Lance heard the ripping sound of Velcro parting. Then he felt something moist pressing against the ball of bone behind his right ear.
“What’s that?” he said.
“Time-release motion-sickness medication.”
“But Trikon doesn’t want us using pads.”
“You are under my care, not Trikon’s. This pad is designed to release diminishing amounts of medication. By the time it is exhausted, you will be completely acclimated to space. And it won’t harm your body.” Dr. Renoir tore the blood-pressure collar from his arm. “You may stop staring at the wall now.”
Lance turned his head and fixed his eyes on her. For the first time since reaching the station, his head did not continue spinning after his neck stopped.
A voice boomed over the loudspeaker:
“Attention. All new arrivals are to report to the connecting tunnel for sleep compartment assignments.”
“You’d better go along now,” said Dr. Renoir. “But don’t rush. Take it easy for the time being.”
Lance grinned at her. She’s sure pretty, he thought. For a foreigner.
Habitation Modules 1 and 2 were located directly across the tunnels from The Bakery and Jasmine. Each habitation module housed twenty individual living compartments, four waste-management-system compartments (called Whits, after their inventor, Henry Whitmore), four full-body showers, and two enclosed hand basins. The compact living compartments were designed primarily for sleeping, but also were equipped for waking relaxation. Crammed into each one were storage cabinets, a toiletry kit, a foldaway desktop, reading lamp, and power outlets for portable computers, VCRs, and other small appliances. Screens set into the back walls served as “electronic windows” to minimize claustrophobia. Many employees brought tapes of scenery so they could look out at the cool green hills of Earth or a beautiful sunset over a tranquil sandy beach.