facility on the far side of the Moon. He swiftly, gratefully, accepted.
But he could not avoid a routine physical examination when he arrived at Farside, carried out by Farside’s resident physician, Dr. Ida Kapstein, a heavyset woman with hard ice-blue eyes.
“Your liver function is deteriorating, you know,” she said, coolly unconcerned.
The ache in my back, Grant realized.
“It’s from all the shit you’ve been putting into yourself. Your blood sample looks like a pharmaceutical company’s product list, for god’s sake.”
“I, uh … I’ve been taking … medications,” he stammered.
“I’ve heard about your getting into fistfights at Selene. ’Roid rage, isn’t it?”
Ohmigod, Grant thought. She’s going to redline me. If I can’t work here at Farside they’ll ship me back to Earth. Back to South Africa.
Sullenly, he muttered, “I can control it.”
“Sure you can.”
It took Grant several minutes before he understood that Dr. Kapstein wasn’t threatening to redline him. She was offering to sell Grant the steroids and anti-radiation medications he had become dependent on. Dr. Kapstein had a thriving little business going, and Grant would swiftly become her steadiest customer.
“I’ll take good care of you,” Dr. Kapstein told him. “You just put yourself in my care and you’ll be okay. The safety department’s rules are way too restrictive, anyway.”
Grant agreed mutely.
“I’ll take good care of you,” she repeated.
For a price.
BROKEN MIRROR
Grant felt tired and irritable as he pulled the hard-shell torso of his space suit over his head and slid his arms through the flexible sleeves.
Frigging suit smells like old sweat socks, he grumbled to himself. It’s time to requisition a new one. The Ulcer’ll hit the ceiling; I bet he hired McClintock to help keep the program’s costs down.
It was an hour after his meeting with McClintock. You do the work, and I’ll take the credit, the man had said. Great, thought Grant. What choice do I have? Well, anyway, I ought to get a new suit out of it.
The woman who was going outside with him was already suited up, helmet and all. She checked out his suit, then Grant checked out hers. The old buddy system. Never go out on the surface alone. Good rule. Except there were times when you had to. Rules are made to be broken, or at least bent.
“Let’s make this quick,” the woman said as Grant fastened his fishbowl helmet to his suit’s neck ring. “I’ve got a date for dinner.”
With their highly tinted helmets over their heads, neither person could make out the face of the other. Together they clomped heavily to the airlock, got the go-ahead from the excursion controller, snug and happy in her booth deep inside, and finally stepped out onto the surface of Mare Moscoviense.
It was still daylight out there, although the Sun was dipping down toward the slumped old ringwall mountains. Long shadows were stretching across the dusty undulating floor of the Sea of Moscow.
Grant took it all in with a glance, then stepped out of the airlock and headed toward the cracked mirror.
“Into the valley of death,” muttered his companion, “rode the six hundred.”
Grant shook his head inside his helmet. “We’re missing five hundred and ninety-eight guys.”
“Yeah. I know.”
The damned mirror was sitting out there, next to the big airlock of the mirror lab, slightly tilted on the uneven ground. Its delicately figured glass was covered by a thin sheet of metal that was obviously warped.
Grant stared at the damaged mirror inside its protective casing. Not protective enough, he knew.
Why’d you have to crack? he asked the impassive mirror. Why’d you have to ruin all our work?
“How’re we gonna get this puppy back into the lab?” his companion asked.
Grant had to concentrate for a moment to remember which of his crew was with him. The bulky space suits removed all traces of individuality; if you weren’t close enough
But he could not avoid a routine physical examination when he arrived at Farside, carried out by Farside’s resident physician, Dr. Ida Kapstein, a heavyset woman with hard ice-blue eyes.
“Your liver function is deteriorating, you know,” she said, coolly unconcerned.
The ache in my back, Grant realized.
“It’s from all the shit you’ve been putting into yourself. Your blood sample looks like a pharmaceutical company’s product list, for god’s sake.”
“I, uh … I’ve been taking … medications,” he stammered.
“I’ve heard about your getting into fistfights at Selene. ’Roid rage, isn’t it?”
Ohmigod, Grant thought. She’s going to redline me. If I can’t work here at Farside they’ll ship me back to Earth. Back to South Africa.
Sullenly, he muttered, “I can control it.”
“Sure you can.”
It took Grant several minutes before he understood that Dr. Kapstein wasn’t threatening to redline him. She was offering to sell Grant the steroids and anti-radiation medications he had become dependent on. Dr. Kapstein had a thriving little business going, and Grant would swiftly become her steadiest customer.
“I’ll take good care of you,” Dr. Kapstein told him. “You just put yourself in my care and you’ll be okay. The safety department’s rules are way too restrictive, anyway.”
Grant agreed mutely.
“I’ll take good care of you,” she repeated.
For a price.
BROKEN MIRROR
Grant felt tired and irritable as he pulled the hard-shell torso of his space suit over his head and slid his arms through the flexible sleeves.
Frigging suit smells like old sweat socks, he grumbled to himself. It’s time to requisition a new one. The Ulcer’ll hit the ceiling; I bet he hired McClintock to help keep the program’s costs down.
It was an hour after his meeting with McClintock. You do the work, and I’ll take the credit, the man had said. Great, thought Grant. What choice do I have? Well, anyway, I ought to get a new suit out of it.
The woman who was going outside with him was already suited up, helmet and all. She checked out his suit, then Grant checked out hers. The old buddy system. Never go out on the surface alone. Good rule. Except there were times when you had to. Rules are made to be broken, or at least bent.
“Let’s make this quick,” the woman said as Grant fastened his fishbowl helmet to his suit’s neck ring. “I’ve got a date for dinner.”
With their highly tinted helmets over their heads, neither person could make out the face of the other. Together they clomped heavily to the airlock, got the go-ahead from the excursion controller, snug and happy in her booth deep inside, and finally stepped out onto the surface of Mare Moscoviense.
It was still daylight out there, although the Sun was dipping down toward the slumped old ringwall mountains. Long shadows were stretching across the dusty undulating floor of the Sea of Moscow.
Grant took it all in with a glance, then stepped out of the airlock and headed toward the cracked mirror.
“Into the valley of death,” muttered his companion, “rode the six hundred.”
Grant shook his head inside his helmet. “We’re missing five hundred and ninety-eight guys.”
“Yeah. I know.”
The damned mirror was sitting out there, next to the big airlock of the mirror lab, slightly tilted on the uneven ground. Its delicately figured glass was covered by a thin sheet of metal that was obviously warped.
Grant stared at the damaged mirror inside its protective casing. Not protective enough, he knew.
Why’d you have to crack? he asked the impassive mirror. Why’d you have to ruin all our work?
“How’re we gonna get this puppy back into the lab?” his companion asked.
Grant had to concentrate for a moment to remember which of his crew was with him. The bulky space suits removed all traces of individuality; if you weren’t close enough
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