Lagrange five uc, p.1
Lagrange Five (UC), page 1
part #3 of Lagrange Series
DEDICATED TO
Professor Gerard K. O'Neill, Space Pioneer
This story is laid approximately half a century in the future and thus the fictional characters are intended to have no resemblance to anyone living or dead.
Introduction
The Lagrange Five Project is developing so rapidly that it is all but impossible to keep up. New possibilities manifest themselves monthly, or even more often. There are even three newsletters devoted to space colonization and exploration. So it is that the reader must understand that this story is based upon the information available in the winter of 1976-1977. The present writer realizes that some of his background material will be antiquated before Lagrange Five can be rushed into print. For instance, as this is being written serious consideration is being made as to whether Lagrange Five or Lagrange Four are the best locations for Island One; there are other orbits that might prove more practical. Nor is it sure that the torus shape is the most suited for Island One. But this is, after all, only a story and space colonization is a reality that will be with us tomorrow and, possibly, the biggest "breakthrough" man has ever made.
Special thanks are due Professor Gerard K. O'Neill, of Princeton, and to his Research Aide Ginie Reynolds, for their cooperation beyond the call of duty in supplying my material. Professor O'Neill is especially thanked for granting permission to use quotes from his articles and papers directly.
ONE
Lance Holiday pedaled out of the town of Corcoran on a seventy-two hour leave of absence from his job. In the luggage rack behind him on the bike were his camping equipment and supplies for the whole period, plus fishing equipment and a small caliber pistol. He intended to supply most of his food with fishing and had gotten permission to shoot three rabbits.
He could use the camping trip. He had the feeling that he was going stale, that the job was getting on the monotonous side and life in general too much in the way of routine. Possibly he ought to swap Ruth for some different sleeping companion and possibly move to a different district. Corcoran was all right but he could probably use a change. It was kind of a suburbia of the type prevalent half a century ago, Earth-side. Now, little Mainz, up in the hills, might be the place. He'd never lived there but had passed through briefly more than once. Less built up than Corcoran, with its some 20,000 inhabitants, more trees around, mostly pine and very fragrant. The town had an Austrian motif complete to a gasthaus where they went heavy on dark Germanic-type beer. They even had a small volunteer band, complete with ac-cordian and zither, which performed when the spirit moved them. As he recalled, about half of the resident men wore ledderhosen and the women dirndls after returning from their jobs.
Trouble with Mainz was it was further from the hydroponics tanks where he worked than Corcoran was.
From Corcoran he could commute by bike or even walk and he liked the exercise. From Mainz he'd usually have to take public transportation.
Well, he'd think about it later. For now, Lance Holiday wished to dwell upon his vacation. He was coming up on Lake New Bomoseen; heavier stands of trees were manifesting themselves and there were more bushes, shrubs and wild flowers. From one of the trees, a squirrel gave him hell.
He rode along the lakeside, savoring it. New Bomoseen was his favorite lake in Grissom. There was an even larger one, over in Komarov, with a charming, though somewhat primitive, Polynesian-type village on its edge. Lance had gone over several times for extended visits but he didn't think he'd want to live there. Komarov had a semitropical climate and he preferred the New England/European weather of Grissom.
Pumping away, he passed one of the Daniel Boone-type pseudo-log cabins tucked away in the woods atop a small hill. At this distance it looked as though it was constructed of real logs. He knew the place well enough. When he and Ruth had first taken up together, they'd spent several days there together on a sort of honeymoon. The trouble had been, Ruth didn't really like the wide open spaces, or, at least, Grissom's version of them. In actuality, she didn't even like the life in Corcoran too much. She was a city girl and would have preferred living in New Frisco at the end of the valley, which boasted almost 100,000 population and was the biggest city in Grissom or Komarov.
A rabbit broke cover and made a mad dash for thicker brush.
Lance Holiday swore inwardly. His target pistol was tucked away in his pack. Well, he'd have fish for his supper. Unless he was greatly mistaken, he'd wind up with all the landlocked salmon or trout he could possibly eat.
He was pleased at the fact that the wilderness didn't seem to be having much of a play today. In fact, he hadn't seen anyone for some ten minutes. Which was fine. He had deliberately chosen Tuesday as the first day of his outing. The weekends or holidays were another thing. There'd be thousands out picnicking, or sailing on the lake. As it was, the only other humanity he could spot was in two small sailboats out on the water.
On second thought, he looked up and, yes, there were three pedal-planes in toward the axis. It was a sport he'd never gone for. And, for that matter, the same applied to all low gravity activity. The feeling of zero-gravity, or even a quarter gravity, made him queasy. Which was one of the reasons he preferred to work in the hydroponic tanks, rather than in one of the zero-gravity factories.
The trees continued to grow more dense and he took a small side path and headed for a cove he knew of from trips past. For some reason the fishing at this point was the best he had discovered in the whole lake, either from shore or in a boat. And, yes, he could now see to his pleasure that if anyone else had stumbled on the spot, picnicing, or whatever, they had been as careful campers as he was himself. It was spotless.
He dismounted from his bike and unstrapped from the luggage rack his pack, small tent and sleeping bag. He got his pistol from the pack and attached the holster to his belt, on the off chance that another rabbit would appear. He'd applied for an okay on a couple of squirrels, in addition to his rabbit allotment, but it hadn't been forthcoming. It would seem that the rabbit population was a-booming, rabbit style, but that squirrels were in comparatively short supply, though he could hear several of them barking out in the woods. They had evidently detected his presence and weren't happy about it.
He got the tent up in short order and then, coffee addict that he was, brought forth his portable electric stove, his jar of instant coffee, a jar of condensed goat's milk, artificial sweetening—he was watching his weight—and a collapsible aluminum cup. He took up the small aluminium pot and carried it into the trees a few yards to where he knew was a spring and dipped up enough water for a couple of cups of his favorite brew.
Back at his little camp, he located the camouflaged outlet and plugged in the stove. In short order the coffee was on hand and he sat on a comfortable boulder and sipped away at it, looking more or less happily at the lake surface and the two sailing boats out there. There were three ducks as well about a hundred yards from the beach, mallards by the looks of them.
Yes, he could use this bit of ultrarelaxation.
Something came to him and he looked down into his coffee and, after a moment, he frowned. Why it had never occured to him before he didn't know, but the fact was he didn't particularly like the water of Gris-som. What was the word? Possibly sterile. He had never liked bottled water, back in the States. It was flat, tasteless, though, Holy Zen knew, you had to drink it and cook with it, just about everywhere, of recent years. The days of his early youth, in Idaho, when you had hard water, and soft water, and some springs with a mineral content, and some actually with an effervescent quality, were long gone. These days, you got a mineral content in tap water all right, or, more likely, a detergent one, but for Lance Holiday's taste, it wasn't drinkable.
No, he didn't like the water supplied to the cities in the States and he didn't like the bottled product either. And now, he realized, he didn't particularly like the water of Grissom.
He sighed and put down his cup on the sand and looked about. What in the name of hell was wrong with him? He had been looking forward to this vacation of several days for a long time and here he was. bitching.
Suddenly irritated by the taste of the coffee in his mouth, he unreasonably, since it was the taste of the water that had originally upset him, came to his feet and went into the tree grove and bent over to take a drink of the spring. And as his lips touched the water and sucked it in, he pulled his head back suddenly.
It wasn't a real spring, of course, no matter how well executed by those who had landscaped this whole area. There were pipes below, bringing in the recycled and sterile water.
He staggered to his feet and stumbled back toward his camp, a fear growing.
He stared accusingly at his little electric stove, plugged into the outlet. Outlets were everywhere in this supposed wilderness. The pollution of fire and smoke were taboo, the burning of wood was taboo. So, even in camping, you utilized the everywhere available electricity. No wonder so available. It cost all but nothing, the solar power stations took care of that—and the sun was good for a few billion more years, at least.
Breathing in short gasps, he stretched out on his sleeping bag and stared up. Which was a mistake.
There were clouds above, yes, and "blue skies" but also above were the other two valleys and the three stretches of blue glass windows. At this distance, you couldn't see that the windows, each pane about twenty inches to the side, were not one. The titanium strips that bound them together were not visible. But, even worse, for his now twisting stomach, was the sight of the other two "valleys."
There, above him, in unhuman view, were the other two valleys which, with his, made up Grissom. Four miles away, so that individual features, smaller than towns, could not be made out, but there… there. This was his universe. Closed in, closed in. Here he was, 250,000 miles from the environment in which he had been born. And his parents before him. And the human race for a million or two years before them. He was in an artificial environment. Everything artificial. Everything really different from existence as he knew it. Everything really wrong. Such as springs that didn't actually bubble water, up from true soil, but were recycled water coming from pipes.
He knew now, he knew, why he had increasingly become repelled by the lesser gravity that you found as you ascended the artificial mountains at both ends of Grissom and particularly the complete free fall you found at the axis. He knew now why be didn't like to go watch the ballet performed in one-tenth gravity, by even such troupes as the Russians from Lagrange Four.
It was closing in on him.
He was 250,000 miles from where he was safe. He had to get away. He had to get back. It was closing in, it was closing in. This so-called valley, in which he lived, was two miles wide and about twenty long. No more. Above him, some four miles away, was the ultimate extent of his universe. And it was closing in, it was closing in!
He clawed at his pocket for his transceiver, finally got it out, panting, his eyes closed tightly.
He flicked the stud and screamed, "Emergency, emergency. Get a fix on me. I've got Island fever. I've got Wide Syndrome. I've got… space cafard…"
They came zeroing in on him within minutes. But by the time they arrived he was mewling, crouched in a fetal position behind the boulder on which he had been seated less than a quarter of an hour before.
Sucking in air themselves and even attempting to keep their eyes from him, the two medics leaped from the helio-jet, scooped him up and got him onto the cot in the rear of the aircraft ambulance. They jumped back into their own bucket seats and the pilot banged controls. The craft bounded up and headed desperately at full speed for New Frisco in the low hills at the end of the valley.
He was whimpering as they swooped in for the landing on the hospital roof.
Two others were waiting there with a straitjacket and a stretcher. The pilot had called ahead.
Within moments, the four of them had him secured and were rushing him below.
Doctor Poul Garmisch looked up wanly from his desk as they entered his office.
"Another one?" he protested. "Get him on the table. Nurse, the usual sedative. You men get out of here, unless you know that you're immune, and you probably aren't by that green look you've got around the gills."
The sedative was quick acting and Lance Holiday was completely out by the time the doctor bent over him. Nurse Edith Gribbin stood slightly back, breathing deeply. She thought she was immune, but you never knew.
The doctor, middle aged, which was an exception in Lagrangia, was heavy-set of build, which was another exception, and now tired of face though not through physical weariness. He shot a look up at Nurse Gribbin. "You all right, Edith?"
He seldom called her by her first name, though they had worked together ever since they'd come over from Island Two.
"I think so," she said. "Doctor, do you realize that this is the tenth case this week?"
"I know," he said. "Get on the phone immediately. On a medical crash priority, get him passage on the first available transport to Earth. We'll keep him in isolation here until he's ready to go. And, Nurse, don't let anyone else into the room."
"Yes, Doctor." She headed for her desk and for the phone screen there.
When she returned, it was to find him scowling down at the unconscious Lagrangist, perplexed.
"Space cafard," he muttered. "So-called Island fever. Sometimes it's named 'Wide Syndrome.' WAIDH, for 'What am I doing here?'"
"Aren't they getting anywhere at all toward a cure?" Edith Gribbin said, keeping her eyes away from the tragedy on the operating table.
He shook his head. "Not that I know of. Sit down, Nurse, well have a wait, at best. Space cafard is an unknown, compounded, we think, of claustrophobia, an unnatural environment, sometimes the fear of free fall, though that shouldn't apply when you live in a valley. Sometimes, perhaps, a feeling of the emptiness of space, even when looking toward Mother Earth. Sometimes, perhaps, an ingredient is what they used to call future shock, too fast a change in your basic way of life."
Just to be saying something while they waited, she said, "Where did the name space cafard ever come from?"
"It means cockroach, in French," he told her. "A term that was symbolic of madness in the French Foreign Legion of a century ago. The men would go insane of the monotony, the boredom, the claustrophobia, in being assigned to tiny desert forts, which they dare not leave, in the mid-Sahara Desert."
She looked at him blankly. "But why were they there?"
The doctor was as glad to have something to talk about as she was. He said, "Because the French, in common with the English, the Belgians, the Dutch, the Germans and the Portugese, and finally the Americans when they went into such places as the Philippines, were anxious to bring the blessings of civilization to the backward, especially when it was profitable. Kipling put it:
Take up the white man's burden. Send forth the best ye breed.
He grunted contempt. "Evidently, the best we bred was none too good. And evidently some of the supposedly backward cultures, such as the Chinese, who were actually far in advance of the Europeans in almost all aspects pertaining to culture—except warfare, if that's a part of human culture—went down like waterlogged trees. You know, to this day most people don't realize that both the Aztecs and the Incas, not to mention the Mayans, had a higher standard of living, including a better medicine, than did the Spanish who conquered them. They simply didn't have gunpowder, nor steel for swords."
There came a knock at the door and Nurse Gribbin went over and opened it a crack.
"Quarantined," she said. "Contagious."
A voice said, "We came for Lance Holiday. There's a mass-propulsion bus leaving for Island One in five minutes. We'll put him in with the luggage, where nobody can see him. There, the Tsiolkowsky is heading in for Earth within a couple of hours."
"Good," Doctor Garmisch said. "They've got a two room sickbay on the Tsiolkowsky. They'll be able to isolate him. Let them in, Nurse."
Two men entered with a stretcher and they, too, were nervous and avoided looking directly at Lance Holiday to the extent they could. They manhandled the striken man onto the stretcher and left.
The doctor looked after them, unseeingly, and muttered, "Ten cases in the past week. I simply don't understand it. All of them here in the Grissom. Only a few very mild cases of WAIDH syndrome anywhere else, even in the Komarov, our sister cylinder. In all the time I spent in Island One, in the old days, I never saw a really bad case of space cafard. Why should it pop up here, where it's so much larger than Island One and so much more Earth like?"
She shook her head.
He came to his feet and said, "Nurse, I prescribe that we both go over to Willy's Bar and get properly drenched. We are not immune to the dangers of cafard, the most contagious illness I've ever heard of. Once when we were first colonizing the initial Island Two, a transport carrying a hundred and fifty colonists developed a single case. The pilot hung on until the end and reported how it swept through the ship. They all went mad and killed each other, tore each other apart with their hands and teeth. The pilot went last."
Nurse Gribbin shuddered. "I've heard about it," she said. "But not in that grisly detail. I think they must have suppressed the details."
"Yes," he said, as they headed for the door and their much needed drinks. "Even hearing a news broadcast of that instant mental epidemic might have brought on cafard symptoms in others."
TWO
Rex Bader had been out to Lagrange Five before, but that had been some ten years ago and there had been changes aplenty. Even before pulling into the docking area of Grissom, one of the two cylinders that made up Island Three, he was made aware of the changes. For one thing, the space shuttle which had taken them up to Space Station Goddard from Earth-side, had been larger than the earlier ones and was completely returnable, not even dropping the two boosters of the first models. Secondly, the Goddard had been considerably enlarged. With the growth of the number of Lagrangists, as they were calling the colonists now, the space station, in geosynchronous orbit above the Los Alamos spaceport, acted as a terminal for thousands of colonists rather than the scores of the early days. It seemed more like an orbiting hotel than the simple torus of yore.
