Chapter 4

The field pylons of the S-7 project something like a kilometer or more out from the hull. On the tips of these are the emitters that create the field that enables faster than light travel. Shall I describe it like pouring oil across a sheet of glass? All it then takes is an impulse from our ion engines to send the ship sliding across space/time. Between this field and the hull there is a neutral gas that does not allow the transmission of heat or electrical energy. This is necessary to prevent leakage from the field onto the hull. The effect of that would be like being caught in a solar flare - we would be instantly vaporized.

To further insulate us, the hull, itself, is not metallic. In fact, the light ship contains very little metal at all. Before we initiate the field, we must gather all metal objects from about our persons and seal them in a special, insulated container otherwise, they will become charged with static electricity and burn us. Andrea finds the belt buckle on her trousers is made of steel and the buttons are made of brass. Sadly, she must dispense with these, as well as her bra, which has a steel catch, and wear a T-shirt and her briefs. She is suspicious of our motives and gives me, what I would describe as, an 'old fashioned look.' Nevertheless she complies, and settles into the rear seat, as I guide the ship out into open space with the ions.

She stares at the view screen showing Earth receding behind us wistfully. I see her blinking back tears. I have explained the process of faster than light travel as well as I could, but it has not made her feel any easier. The consequences of a catastrophic failure plays in her mind, even though the risk of that is remote. Of more concern to me is the state of our food supplies and whether they will be adequate for the return journey. Tvir has worked out a rationing system but it will be close, very close.

Once clear, I begin the start up procedure. Outside, the emitters are beginning to discharge blue/white flashes of lightning. I release the insulating gas and there is a slight dimming of the surrounding stars. The gas, itself, is invisible to the naked eye. There comes, what I call, an 'ultrasonic sizzling' of the air around us and a corresponding prickling feeling on our skin. I know we will get used to it over the coming months, but I see Andrea reaching the point of panic. I smile to reassure her, but I know it is a disturbing experience for all, first time, space travelers. I have seen hard men break down in tears and go running around in terror. Andrea displays a relative calmness, which I have to admire. I nod to Tvir, which he acknowledges, then bring up the power. Instantly, we are surrounded by a bright, white bubble. Andrea jumps in her seat against the restraints, and I don't blame her. It is a startling, disturbing sight to someone not used to it. I bring up the ion engines to give us that inertial shove, and we are off, being whisked through space faster than a photon of light.

It takes us a few seconds to reach full speed and now we can do little more for the next three months. We will spend the next hour or so organizing our food rations, perform some maintenance and monitoring tasks, then relax and learn how to live in the cramped confines of a light ship. It will not be easy as there will be many opportunities for conflict. Tvir and I know how to deal with this, because we have done this many times before, if not for such a long period. But what of Andrea? She will need reassurance, entertainment and some occupation during the time otherwise, she will find it unbearable. Tvir and I have discussed this and have vowed to find her some things to do.

I suggest she come help me retrieve some food supplies from the hold. It is to be a daily task because, unlike 'Star Trek', we don't have 'replicators' and such like. All our food is stored in dry form, reconstituted, then heated. Unlike 'Star Trek', also, we don't have 'turbo lifts' to whisk us between decks. In fact, there is very little of the ship that can be easily visited and some areas, not at all, if you value your life. To get to the hold, one has to descend a series of ladders from a hatch in the floor of the control room. It will give me an opportunity to show Andrea the structure of the ship and, perhaps, ease her fears a little.

The S-7 is a 'single pod', which is space parlance for a single engine unit. It is isolated from the rest of the ship by neutral gas, a giant, more or less, spherical structure that is attached to the rest of the vessel with struts at the rear. From this unit, long pylons project, as well as from the body of the ship and fed by pipe-like power conductors. The ship, then, is of broadly modular construction - rather resembling a random collection of junkyard materials, as opposed to the clean, unitary construction of my K-75. It could hardly be considered aesthetic to anyone but a spacer. Even to us spacers, the S-7 was always an ugly monster, totally built with utility in mind. To that end, the accommodation is small and spartan with little in the way of luxury features. For example, Andrea, lacking an enviro-suit, will have to go to the toilet in the shower cubicle as the S-7 had no need of a toilet when built.

The ladders on the S-7 have been designed for our long legs, and not the relatively short legs of an Earth woman. It is something I had never considered - no doubt, there will be other things. Andrea is soon struggling and I have to guide her feet unless she step into a void. I think we could find some pieces of scrap to fuse into the intervals between rungs, but to do that to the pecs of ladders throughout the ship would take at least a year. Such little things can grow in importance on a long voyage.

By the time we return from the hold, Andrea is beat from the exertion, and goes into my quarters to lie down and watch movies on a little screen she has with her. We have no means of charging such a device, so, unfortunately, she'll need to find other leisure activities during her down time. I make us a meal, and take it into her with a can of the beer she purchased at the diner. In my quarters, my bunk doubles as a seat, so we sit together while she picks at the dish I brought her.

"What's that?" she asks, prodding a cube on her plate.

"Ah, I think that is vegetable and that piece over there is flesh, perhaps similar to your goat or sheep? Maybe a cow? I'm not sure."

"So, you're not vegan?" she asks.

"No. This is space food, I'm sorry," I try to explain. "Each pre-packaged meal is designed to provide a balanced diet. It's all we have, so I guess you have to get used to it."

"Ok," she takes a deep breath, stabs a piece of food, then gingerly inserts it into her mouth. "Oh my God!" she exclaims, clapping her hand to her mouth, "that's hot!" She grabs the can of beer and sucks desperately on it. "Whew!" she says, fanning her mouth with her hand. "That's got a punch!"

"That was mild," I tell her. "I thought to try you out on something not as spicy."

"Boy, not as spicy as what? That burns! I guess a burger and fries is not on your menu?"

"No, I'm sorry."

"Ok. I guess it's an acquired taste. So, what do you do for fun around here?" she asks. "No shuffleboard, table tennis? I guess you wouldn't have a pool, would you?"

"No, none of those things. We spacers amuse ourselves in various ways. Some of us make little things. Others compose sonnets. I heard of one old guy who built himself a privateer craft in the hold of a cargo ship. It was primitive, but it worked fine."

"What do you do? How do you amuse yourself?" She looked slyly at me.

"I make diaries. I have a chest full of them. All my voyages, every one. Often they are just random thoughts and feelings, observations, that sort of thing. I describe the people I meet..."

"Am I in them?" she asks.

"Of course. One day I'll play them to you. I have never showed anybody, uh, oh!"

"What?"

"You won't understand any of it. It's in our language!"

"Now, that's something we could do. You could teach me your language. I'm going to need it sooner or later, anyway."

"I could do that. It's not as sophisticated as your language, but some of the sounds are difficult."

"No more difficult than Russian, I bet. Go-on, give me a word?"

So, for the next several Earth hours, I teach Andrea some of our basic words. Tvir and I speak a kind of simplified dialect when in space, usually punctuated with colorful descriptions of things relating to bodily functions. It is rough and lacks the elegance of the language spoken, say, by the politicians at Centre. I've learned this is not uncommon among Earth people, as well. Certain sectors of the population employ jargon, so I'm told, and language spoken in a bar at two in the morning is vastly different to that which is taught to children.

Andrea is tired. It is well past her normal sleep cycle, and, as there is no way of telling the hours except by our chronometer - which is, naturally, synchronized to our cycle - tiredness stalks up on her until she starts to become incoherent with fatigue. She lies down, and I lie down with her, enfolding my arms around her. She grabs my hands and hugs me tighter. Nestling like that, we both drift off to sleep.

When I awake, she is already up, showered and has changed her clothing. She's sitting next to me on the bed brushing her hair. Her shirt is even shorter than the last one and displays a good section of her midriff. It is a sight that would be one of the best waking up experiences I've had in recent times. I reach out to her and she looks back and smiles. She pats me lightly on the hip and calls me 'lazy bones.' I can't think why, it has been less than 48 of Earth hours since I went to sleep.

Andrea seems brighter and happier than at any time since coming on board our S-7. Outside, the glaring, eye-burning white bubble that surrounds the ship is still pulsating. Little physically has changed, yet Andrea seems to be adapting to life on board ship remarkably quickly. It beggars the imagination.

I know she doesn't wish to engage in sexual activity, or so she says, for reasons that are beyond my understanding. But, having her living in my quarters, and dressing the way she does, is extremely frustrating. Some say I ought to imagine a picture of the barren rock Psschev at these times - it's arid wastes, creaky, run down old habitats, and the stench of the polluted, toxic ponds left behind by the Mining Company. If nothing else, so the wisdom goes, any thoughts of carnal pleasure will be instantly dispelled. I have to say, try as I might, it doesn't work. Her long hair now ruffles in the faint air currents generated by the oxygen recycling. She combs it straight causing her upper body to writhe along with the movement of her arm. I can barely stand it. I take another shower.