"P. J. Plauger- Epicycle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Plauger P J)

Analog, Novembar 1973

Epicycle
P. J. PLAUGER
A theory doesn't have to describe the real world to be true—and helpful!


"Thar she blows! Hot and straight!"
I could hear Jenkins' reedy voice reverberate inside the control module, almost
enough to restore the timbre muffled by his work helmet. No trick of acoustics could
correct for his garbled slang, though. Kids these days weren't even taught that
Connecticut once had thriving seaports—I guess you can't expect them to
distinguish between the jargon of a whaler and a submariner.
It was the sailors who owned the stars in those days. If you don't believe me, take
a look at a constellation map of the Southern Hemisphere. People bold enough to
venture into strange waters didn't hesitate to write their words all over the sky. No
ancient gods for them—the Clock and the Telescope helped them find their way.
Sailors were a pretty good bunch, considering they were all men.
But now the NASA career types are starting to call themselves a navy (Congress
already gave them the stars). Boys like Jenkins and Scott playing grownup. I hear the
latest style at Skyhook is wearing one tiny gold earring, pirate fashion," and smoking
tobacco. Machismo is alive and flourishing in orbit, my friends.
The Orbital Booster System was surely near burnout and separating rapidly. Even
on attitude jets alone, those pigs could rack up a respectable delta-V in pretty short
order. Not that I could see all this, mind you. Regulations required that control
module ports be protected from pitting, whenever possible, during close maneuvers.
You can bet my two little helpers would do all the "protecting" the law allowed.
They wouldn't even let me outside! My one and only trip into space, aborted
before it really began, and those acned Tom Corbetts lacked the decency to let me
stick my head out the hatch. Regulations again, of course. Let me tell you I'd had it
up to here by then with NASA's damned regulations. I wanted to stomp my feet and
bawl, but naturally I couldn't do either one.
The stomping was physically impossible, as you can well imagine; but the crying
was equally forbidden, even though it violated no physical law. Gallant explorers of
the spaceways never cry, you see. They are brave and tough. Men, that is. Manure.
Shuffling and clanging noises. One of the two was entering the lock. I assumed
the fireworks were over, such as they were. Rockets aren't very impressive in
vacuum—they just show a sort of pointy glow. Or so I'm told. Still, I wish I could
have watched.
The inner door swung open and a red-banded bubble head fluttered out. I
recognized the species as a NASA lieutenant-I could tell it was Jenkins by his
markings. He closed the hatch and started the cycle for Scott before unsuiting. I
tried to look as if I hadn't been trying not to cry.
Frizzy hair tufting out in all directions, eyes somehow never quite in focus.
Lieutenant Jenkins was the archetypal mathematician. Everything was right angles and
planes in his young world. I'm certain he regarded the merciless vacuum around us
as just a satisfyingly zero nothing. Me, I was a troublesome curvilinear boundary
condition in his otherwise perfect world.
"OBS is disposed of, ma'm," he said, as if he suddenly remembered I was there.
You'd think he'd just interrupted his homework to take out the garbage for mommy.