Once she got back to her car, Portia phoned Verna. She was hoping that Verna would still be
on-side after she got home. Portia was
worried for a reason. You see, the pink-slip Verna received when she was fired
from STC, (which wasn’t actually a pink-slip, per se, but an official letter on
STC stationary), was signed by Portia Summers, Mission Psychologist.
Verna answered her SPECTACL with little regard for who it was, or she
just forgot, because she was half-naked.
Portia didn’t want to pay any attention to this fact, though she was
impressed in a clinical kind of way.
Verna was only diminutive in stature.
“Yeah?” said Verna, looking for and finding her robe.
“Hi,” said Portia.
Verna placed a cigar butt in an ashtray, focusing through the SPECTACL
field. She recognized Portia. “Yes, what
do you want? Worried I’ve changed my
mind?”
“No, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Cause I’m packing here, as we speak.
I’m going to put my house on the market and move my stuff into
storage. If I’m going to be away for 6
months, I’m going to pay down some debt.”
“Well, good,” said Portia, deciding not to mention the longer nature
of the new mission schedule at this juncture.
“But I was wondering. In the
circles you travel in, do you know anyone who would, you know, happen to be an
astronaut?”
“Who would happen to want to live on a big flying garbage magnet for
half a year?”
“Yuh huh,” said Portia.
“Not off the top of my head,” said Verna. “What’s wrong with the genetic super-chimps
you guys made?”
“Nothing,” said Portia. Then
she added “though we did have to sterilize them.”
“Why?”
“They were learning how to read.”
“So?”
“Shakespeare.”
“I see,” said Verna.
“I’ve recruited 3… uh, “amateurs” of sorts, but we’ll need one other
responsible party. Someone who can work
along side of you. Someone who’s good
with navigational vectors, that sort of thing.”
“I’m good enough with navigation for all the rest of us. I just bet the company has realized that
they’ll need a “people-person” up there with your 3 “amateurs” and that’s why
they picked your sorry butt.”
Portia was no longer astonished by Verna’s forthright manner. “Yes, you’re right.”
“Then if you want to avoid this mission, you better find another
psychologist, not another astronaut, you dip.”
Portia knew this was obvious, but it wasn’t necessarily true. What Edgley wanted was a controlling
influence over the team, not a trained shrink.
“What they want is someone to lead.
I think that should be you. The
fifth crewmember should add something scientifically useful to the team.”
“Give up,” said Verna. “You’re
coming along, sweetie. So tell me, these
assistants – any lookers?”
“One is my brother,” said Portia.
“Oh,” laughed Verna, picking up her smoldering stogie. “Well, if he looks anything like you, I might
get used to close quarters on the space scow.”
Portia felt uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was
taking. “I don’t…”
“Look,” said Verna. “If you
want to find an astronaut who is willing to go into space no matter what the
mission, you’re looking for someone desperate?
Right?”
“Well, I don’t…”
“Right, so you know where to go – find a ‘Boomer’. Those old guys still think they’re 29 and
they’re rarin’ to fly. You can find them
by the dozen at the Retired Astronauts watering hole.”
“Where’s that?”
“Benny’s Jets, the bar across from the Cocoa Beach Golf and Country
Club,” said Verna. “Just take the 520
off the I–95 and go south after you cross the causeway. I got another call. See you launch day.”
Verna’s magnified eyes blinked twice and the chat disconnected.
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