Clarke, Arthur C - SSC 04 by The Other Side of the Sky Page A

universe to look at, I can breathe smog-free air, the low gravity makes
me feel a Hercules, and my three darling ex-wives can’t get at me.’ He kissed
his hand to the departing rocket. ‘So long, Earth,’ he called. ‘I’ll be back
when I start pining for Broadway traffic jams and bleary penthouse dawns. And
if I get homesick, I can look at anywhere on the planet just by turning a
switch. Why, I’m more in the middle of things here than I could ever be on
Earth, yet I can cut myself off from the human race whenever I want to.’
     
                He was still smiling as he watched
the ferry begin the long fall back to Earth, toward the fame and fortune that
could have been his. And then, whistling cheerfully, he left the observation
lounge in eight-foot strides to read the weather forecast for Lower Patagonia .
     
            Passer-by
     
                It’s only fair to warn you, right at
the start, that this is a story with no ending. But it has a definite
beginning, for it was while we were both students at Astrotech that I met
Julie. She was in her final year of solar physics when I was graduating, and
during our last year at college we saw a good deal of each other. I’ve still
got the woollen tam-o’shanter she knitted so that I wouldn’t bump my head
against my space helmet. (No, I never had the nerve to wear it.)
     
                Unfortunately, when I was assigned
to Satellite Two, Julie went to the Solar Observatory – at the same distance
from Earth, but a couple of degrees eastward along the orbit. So there we were,
sitting twenty-two thousand miles above the middle of Africa – but with nine hundred miles of empty,
hostile space between us.
     
                At first we were both so busy that
the pang of separation was somewhat lessened. But when the novelty of life in
space had worn off, our thoughts began to bridge the gulf that divided us. And
not only our thoughts, for I’d made friends with the communications people, and
we used to have little chats over the interstation TV circuit. In some ways it
made matters worse seeing each other face to face and never knowing just how
many other people were looking in at the same time. There’s not much privacy in
a space station …
     
                Sometimes I’d focus one of our
telescopes onto the distant, brilliant star of the observatory. In the crystal
clarity of space, I could use enormous magnifications, and could see every
detail of our neighbours’ equipment – the solar telescopes, the pressurised
spheres of the living quarters that housed the staff, the slim pencils of
visiting ferry rockets that had climbed up from Earth. Very often there would
be space-suited figures moving among the maze of apparatus, and I would strain
my eyes in a hopeless attempt at identification. It’s hard enough to recognise
anyone in a space suit when you’re only a few feet apart – but that didn’t stop
me from trying.
     
                We’d resigned ourselves to waiting,
with what patience we could muster, until our Earth leave was due in six
months’ time, when we had an unexpected stroke of luck. Less than half our tour
of duty had passed when the head of the transport section suddenly announced
that he was going outside with a butterfly net to catch meteors. He didn’t
become violent, but had to be shipped hastily back to Earth. I took over his
job on a temporary basis and now had – in theory at least – the freedom of
space.
     
                There were ten of the little
low-powered rocket scooters under my proud command, as well as four of the
larger interstation shuttles used to ferry stores and personnel from orbit to
orbit. I couldn’t hope to borrow one of those ,
but after several weeks of careful organising I was able to carry out the plan
I’d conceived some two micro-seconds after being told I was now head of
transport.