Voyage to Alpha Centauri: A Novel by Michael D. O'Brien

growth. Inhibits budding, flowering, fruiting. But with Mozart, Bach, the softer kind of Chopin, even some of the quieter Beethoven, you get an unusual response.”
    “Such as?”
    “Increased growth rate. The stems and leaves gradually turn toward the speakers, as if they’re yearning for the source.”
    “You’re sure you’re not imagining it? They can’t possibly enjoy classical.”
    “Well, they don’t have personalities, but there is significant positive response. It’s entirely bio-based, of course.”
    “Of course.”
    He paused, musing, and said, “We’re bio-based too.”
    I refrained from launching a strained discussion of the nature of intelligence.
    “It’s their spirit”, he went on. “Spirits communing with each other.”
    Yikes, a philosophical gardener! I beat a hasty retreat.
    Day 28 :
    Half-asleep, I sat bolt upright in bed and clicked on the spotlight. Grabbed a sheet of paper and my fountain pen:
       Proposition A: The phenomenology of Music presents a coherent, universal “language” based in physics.
       Proposition B: Music is a sensory manifestation of wave theory.
       Proposition C: Music is wave as manifestation of “spirit”.
       Question: If all of the above is true, what is “spirit”?
    Day 30 :
    Me and the cleaner guy have struck up a kind of trans-class chumminess. He told me his name is Dwayne. I told him mine is Neil. His masklike face hides a sardonic sense of humor, which can be evoked after you stay with him a while in discussions dominated by his stock responses: Yup. Nope. Maybe. He ejected me from my room this morning in order to give my personal space its mandatory monthly hygiene scrub. He used an odd assortment of tools, including old-fashioned rubber gloves, a sponge, and a bucket of antiseptic water. A traditionalist craftsman. I stood out in the hall, watching him work, and asked him where service personnel have their quarters.
    “Downstairs”, he said.
    More digging brought forth the interesting information that even people with the lowest status have their own private rooms, like everyone else. His is on level D, mine on B, the trillionaires on A. These privileged folks, he tells me, have a luxury suite. (It seems that hierarchy is unavoidable in human affairs.) His own room is pretty much like mine, he says, maybe a couple of feet shorter, no desk, but bigger on the entertainment side of things for after-hours diversion.
    “Films?” I asked.
    “Yup.”
    “What kind of films?”
    “Good, bad, and ugly.”
    “You mean the old cowboy film?”
    “Huh? I don’t know any by that name. But there’s quite a range.” He paused, flicked me a look, and added: “Not that I’m home on it.” He cracked a droll smile, then got back to work.
    Great guns! Thus, we have dialogues too, and I find they are as fun as any I’ve had so far, and better than my technical discussions with Xue. Dwayne and I are linked by nostalgia for the culture of the wild west, sagebrush and cactus, coyotes yipping under full moons, garish sunsets, etc. He is originally from rural Nevada but got scooped up when state borders were changed, and Los Angeles was declared one of America’s ten metro-states. He was employed by a space technology firm for some years, has a degree in process engineering, another in computer science, but is glad to be on board the Kosmos as a glorified janitor.
    Dwayne showed me how to access the films through a special key on my max. It quadruples the wall screen and pops up a menu, which has more than three hundred and eighty thousand titles to choose from. After he left, I shut it down and tried to forget the access procedure. Where are my cacti when I need them?
    Day 60 :
    A few sociological observations:
    Flight crew wears dark blue uniforms. We don’t see many of them during our daily life. Occasionally, I spot them in the restaurants or bistros, rarely in the cafeteria feed-lots. Other staff members have uniforms too, when they are on