“What do you want?” McCormack repeated.
“The ground-based medical center that’s going to be built as part of your life-extension program. . .”
“In your state?”
“Yes.”
McCormack nodded. “I see no reason why that can’t be done. It would be rather close to the Mayo Clinic, then, wouldn’t it?”
“And one other thing,” Petty said.
“What is it?”
He pointed at Don. “I want this man—Senator Buford’s dear friend—to personally head up the space station operation.”
Don felt his incipient ulcer stab him as McCormack’s face clouded over.
“Mr. Arnold is program manager for the space station program already,” McCormack said, “and also serves as liaison to the advanced shuttle program office.”
“I know that,” Petty snapped. “But I want him up there, in the space station, with the first permanent crew.”
Don stared at the Senator. “Why. . . ?”
Petty gave him a smirk. “You think living up in space is such a hot idea, let’s see you try it!”
Senator Buford’s intensive-care bed looked more like a spacecraft command module than a hospital room. Electronics surrounded the bed, monitoring the dying old man. Oscilloscope traces wriggled fitfully; lights blinked in rhythm to his sinking heartrate; tubes of nutrients and fresh blood fed into his arteries.
Don had to lean close to the old man’s toothless sunken mouth to hear his wheeze:
“ ‘Predate your comin’ to see me. . . got no family left, y’know.”
Don nodded and said nothing.
“Looks like I cain’t hold out much longer,” the Senator whispered. “How’s the space station comin’ along?”
“We’ve got Petty behind it,” Don answered. “For a price.”
Buford smiled wanly. “Good. Good. You’ll get th’ whole Senate behind you. They’re all gettin’ older. They’ll all want to go. . . up there.”
“I’m only sorry that we’re not ready to take you.”
Cackling thinly, Buford said, “But I’m goin’! Ah made all the arrangements. They’re gonna freeze me soon’s I’m clinically dead. And then I’m gonna be sent up to your space station. I’ll stay froze until the science fellas figure out how to cure this cancer I got. Then they’ll thaw me out and I’ll live in orbit. I’ll outlive all o’ you!” He laughed again.
“I hope you do,” Don said softly. “You deserve to.”
“Only trouble is, once I’m froze I won’t need that advanced shuttle to boost me into orbit. Coulda saved th’ taxpayers all that money if I’d known. I can ride the regular ol’ shuttle, once I’m dipped in that liquid nitrogen stuff.”
He was still cackling to himself as Don tiptoed out of his room.
“I’m coming home, honey! For once, I’ll be home in time for the twins’ birthday.”
Don was floating easily in his “office”: a semicircular desk welded into a bulkhead in the zero-gee section of the space station. There was no need for chairs; a few looped straps sufficed to keep one from drifting too far from one’s work.
Don took a good look at his wife’s face as it appeared in the telephone screen of his desk. Her mouth was a thin, tight line. There were crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. Her hair was totally gray.
“What happened to your hair?” he asked. “It wasn’t like that the last time we talked, was it?”
“I’ve been dyeing it for years and you never noticed,” Judy said, her voice harsh, strained. “The style is gray this year. . . now I dye it so it’s all gray.”
“That’s the style?” Don glanced at his own reflection in the darkened window above his desk. His hair was still dark and thick.
“How would you know anything about fashion?” Judy snapped, “—living up in that tin can in the sky.”
“But I’m coming home early this year,” Don said. “Things are going well enough so I can get away a whole month earlier than I thought. I’ll be there in time for the twins’ birthday.”
“Don’t bother,” Judy said.
“What? But the kids. . .”
“The kids are nineteen and they don’t want their Mommy and Daddy embarrassing them, especially on their birthday. They want to be with their friends, out on the farm they’ve set up.”
“Farm?”
“In Utah. They’ve joined the Church of the Latter Day Saints.”
