the bearing if one of the bearing
magnets were a little weak; but if the mast was properly aligned with asteroid
spin axis, that would vanish as soon as any transverse accelerations were
damped. And the asteroid spin period was a leisurely eight hours plus; at that
rate, the damn bearing could be made of taffy.
She, he decided, was deliberately picking a nit, maybe for
psychological impact. Finally, enough time passed so that Dolph hoped he could
just ignore the discourtesy.
“Any equipment you’d like to take down with you?” he asked.
“Did you hear what I said about the stator magnet?” she
barked. “It’s out of spec. Fix it!”
Damned if she didn’t seem serious, he thought. This was not
good. “I’ll get on it as soon as we have you settled,” he temporized.
“ Now , Wigner. I don’t want my ship torqued away if
the bearing seizes.”
Dolph opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and
shut it hard enough that he heard his teeth click. Very well, he’d fix the damn
thing. A quick check with Hopper identified the lower bearing as the
problem, and he told Hopper to bring him the spare—a pair of thick
nested hoops two meters in diameter.
“My wife, Sasha, is in the ship down-tether, waiting for
you,” he told the inspector. “I’ll be done in twenty minutes or so.”
“My ship’s at risk and I want to stay here and watch this,”
McCarthy told him. “Get to it.”
He looked up and saw her jet from her air lock to about ten
meters out from where he was working, and take up a position with her back to
the sun. She crossed her arms and floated there, motionless on her backpack
gyros. He assumed she was staring at him.
“Roger,” he replied, trying to keep the irritation from his
voice, nodded to her and got to work. The job wasn’t that big, actually. One of Hopper ’s spiders had brought the new bearing as they’d talked, and with
smart fasteners decoupling themselves from the telescoping joint, all he had to
do was ease out the old bearing and ease in the new one before light pressure
on the solar collector pushed the mast out of alignment by more than a
centimeter.
He had it done in fifteen minutes.
“Can we go in now?” he asked. “Sasha’s holding lunch.”
“She’ll have to hold a bit longer.” McCarthy jetted over to
the mast and held her helmet against it for a long time, then seemed to be
satisfied. Dolph told Hopper to feed their conversation to Sasha so she’d
know what was going on.
“Twenty-first century?” McCarthy asked at length.
“Early twenty-second,” he replied evenly. “It’s an old
Cislunar Republic mining survey station for the twenty-fourth Kirkwood
association, last inhabited in 2093. The CLR left when Mercury opened up.”
“I know all that,” McCarthy snapped. “I date things by when
they were built, not when the last people left. That shaft is a hundred years old
if it’s a day. No later than 2092, I’d say; it’s titanium, probably lunar. They
punched out hundreds of these set-ups back then. Anything after that would have
been local glass, because that’s when the rock chewers got smart and fast
enough to make it cheaper. You did the joint yourself?”
“Yes. The original bearing is down on the crater floor. Wouldn’t
move.”
“Vacuum welded. They used glazed rollers—okay for a few
years, but you have to keep them moving. I won’t redline your job, but that
magnet going sour was a symptom the thing’s been wowing a bit. You put a large
mirror on that shaft.”
“We’re going to grow grapes, so we got as big a mirror as
the specs allowed—”
“And, to save money, the smallest bearings,” McCarthy
interrupted. “And on top of that, you put it as far up as you could. Everything
away from the direction of goodness. Maximum stress: not smart.”
“It computed, Inspector.”
“Tell me about it,” she sniffed. “Artificial intelligences
lack both art and intelligence. Look, I said I won’t redline your
magnets were a little weak; but if the mast was properly aligned with asteroid
spin axis, that would vanish as soon as any transverse accelerations were
damped. And the asteroid spin period was a leisurely eight hours plus; at that
rate, the damn bearing could be made of taffy.
She, he decided, was deliberately picking a nit, maybe for
psychological impact. Finally, enough time passed so that Dolph hoped he could
just ignore the discourtesy.
“Any equipment you’d like to take down with you?” he asked.
“Did you hear what I said about the stator magnet?” she
barked. “It’s out of spec. Fix it!”
Damned if she didn’t seem serious, he thought. This was not
good. “I’ll get on it as soon as we have you settled,” he temporized.
“ Now , Wigner. I don’t want my ship torqued away if
the bearing seizes.”
Dolph opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and
shut it hard enough that he heard his teeth click. Very well, he’d fix the damn
thing. A quick check with Hopper identified the lower bearing as the
problem, and he told Hopper to bring him the spare—a pair of thick
nested hoops two meters in diameter.
“My wife, Sasha, is in the ship down-tether, waiting for
you,” he told the inspector. “I’ll be done in twenty minutes or so.”
“My ship’s at risk and I want to stay here and watch this,”
McCarthy told him. “Get to it.”
He looked up and saw her jet from her air lock to about ten
meters out from where he was working, and take up a position with her back to
the sun. She crossed her arms and floated there, motionless on her backpack
gyros. He assumed she was staring at him.
“Roger,” he replied, trying to keep the irritation from his
voice, nodded to her and got to work. The job wasn’t that big, actually. One of Hopper ’s spiders had brought the new bearing as they’d talked, and with
smart fasteners decoupling themselves from the telescoping joint, all he had to
do was ease out the old bearing and ease in the new one before light pressure
on the solar collector pushed the mast out of alignment by more than a
centimeter.
He had it done in fifteen minutes.
“Can we go in now?” he asked. “Sasha’s holding lunch.”
“She’ll have to hold a bit longer.” McCarthy jetted over to
the mast and held her helmet against it for a long time, then seemed to be
satisfied. Dolph told Hopper to feed their conversation to Sasha so she’d
know what was going on.
“Twenty-first century?” McCarthy asked at length.
“Early twenty-second,” he replied evenly. “It’s an old
Cislunar Republic mining survey station for the twenty-fourth Kirkwood
association, last inhabited in 2093. The CLR left when Mercury opened up.”
“I know all that,” McCarthy snapped. “I date things by when
they were built, not when the last people left. That shaft is a hundred years old
if it’s a day. No later than 2092, I’d say; it’s titanium, probably lunar. They
punched out hundreds of these set-ups back then. Anything after that would have
been local glass, because that’s when the rock chewers got smart and fast
enough to make it cheaper. You did the joint yourself?”
“Yes. The original bearing is down on the crater floor. Wouldn’t
move.”
“Vacuum welded. They used glazed rollers—okay for a few
years, but you have to keep them moving. I won’t redline your job, but that
magnet going sour was a symptom the thing’s been wowing a bit. You put a large
mirror on that shaft.”
“We’re going to grow grapes, so we got as big a mirror as
the specs allowed—”
“And, to save money, the smallest bearings,” McCarthy
interrupted. “And on top of that, you put it as far up as you could. Everything
away from the direction of goodness. Maximum stress: not smart.”
“It computed, Inspector.”
“Tell me about it,” she sniffed. “Artificial intelligences
lack both art and intelligence. Look, I said I won’t redline your
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