Old Times, New Times

A story by Keith Croes

Like always, Fyodorov early on looked as if he had had one too many. But Wilson knew that any of a variety of stimuli could transform the Russian into sobriety as deftly as a hypnotist manipulates his subject with a finger snap. An off-hand comment, a beautiful woman entering the room, a snotnose across the bar brandishing the jagged edge of a handle smashed from a pitcher of beer, a tiny discrepancy in the speed of a ventilator fan, some inner realization--any was just as likely as the other to counteract the effect of any number of vodkas and make the lights go on beneath his heavy brow. And the result would always be a perfectly, magically appropriate response.

Yamahara, on the other hand, never changed. He drank and he drank and he never changed. Maybe he smiled more. But he smiled sober too, and they were all special smiles, smiles with a reason, smiles worth remembering. Wilson couldn't look at Yamahara without seeing samurai--a great warrior. Yet Yamahara once told him that his name meant "sunny rice fields" and that his forebears were anything but privileged or titled or skilled. They'd probably been farmers. He had said it without shame and without pride. It was just a fact. Yamahara drank saki.

Wilson just got stupid. And the older he got the stupider he got. Fact is, he didn't drink much these days. When he did it was scotch.

"Waitress, my glass seems to have absorbed my drink." Fyodorov swept his index finger in a circle, encompassing the depleted glasses around the table. Russian for another round.

"So, what time is liftoff?" Wilson asked for the tenth time. Yamahara smiled.

"One-thirty. Thirteen-thirty for you military types," said Fyodorov. "Thirteen-thirty Monday."

"Let's drink to Monday," said Yamahara.

"Monday!" they said and finished their drinks.

"We took off on a Tuesday," Wilson said finally.

Fyodorov nodded. "Yes. A wonderful Tuesday in Novosibirsk."

It had been a gloomy day that almost delayed liftoff for another 17 months.

"Yes, a beautiful day in Novosibirsk," said Yamahara.

"At least as beautiful as Philadelphia," said Wilson.

"Not unlike the temperate climate of Tranquility," said Yamahara. The three sat in the bar on the moon, each realizing that the climate in earth orbit was probably far superior for the job at hand than any location on the crescent that glowed from the screen in the corner.

"We were lucky to get to the moon in the first place," said Wilson. Fyodorov nodded and Yamahara stared at the image of earth on the video screen.

"We were after bigger things," Yamahara said.

"Here's to Tuesday," said Wilson.

"Where's our waitress?" said Fyodorov.

Phillips stood at the bar and tightened his stomach muscles. The scientists didn't think there would be any G forces. The animals had just disappeared. Gone. But what then? The scientists didn't know, not really. So Phillips tightened his stomach muscles, then his chest, then his buttocks, knowing that the experience might rip him apart like dogs sharing a carcass. Like the dog that disappeared. Others had been luckier, it seemed, returning with batches of normal readings. But what of the one that disappeared? The bartender hopped over and Phillips ordered scotch on the rocks.

"Vodka, please." Phillips recognized Shevelev's voice immediately.

"Hey, comrade," Phillips said.

Shevelev said nothing.

"I know what you mean. Well, at least the press isn't allowed in here."

Neither was surprised when Miyake walked into the room.

They held out their drinks. Miyake ordered saki. The three sat at the bar.

"GLOR-EEE-AH," Fyodorov enunciated slowly. "GLOR-EEE-AH."

"We have a license for him," said Wilson. The waitress recoiled in mock horror.

"Has he had his shots?" she asked.

"No. He is untouched by man's meddling with nature," said Yamahara.

"Just keep 'em coming," said Wilson. "Please."

The three sat in dim light at the plastic table.

"So what have you been doing the last ten years, Kira?" Wilson asked.

Yamahara frowned. "Sitting at a desk as commander of a training center. Half of what they taught I never learned. So much is new. So much has changed. A few years ago I retired. Now the old general watches the stars with his grandchildren outside of Kyoto."

"How about you, Slava?"

Fyodorov had both elbows on the table and moved his cupped hands from in front of his mouth. "I ran a combat battalion, Steve, but it was paperwork. No wars! That's good. But boring. So I retire a full general. The government treat me good...and a little special. A little something extra. Two years now. You retire too, just last year?"

"Yep. Major general. I had a base. KGB probably told you all about it."

"New York Times. They drag us all out every now and then, don't they, like old mementoes."

Yamahara was nodding. "Yes. Every five years since 2011. But not so much anymore. And always farther back in the paper." They all nodded.

"The thrill is gone," Wilson mused. "Did you see all the press here for this one?"

"Next year will be 25 years. Maybe they'll have a big revival," said Yamahara.

Fyodorov waved the notion off. "After tomorrow they forget about us and finally leave the old generals alone."

"I think we've been alone," said Wilson.

Miyake's hand shook around his saki. He frowned and concentrated on stopping the movement. Phillips touched his shoulder.

"Don't worry about it, Tosh. Tomorrow you'll be fine."

"Tomorrow we make history," said Shevelev. "Tomorrow when we step into the Argus our courage will be remembered always. No one will remember one shaky hand."

"I will," Miyake snapped. "You will."

"Tosh, look." Phillips held out his hand. It was trembling. "Just leave your drink on the bar. Don't try to hold it. That way no one sees." Tosh set his glass down, hung his head and laughed quietly in large heaves. "Then when you pick it up--" Phillips demonstrated. "--you bring it straight up to the lips, take a drink--" He tossed the shot in his mouth and swallowed. "--and then set the glass directly back down on the bar." Tosh's shoulders were rolling. "Tosh, how could anyone be as frightened as we are right now?"

"We go to the stars, Tosh, in a ship like no man has ever ridden." Shevelev heard something in his voice that made him pause. "But I am not too frightened."

"I bet you'll have another one of those. Bartender, a round, please." Phillips noticed the three men at the table in the dim back of the bar and grunted in surprise.

"Bartender, who are those three guys over there?"

"Don't know. I could find out for you."

"Uh, no thanks." The other two men stared at him. "I know who they are. That's Steve Wilson. That big guy is Fyodorov. And I'll bet the guy with his back to us is Yamahara."

"The Galileo," said Miyake.

"The first men on Mars," said Shevelev.

"Yep. And the first men to Venus. Shit, they opened up the planets. In 15 years they made five interplanetary missions together."

Wilson sipped his drink and peered at the three men at the bar. "Look, guys, there we are! That was us."

Yamahara turned. The three men were watching them. "You were never that good looking," he said.

"Snotnoses," Fyodorov belched.

"Gloria." Wilson signaled the waitress. "Who are those guys at the bar?"

"I don't know. But I could find out for you."

"Please."

"And Gloria, one more round," Fyodorov ordered with his whirling index finger.

"One more?"

"Yes, then cut us off. Cut him off." Fyodorov pointed at Yamahara.

"He's the only sober one here," she said, then sprang to the bar in the low gravity.

"I think she would cut you off, Slava. About three inches off," Wilson noted. Gloria strode back to the table.

"Their names are Phillips, Mee-ocky and Shovel-love." She counted the words on her fingers. "They say to remember them because tomorrow they take the Argus out of the solar system."

"Toot, toot. Big whup," Fyodorov spouted.

"What are they doing here, the night before liftoff?" Wilson wondered.

Yamahara smiled. "Remember the night before liftoff in Novosibirsk?"

"Oh. Yeah. Uh, another round, please." Gloria bounded away and Fyodorov's head started a slow descent toward the table.

"Slava took us to that little place for women and vodka," Yamahara recalled.

"There were 50 men, one woman and two bears."

"But lots of vodka."

"First time I drank vodka in my life. And last."

"That's all they had."

"Slava got the bear drunk."

"Then beat it up."

"I think he killed it."

Yamahara nodded. "He killed a bear, then went to Mars."

Wilson's face darkened. "Were you scared that day, Kira?"

"In the Galileo? With our countries and the rest of the world watching? Not so much when the button was pressed. But the night before? Slava saved me. And you saved me." They looked at the young men at the bar. "I was scared the night before every liftoff. And you always saved me."

"Snotnoses," mumbled Fyodorov.

Shevelev hissed at Gloria. "Did you tell them?"

"Sure did."

"What did they say?"

"Nothing. But good luck," she said cheerily. Shevelev wriggled on his stool. "Old farts," he said. Phillips looked at his reflection in the mirror across the bar. "Do you think it was easier for them to strap themselves into the Galileo than it will be for us in the Argus?"

"It was easier getting there," said Shevelev. "They had nowhere near the training we have had. And rockets weren't experimental."

"Where did the dog go?" Miyake wondered.

"Yeah. Where did the dog go?" Phillips echoed toward his reflection.

"What time's liftoff?" Wilson held his drink on the table and watched the three men at the bar.

"One-thirty," said Yamahara.

"Thirteen-thirty." Fyodorov raised his head and sat up too quickly. The momentum carried him backward in his chair and would have flipped him over, but he straightened both legs and caught his feet underneath the table, which was bolted to the floor.

"Have a nice nap?" Wilson commented. "How'd you get your invitation to this send-up, Kira?"

Yamahara whistled. "Let's see. Your head of NASA contacted our president and he contacted me."

"Shit. Jim Kelly sent me a telegram."

"Jim Kelly?" quizzed Fyodorov.

"Head of NASA."

"Oh, yes, the putz."

"I suppose your president called you, Slava?"

Fyodorov gulped the remainder of his drink. "No. He told me about it. At lunch."

Wilson and Yamahara exchanged a glance. "He's a god over there," Wilson said.

"Naaaah," said Yamahara. "Just a sex symbol."

"Do you think those snotnoses need a bear tonight?" Fydorov tipped his empty glass toward the bar.

"Maybe they have one," replied Yamahara. "A bear of a different color."

"They teach them numbers these days, not courage," Fyodorov groused.

"We had our share of numbers," said Wilson. "And nobody taught us the courage."

"They take a two-week cruise in the best-researched vehicle ever made," Fyodorov countered. "We spent months in a cramped cabin in the Galileo. And our other ships weren't much better. I had more room in the shuttle coming up here!"

"They're gonna pop through hyperspace and circle another star," said Wilson. "No man has ever gone through hyperspace."

"The Galileo limped in on reserve power," said Yamahara. "We almost didn't make it, Steve. But I had no courage. I do not remember feeling courage. I remember pissing myself."

Wilson nodded and watched the earth in the video monitor.

"GLOR-EEE-AHH," shouted Fyodorov.

"I think they had trouble toward the end," said Phillips. "Wasn't there an electrical fire?"

Shevelev shrugged. Miyake nodded. "Yes," he said. "They had barely enough power for life-support systems to return."

Phillips shook off a dark feeling. "They gave us the planets. But here's to the stars, gentlemen. Let's bring one back." They drank.

Shevelev glanced around impatiently. "Is this the only place open on Sunday?"

"'Fraid so, Sly, the only one closed to civilians," said Phillips. There were about a dozen people in the bar, none of them women. "And I don't want to mess with the press. We're supposed to be tucked quietly in our bunks anyway."

"Maybe we should go join Wilson," said Miyake.

"Hell no," Shevelev shot back. "Let them come to us."

"This isn't an etiquette school," Phillips said quietly. "I say we go over."

Shevelev held his vodka aloft. "First, a toast from the Russian. Here's to...the dog."

"To the dog," the others shouted. "And to Sunday," Miyake added.

"I bet those poor saps are going stir crazy," Wilson said. Just then the three men at the bar put their arms around each other and began to sing.

"It's a Russian song," said Fyodorov. "It's about a boy who leaves home--who becomes a man." He hummed for a moment and joined in softly, then louder in a hearty baritone. The three men at the bar turned and waved. When they were through Gloria and a few patrons applauded.

"They're still snotnoses," Fyodorov complained.

"Let's invite them to join us," Yamahara suggested.

"Let them come to us," Fyodorov huffed.

"They probably don't even know who we are. And the last thing they'd want tonight is advice from some old fossils," said Wilson.

Fyodorov snatched a chair over from the adjoining table and put his legs across it. "You know, I love my country. And wherever our lives took us, I was always glad to be back. But you two..." He shook his head and laughed. "You two are my real country. When I am with you, I am truly at home."

"God, you have beautiful dimples," said Wilson. Yamahara smiled and the three sat quietly.

"We look strange in civilian clothing, yes?" Yamahara swiveled slightly at the waist, modeling a plaid short-sleeved shirt. Wilson wore a light long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows and the neck open. Fyodorov had on a green polo shirt that accented an ample belly. They began to laugh. They laughed until they cried, the three of them with their heads on the table, arms banging next to their drinks.

"Sears," Wilson was sputtering. "We're all shopping at Sears." Finally, wiping their eyes, they chuckled to a halt.

"So, what time's liftoff?" Wilson asked.

Yamahara rose, his tight frame unchanged by the years. "Akira lifting off right now. Where's the men's room?" Wilson and Fyodorov screwed their heads around.

"Looks like that may be it over there." Wilson pointed and Yamahara leaned with the point and stepped away.

"Gloria," Fyodorov yelled. She looked up from across the room and he swirled his index finger.

"Kira looks good," said Wilson.

"I'd fly with him in a second," said Fyodorov. "His reflexes are still like lightning. He moves the same. His eyes are as quick."

"He saved my ass once--when my harness jet malfunctioned on a walk in Jupiter orbit? I spun away and he shot after me. Caught hold of my left ankle just as he reached the end of his tether. And held on till I shook out of the damned thing. Speed and strength. He'd have made a great samurai."

"He saved both our asses more than once," Fyodorov nodded at his drink. "As I recall, you never unsnapped your tether again outside."

"He thinks we saved him."

Fyodorov snorted, then leaned back in his chair. "Do you feel sometimes...pushed out?"

"You mean, couldn't we be doing something at our ages, something for our countries? We've done it, Slava. If they don't want to take any more, then why should we want to give any more?"

Gloria and Yamahara showed up at the table at the same time.

The three men sat at the bar and stared at their reflections in the mirror. Phillips looked at the images of Miyake and Shevelev and gave a little wave that got two little smiles.

"Feeling any better, Tosh?" Phillips asked. Miyake nodded glumly. "Ready to turn in?"

"No," Shevelev said quickly. "Let's go to another bar, somewhere where there's women. The night is young!"

"Come on, Sly," Phillips whined. "Don't make it any more difficult than it already is."

"Come on yourself, Mark. There's got to be something better to do on this rock than look at you two in the mirror."

"Yeah, maybe you'd like to put the moves on Diane Allensmith of NBC. She's here. She could interview you between vodkas. You two could make a goddamn vodka commercial."

"This is not Houston," Miyake said flatly.

"That, Tosh, is the truth," sighed Shevelev.

The bartender leaned an elbow next to Shevelev and held a bar rag loosely in his hand. "You guys are taking the Argus tomorrow?" They nodded. "The next one's on the house. Funny thing--those guys over there? They're drinking the same drinks as you. Well, anyway, good luck to you."

"Here's to Sunday," Miyake toasted. "And to the dog."

"Here's to Steve." Fyodorov's eyelids were drooping and his single bushy eyebrow looked heavy even in moon gravity.

"The glue that kept us together," said Yamahara. The two clinked glasses and chugged.

"Oh, come on. That's bull," Wilson said.

"International agreements kept us from having a captain--officially." Fyodorov treated the word contemptuously. "But you were always our captain. We always looked to you...when we needed a joke or a pleasant word, when death stared in our face--you were the captain by unanimous consent."

"Captain General Steve Wilson," Yamahara saluted.

"You idiots."

Fyodorov held out a big hand and Wilson took it. Yamahara reached over and the three formed a knot in the middle of the table.

"Remember that night in Houston you and I picked up those space-program groupies?" Phillips began.

"I was just thinking of that," Shevelev said. "The one with the Astrodomes? Unbelievable. Where were you that night, Tosh?"

"We took them to a motel," Phillips continued, "and Sly insisted that we all register."

"So we both registered as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith," Shevelev chortled.

"Do you think they'll remember us?" Phillips asked.

Shevelev paused. "I never thought of that. God, I hope not."

"They could have a real payday ahead."

"Well, maybe we won't come back," Shevelev shrugged.

"Do you really think they don't know us?" Fyodorov wondered, looking toward the bar.

"Somebody probably told them we were going to be here. But why should they know us? They stopped running our pictures in the newspapers 15 years ago and even then they were 10 years old," said Wilson.

"Those little snotnoses." Fyodorov shouted for the waitress, who weaved her way to them. "We'd like to buy a round for Filters, Mee-osky and Shevelev, or whatever their names are."

"Phillips and Shovel-lips," said Wilson.

"Miyake and Shovel-head," said Yamahara.

"And tell them it's from Wilson, Yamahara, and Fyodorov."

"Oh, Christ." She counted the names on her fingers.

Miyake tried to nod with his chin propped on his hands. It always made him uncomfortable talking about women the way the American and Russian did. He saw one woman in his mind's eye, crystal clear. He would take the image with him.

"Tosh bowed out that night," Phillips was saying. "Don't you remember? We met three of them at the bar, but Tosh backed out...took a cab back to base."

"And you two ended up with six weeks of shots and a whole biogenetic series," Miyake said.

"Yeah. Yeah, we did pay the piper." Phillips hesitated. "You're thinking of your lady, aren't you, Tosh?"

"Yes, Mark. For one second, while you discussed anatomy, I thought of my lady."

"That one did have big tits, though," Phillips marveled.

"Here's to tits," said Shevelev. "Long may they wave."

"We don't mean anything by it, Tosh."

"We just love tits."

Phillips nudged Shevelev. "Look, Tosh, if you want to know the truth, I respect you for backing out that night. You're a lot smarter than we are in that regard."

"I am not insulted and I am not upset, nor do I seek explanations or apologies."

The bartender approached. "These are from the gentlemen over there--Fee-odor-off, Yamahara, and Wilson," he said carefully. "Hey, weren't they the first men on Mars?"

"Yeah, thanks," said Phillips.

"If Tosh is so smart, why can't he understand the hyperspace equations?" Shevelev said.

Phillips sat between the two and could feel the tension rise on both sides.

"Dr. Stanton said it, not me. She doesn't think Miyake really understands the basic physics."

"I don't understand the basic physics either, Sly," Phillips said sharply. "I just fake it better than Tosh. If we understood the basic physics we'd be frigging physicists."

"We're supposed to be physicists. We each have a doctorate in frigging physics."

"The hyperspace equations are the most complex concept I've ever tried to grasp. When I think I understand them, they slip away. I got my doctorate without using any knowledge less than 75 years old. Myers and Rubenstein got the Nobel Prize for the hyperspace equations. So who made you a genius?"

Shevelev took the first sip out of the new drink, then carefully set the glass down. "He's probably thinking about the dog."

Miyake stood. "The dog represents a fundamental failure in the basic research. It should have come back. It didn't."

"Yes, but the way you carry on about it, asking about it, worrying about it--I think you were probably sleeping with it."

Miyake reached behind Phillips and Shevelev grabbed his arm with his left hand and launched himself back off his stool. "You were sleeping with a dog!" When he cocked his right hand back in a fist, Shevelev discovered his arm frozen in a strange position behind his head. Fyodorov said something in Russian to Shevelev and held on, then changed to English.

"You had a dog, we had a bear," he said. Wilson and Yamahara stood with their hands on their hips behind him. "If you guys don't want to take the Argus out tomorrow, we'll be glad to."

"You guys need a bear," said Wilson. Fyodorov released Shevelev, who rubbed his shoulder angrily. "Have you ever heard of Alan Shepherd?"

"He was an American astronaut," said Phillips.

"That's right." Wilson spoke with flat authority. "Alan Shepherd once played golf on the moon. Do you guys play golf?" They nodded. "Good. Follow us."

Wilson and Yamahara led the group down the quiet corridor with Fyodorov working up menacing faces at the rear. Wilson turned left, then right down the hallway nearest the skin of the base. He stopped and entered an airlock. "Well, these ought to do." There were a half dozen moon suits, three hanging on both sides of the long, narrow room. Fyodorov pulled the hatch shut behind them.

With a sharp tug, Wilson uncoupled a suit from its bracket and handed it to Phillips. "Let's go outside and play, boys."

Phillips examined the suit briefly, then glanced at Miyake and Shevelev. A smile overtook his face. "Why not?"

Shevelev looked at Fyodorov. "But we don't have any golf equipment."

Fyodorov was already pulling one leg of a suit up over his civilian trousers. "The young people today have no imagination."

"We're going to play baseball." Yamahara snapped a suit off the wall and handed it to Miyake. "With baseball, all you need is a stick and a stone. We'll find something out there."

Wilson was involved up to his waist. "Only this will be tackle baseball. And there's the tackler." He stopped fiddling with the suit long enough to point at Fyodorov, who scowled and roared.

"He's the bear," said Yamahara. "We hit the ball, you catch it, then you have to do something before Fyodorov tackles you."

"We may even find a moon rover to steal," said Wilson. "That way we can play tackle baseball with a stolen moon rover." Wilson paused and looked at Phillips. "Sound like fun?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it sounds like fun."

Fyodorov had his helmet halfway over his head. "You wish you would have thought of it, no?" He caught Shevelev's eye. "Out there, you find other things to fight besides yourselves."

"Yes."

"Okay, let's get the air out of here," said Wilson. "By the way, what time's liftoff?"

"One-thirty," said Phillips.

THE END

MORE STORIES BY KEITH CROES

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