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A Small Problem By Fiona Glass ©
Fiona Glass 2009 The dry tones of Carter, the expedition's chief pilot, filtered through to Mission Control, clear as a voice on a telephone in spite of the forty million miles of cold dark space swirling between them. Running a hand through a thatch of thinning grey hair, Dr Johnson slumped lower in his observer's chair. What now, for God's sake? This mission had been plagued from the start. Screws popping like tiddlywinks out of the engine casing, strange green smoke filling the crew's quarters, the expedition doctor dropping dead of a heart-attack minutes before take-off.... It was heartbreaking after all his hard work - hours in the lab, endless sleepless nights. He'd wanted to get everything right, and save the crew the merest chance of ill health. The conversation filtered through the background hum of voices and coughing and squeaking chairs. Odd phrases caught Johnson's attention: 'equipment not functioning', 'severe psychological problems', 'require urgent advice'. What in the black holes was the man blathering about? What equipment failure? Why couldn't Lt Dring, the ship's android, repair it? And why should a mere equipment failure result in psychological problems? Unless.... Oh good Lord, no. With a sick lurch in the pit of his stomach, he remembered the SRS. The esteemed, much-fêted Sexual Relief System, launched only two years ago in a blaze of publicity by his own department. Designed for just these circumstances - an all-male crew on a long-haul flight through space - it was foolproof and indestructible. He himself could vouch for that, having tested it to destruction before the crew had even left Earth. But if it had malfunctioned, it would explain Carter's concerns. Three months out from Earth, another seven before they reached the dusty red shores of Mars, and the crew would only have each other to turn to for sexual release. No wonder Carter was babbling about psychological problems. It was a wonder the crew hadn't killed each other. Well, he wasn't the expedition's Chief Health Consultant for nothing. Leaping to his feet he elbowed a startled technician off the nearest computer terminal and began hammering commands into the keypad. "It's quite all right," he said, pushing errant spectacles back up his nose. "I tested a contingency plan which should work just as well. Tell the crew to switch to Manual Relief." Mission Control made concerned noises. "Are you serious? In zero gravity?" Johnson waved that aside. "Yes, yes, it'll be fine. I'm programming in the necessary instructions now. Tell Carter they'll be with him in a minute." "Message received and understood. I think," said Carter a short while later, and signed off. There was nothing for Johnson to do but sit back and chew his fingernails. All his experiments had pointed to a successful outcome, but there was always a shred of doubt. The crew's well-being was his responsibility - heaven forbid that he should fail them. Too soon, Carter's call-sign beeped through. The pilot's voice sounded hoarse, and ever-so-slightly out of breath. " Johnson leaped to his feet again and grabbed the microphone. "Are you sure, man? That should be impossible." "Yeah, I'm sure. There was a bang and a flash of green light and Dring just shut down. We've tried everything but we can't get him working again. And half the crew haven't had their turn." Johnson mopped his brow on his jacket sleeve. Had he miscalculated? Surely every last one of his myriad experiments couldn't have gone wrong? "I can't understand it," he said at last. "It worked perfectly well with the mice."
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