The Dialogue of Two Planet Hunters or Something about Color of the Sky
1. A Rookie from Wheat Planet
A giant metal machine gobbled its way through the wheat. It rumbled and chuffed as its blades cut the dry stalks near the ground, its threshers stripped the grain free, and pale chaff billowed from its rear.
It was fully autonomous, preprogrammed, and could even drive itself to a fueling hub. But like any machine, it needed maintenance. And not after it broke, and not just before it broke, but before the problem even decided to show up on the screens of the diagnostic equipment.
That was where Pat came in.
Pat sat in the operator’s seat, a hard hat pressed over her bright red curls. Her green eyes stared at nothing, her head tilted slightly as she listened.
The cabin smelled of new rubber and plastic, untouched by human sweat or machine oil. The combine rarely needed an operator. The seat was used only at moments like this, when a mechanic had to listen, watch, and discover what the clever diagnostic computer had missed.
Pat knew the combine was dying before its diagnostic system did.
The left drive had been singing a note two pitches too high. It happened for only a few seconds at a time, but it had been happening for the past hour. It was a thin metallic complaint that most operators would have filtered out or hoped it went away. The computer would not flag it because everything was still within accepted parameters.
Pat heard it immediately.
She killed the engine, climbed down, slid under the chassis, and looked past the machine’s rusted belly at the sky.
She smiled. Her bright white teeth looked even brighter on her face, which was blackened with machine oil and metallic dust.
With her left hand, she pulled a postcard out of her work-clothes pocket. It was an advertisement for space mechanics. A generic young man was smiling and pointing up. In the background were golden fields of wheat and a blue sky—the exact same color Pat could see above her now.
It was azure. That was the only word for it. The afternoon sky of her native planet was the kind of blue that made you feel you could almost touch the air above you. It looked warm and close, especially when compared with the cold black space filled with distant stars at night. Pat had always liked that feeling.
A cargo ship crossed the blue, burning hard for orbit. She watched it until it disappeared. Then she slid the postcard back into her pocket and returned to the drive.
On paper, Pat was a licensed planet scout. In real life, she was still an agricultural mechanic crawling under combines.
Pat had grown up on a farm planet that was the largest grain supplier in the local cluster of inhabited worlds. Someone without much poetic imagination had named the planet Wheat. And the name had stuck for obvious reasons.
Pat was a good mechanic. She could fix a combine, a grain loader, a processing robot, or practically any piece of agricultural equipment one could think of. And she could fix household robots now becoming so ubiquitous and any appliances.
She liked her job, but she missed the romance of space travel. Or perhaps she missed the romance of something she had never experienced. That was possible too.
She had been working since she was sixteen. No college. An occasional boyfriend. Saving money for big dreams.
Agricultural and processing robots on Wheat were getting more and more clever. They had already forced many older operators and mechanics out of their jobs. Some robots could diagnose other robots. Some could replace damaged parts. A few could even request their own maintenance supplies.
That did not mean they no longer needed human mechanics. Not yet.
But it did mean fewer mechanics were needed every year.
There was no free land on the planet where one could start a small farm. All land was owned by the wheat producers. Many people were leaving Wheat and taking their families with them. Pat’s family had left when she was nineteen. She had insisted on staying behind and trying to build a career as a mechanic.
Perhaps a space mechanic one day?
That had been her plan.
Six months earlier, Pat had passed the planet-scout examination and received her license. She had also completed six months of grueling on-site training. She had scored highest in her cohort, beating everyone else with points to spare.
She was the only woman in the group. That part did not surprise her.
What surprised her was that the license did not lead to a job.
Pat submitted applications to scouting companies, cargo operators, mining services, and independent captains. She only got a handful of automatic messages telling her that her qualifications were impressive but did not fit their current needs. Most did not answer at all.
Six months passed. Pat was still repairing agricultural machines. Her job was also on the line. The list of repair assignments became shorter every month. Contractors were replacing experienced human mechanics with cheaper diagnostic robots that could work round the clock. Pat was not sure how much longer she could keep working. Her firing might not happen tomorrow. But it was coming. She could hear that problem too.
After finishing the combine repair, Pat cleaned herself as well as she could, changed, and went to the same licensing office where she had received her planet-scout certificate.
She carried her license, examination results, training records, and several rejection letters inside a folder.
Pat recognized the officer behind the desk. Six months earlier, he had handed her a planet-scout license and congratulated her in front of the entire graduating class.
Now he pretended not to remember her.
He looked down at her papers, lowering his bushy eyebrows as his tongue massaged a wad of imported chewing tobacco into one plump cheek. The meaty tip of his nose twitched as if he were about to sneeze.
Pat waited.
He turned over one sheet. Then another. The room was airconditioned, but the old ceiling fan was kept on, making a periodic squeaking sound. Then he looked at the examination results.
“My scores are good,” Pat said.
“Hmm,” he grunted.
“My mechanical score is one of the highest.”
The man grunted again.
“I finished first in my group.”
“So,” he lisped, pulled a big chunk from under his lower lip with an index finger, threw it in the bin next to his desk, spit the remaining tobacco, and cleared his throat. “I see.”
“Then why can’t I get a job?”
The officer wiped his fingers on the paper towel on the desk and continued looking at the papers.
Pat leaned closer to the desk.
“Why weren’t some of my applications even forwarded?”
The officer took a new batch from his can and pushed the tobacco deeper into his cheek.
“No captain requested you.” he lisped.
“How could they request me if they never saw my application?”
“That is not how the placement system works.”
“How does it work?”
The officer spat tobacco into a basket on the floor. He pulled a dirty handkerchief from his vest pocket, wiped his lips, and finally looked at Pat with one eye.
“You are from Wheat.”
“Obviously?”
“You do not have a college education.”
“I passed the examination.”
“You do not have experience serving on a spacecraft crew.”
“How can I get crew experience if nobody lets me join a crew?”
The officer sighed.
“There are other considerations.”
“What considerations?”
“Crew arrangements. Insurance. Long voyages. Confined living space.”
Pat stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
The officer looked down at the papers again.
He mumbled under his breath: “You don’t understand, do ya?”
“You mean because I am a woman.”
The man barely nodded: “No captain wants unnecessary complications on board.”
“I am a damn good mechanic.”
“This is not agricultural machinery.”
“A broken pump is a broken pump. A burned circuit is a burned circuit. Machines are machines whether it is in a combine or a spacecraft. I passed your examination. I completed your training. I hold the license.”
“Young lady—”
“Then why can’t I be accepted?”
The officer folded his hands on top of her application.
“You asked about the problem. Now you understand the problem.”
Pat stood there for a moment, staring at the old man.
Then she slowly rolled several rejection letters into a tube. She squeezed the papers between her fists and ripped them in two.
“You know what, sir? One day one of your captains will pay me twice as much to repair what one of his tough fellas broke.”
The officer’s eyebrows rose.
“And I will make damn sure to charge extra for being a complication.”
She turned, rushed out of the room, and slammed the door. The officer could hear Pat delivering an eloquent stream of unprintable language as she left the building. The men in the hallway chuckled, amused by her proficiency in what they considered their language.
Pat walked out of the building with her planet-scout license still in its folder. The companies did not want to employ her. However, those same companies and government offices were perfectly willing to charge her licensing fees, registration fees, tunnel fees, inspection fees, and emergency-service fees if she worked independently.
That gave Pat an idea.
2. A Baby-Boat
An independent scout did not need a captain to hire her. She could be her own captain. Pat had the license. Now she needed a spacecraft, enough credits to travel, and enough luck to find something valuable before the first two ran out.
With her savings, Pat could afford only a small lifeboat-type spacecraft. The seller called it a Compact Autonomous Vessel for Exploration—CAVE—which was a very generous description.
Who came up with such weird names? Pat wondered as she inspected the vessel.
“It is a lifeboat.”
“No, it is not, young lady.”
The salesman was young and handsome, with square shoulders and a deep, smooth voice. Pat did not trust any of those features.
“It can take me into space?” she asked.
“Of course! This is not one of those combines, you know. Why do you need it, anyway?”
“Exploration.”
The man waited for more.
Pat did not give him any.
“Anyway, you pay a deposit here. But you can’t take it without an inspection. We have our own inspector, or you can hire one yourself.”
“How much does yours cost?”
“A hundred and twenty credits.”
“Oh my. Do you know that you are on Wheat?”
The young man chuckled.
“When people need to leave the planet, they pay, young lady. It’s not my fault that the markets run their course. I am just—”
“I’ll find my own inspector.”
Pat came back with an inspector who charged sixty-five credits—the cheapest one she could find.
The inspector found faded paint, missing indicator lights, and extra lights installed for decoration. Those were the obvious problems.
Pat did not need decorations. She needed working engines.
She pointed out one component after another and directed the inspector toward the systems she wanted checked. The corner of her mouth twitched. For sixty-five credits, she seemed to be doing most of his job herself.
Near the end of the inspection, the salesman scratched the back of his neck.
“Oh, Patricia, right. I forgot to mention that the vessel has no shower unit. It was never installed because of the space and weight limitations.”
“You are telling me now—after I paid the deposit?”
“Sorry. I thought you already knew.”
Pat looked at the inspector.
“Toilet?”
He shook his head and attempted a smile.
“No toilet either.”
Pat turned back to the salesman.
“No shower, no toilet, missing indicators, and decorative lights instead of useful equipment. I am not paying the full price.”
“That was the agreed price.”
“That was before the inspection.”
“The vessel is still space-worthy.”
“According to your inspector?”
“He is not my inspector.”
“Exactly.”
The salesman folded his arms. “You can walk away, but you’ll lose the deposit.”
Pat picked up the inspection report.
“I am not walking away from the vessel. I am walking away from you. I am sure someone more experienced can complete the sale.”
His smooth smile became less smooth.
“How much do you offer?”
Pat stepped closer to the young man and whispered a figure into his ear.
“That is ridiculous.”
“So are lights that serve no purpose,” she scoffed.
He countered. Pat refused. She reminded him that the missing sanitation equipment had not been disclosed before she paid the deposit.
The salesman glanced toward the office behind him, then lowered his voice.
“Fine.”
Pat completed the purchase before he could change his mind.
The little craft provided decent radiation protection and could land on small planets, moons, and asteroids. But it would not be able to take off from a larger planet with stronger gravity.
For that, Pat would need a landing unit. To carry a landing unit, she would need a larger spacecraft. And a larger spacecraft was what she could not afford. Not yet.
Pat bought the lifeboat. It needed work. Lots of work.
She replaced part of the cooling system, repaired three maneuvering thrusters, rewired the communication unit, patched the outer shell, recalibrated the navigation controls, and removed the decorative lights.
She also found several repairs that the seller had forgotten to mention. The inspector had missed them too. Sixty-five credits had apparently purchased sixty-five credits’ worth of inspection. Pat was not surprised. After four years of working with contractors and agricultural robots, she had learned that machines did not hide problems. People did.
It took her four months to make the lifeboat space-worthy. Pat was finally her own space mechanic. She was very proud of her baby-boat, as she called the vessel.
The baby-boat also needed an onboard computer. The original navigation system had been removed before the sale. A professional-grade artificial intelligence was far beyond Pat’s budget, so she purchased a refurbished educational model.
It was designed for spacecraft navigation, environmental control, life support, communications, and introductory pilot instruction. The official name was Navigational Avionics, Environmental and Life-Support System, NAVELS.
Pat stared at the name on the installation screen with mild dissatisfaction.
“No,” she said.
“Pardon me. I did not quite grasp your instruction. Please clarify.” A calm female voice answered from the nearest speaker, louder than Pat had anticipated.
Pat stepped back. When she realized it was NAVELS speaking, she said, “I am not calling you Navels.”
“NAVELS is my registered system designation.”
“It is also a body part.”
“It is an acronym.”
“It is a stupid acronym.”
“The designation was approved by the Interplanetary Educational Systems Commission.”
“That does not make it less stupid.”
“Your objection has been recorded.”
“From now on, your name is Navie.”
There was a short pause. “Navie is not an approved abbreviation.”
“It is now. Accept it.”
Navie did not respond right away. “What does it stand for?” the voice carried a whiff of disapproval.
“It stands for your name, silly. I will call you Navie, and you will respond to that name. Deal?”
Navie got silent.
“Hello? Did you get that? Hello?”
Pat could repair the unit’s wiring and hardware. Its artificial mind was another matter. That had not been part of her training.
“The unofficial designation has been added to my response protocols,” Navie finally said. “You can call me Navie now.”
Pat released the breath she had been holding. Navie had the personality of a mildly disapproving tutor. She was precise, thorough, and apparently unable to leave an incomplete explanation alone.
Pat spent several days becoming acquainted with the system.
During one of their first conversations, she was studying the operating sequence for the nearest space tunnel.
“Your examination record,” Navie said, “indicates a score of sixty-eight percent in relativistic transportation systems.”
“I passed.”
“Marginally.”
“A passing score is still a passing score.”
“A passing score does not guarantee complete understanding.”
“That is why I bought you.”
“You purchased me because the professional navigation system exceeded your available budget by ninety-two percent.”
“That too.”
Pat decided that she did not mind Navie. It—no, she—was reliable. Pat understood that kind of reliability. A machine could fail, but it did not pretend the failure was her fault.
After four months of repairs, more inspections, forms, fees, and arguments with Navie, the baby-boat received permission to leave Wheat.
Pat launched before sunrise. The engines pushed her into the acceleration couch while the vessel climbed through the atmosphere. The endless wheat fields spread below her, divided into giant golden rectangles by irrigation lines and service roads.
The blue sky near the horizon slowly changed.
Azure became dark blue.
Dark blue became violet.
Violet became black.
“Port maneuvering thruster is operating three percent above the recommended thermal range,” Navie announced.
“I know.”
“Continued operation may reduce the life of the component.”
“I rebuilt that thruster myself.”
“That does not contradict my statement.”
Pat looked at the nearest speaker. “Was that a joke?”
“No.”
The baby-boat reached orbit. Wheat curved below Pat, wrapped in a thin blue line.
She had imagined this moment many times. In her imagination, she had shouted, laughed, or perhaps cried.
Instead, she sat quietly and looked at her planet.
Then she unfastened the restraints, pushed herself toward the control panel, and began learning how to make money.