descended beneath him, branching and curving.
He grabbed hold of a wall spider, told it his destination, and let it haul him on down into the tunnel along its stay wires.
Thus, clinging to his metal companion, he descended into the heart of Ra-Shalom.
His legs dangled uselessly, and so he set his suit to tuck them up to his chest. He was thinking of taking the surgeons’ advice, and opting for amputation. What the hell. He was a hundred and fifty years old, give or take; he wasn’t going to start complaining.
Anyhow, apart from that, the surgeons were preserving him pretty well. They were treating him to a whole cocktail of growth hormones and DHEA and melatonin treatments and beta-carotene supplements, not to mention telomere therapy and the glop those little nano-machines had painted on the surface of his shrivelled-up brain to keep him sharp.
These guys were good at keeping you alive.
This asteroid was small. A stable population was important, and a heavy investment in training needed a long payback period to be effective. So the birth rate was low, and a lot of research was directed to human longevity.
He understood the logic. But still, he missed the sound of children playing, every now and again. The youngsters here didn’t seem to mind that, which made them a little less than human, in his view. But maybe that was part of the adjustment humans were having to make, as they learned to live off-Earth.
In fact he missed his own kids, his daughters, even though, astonishingly, they were now both old ladies themselves.
The surgeons had even managed to repair some of the cumulative microgravity damage he’d suffered over the years. For instance, his skeletal and cardiac muscles were deeply atrophied. Until they found a way to stabilize it, his bone calcium had continued to wash out in his urine, at a half per cent a month. At last, the surgeons said, the inner spongy bone, the trabeculae, had vanished altogether, without hope of regeneration.
He never had been too conscientious about his time in the treadmills. It had left him a cripple, on Earth.
So, at age eighty, he’d left Earth.
Even then they had been closing down the cans – the early stations starting with Mir and the Space Station, that had relied completely on materials brought up from Earth. In retrospect it just didn’t make sense to haul material up from Earth at great expense, when it was already here, just floating around in the sky, in rocks like Ra.
So he’d come back to come out to Ra-Shalom, the place that had made him briefly famous.
He suspected the surgeons liked to have him around, as a control experiment. The youngsters were heavily treated from birth, up here, to enable them to endure a lifetime of microgravity. Not a one of them could land on Earth, of course, or even Mars. But not too many of them showed a desire to do any such thing.
The wall spider, scuttling busily, brought him to the mine face, the terminus of Shaft Seven. It was a black, dusty wall, like a coal face. There was dust everywhere, floating in the air.
There were five or six people here, in their brightly coloured skinsuits, scraping their way around the stalled miner. Their suits were seamless and without folds, to guard against the dust. They were all tall, their limbs spindly as all hell, their skeletal structures pared down as far as they would go.
The miner itself clung to the walls with a dozen fat legs, with the balky rock splitter itself held out on a boom before the face. It was a radial-axial design with a percussive drill, powered by hydraulics, with a drill feed, a radial splitter and a loader. But for now it was inert.
One of the youngsters came up to him. It was Gita Weissman, Mike’s granddaughter. She grinned through her translucent faceplate; her skinsuit was what they used to call Day-Glo orange.
‘Dust,’ she said. ‘It’s always the dust.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Grab a pump. We want to get this baby back on line or we’ll miss quota again.’
He started to prepare a vacuum-pump tube.
The ‘dust’ was surface rock flour: half of it invisible to the naked eye, abrasive, and electrostatically sticky. Despite their best efforts it had gotten all the way through the interior workings of Ra, coating every surface.
A lot of Earthbound experience was worthless up here. No machine, for example, which used its own weight for leverage was going to be any use. Nevertheless, some terrestrial technologies, like coal gasification, had proven to be good bases for development of systems that gave a low capital investment and a fast payback.
Greenberg remembered how they’d celebrated when the ore processors had first started up, and water had come trickling out of crushed and heated asteroid cinder. It had touched, he supposed, something deep and human, some atavistic response to the presence of water here, the stuff of life in this ancient rock from space.
Whatever, it had been one terrific party.
And this rock, and many others like it, had proven to be as rich as those old sci-fi-type dreamers, who Greenberg used to laugh at, had hoped. Ra was fat with water – twenty per cent of its mass, locked up in hydrate minerals and in subsurface ice. It exported kerogen, a tarry petrochemical compound found in oil shales, which contained a good balance of nutrients: primordial soup, they called it. Ra pumped out hydrogen, methane, kerosene and methanol for propellants, and carbon monoxide, hydrogen and methane combinations to support metal processing …
And so on.
Ra was just a big volatiles warehouse floating around in the sky. And with the big surface mass drivers that Greenberg called softball pitchers, Ra products were shipped to places that were volatile-poor – like Mars, lacking nitrogen, and the Moon, dry as a desert. It was a lot cheaper to export them from a rock floating around up here than from all the way at the bottom of Earth’s gravity well.
To Greenberg’s great surprise, Ra’s inhabitants had become rich.
The first justification for opening up the rocks had been to make them serve as short-term resource factories to aid in the colonization of the Moon, Mars and beyond. But it wasn’t working out like that. Sure, the gravity well colonies were in place, but they were hardly thriving; they were always going to be dependent on key volatiles shipped in from somewhere else. And they didn’t have much to trade; Ra could purchase high-grade metals much more cheaply from other rocks.
There were actually more humans living in the rocks now than on the Moon or Mars. And Ra had more trade with other rocks than anybody else – even Earth …
He saw there was one articulated joint on the splitter boom that was giving particular problems; its prophylactic cover had been taken off, revealing a knobby joint with big, easily replaced parts, already half-dismantled, like the knee joint of a T Rex.
The youngsters were talking about more advances in technology. Like nanotech miners which would chomp their way through the rock without any human intervention at all. Greenberg kind of hoped it wouldn’t be for a while, though; he preferred machinery big enough to see, and wrestle with. It gave him a purpose, a reason to use the upper-body strength he’d brought up from Earth.
The workers got out of the way of him, and, whistling, he moved into the balky joint
