Tachyon Web Read Online Free
Author: Christopher Pike
deep dark well. In minutes they would be at full speed and in less than half an hour they would be entering Martian orbit. What a great way to start a vacation.
The time passed swiftly. Strem punched up a hamburger from the automatic galley and just about had to forgo chewing to finish it before the red star swelled into a sandstorm-torn world. Mars was in a foul mood and Eric was glad their destination lay elsewhere. The northern polar cap was practically obscured by airborne dust. Had they landed they would have had to stay inside the domed cities and been unable to go exploring, which would have been worse than laying on the beach at home.
“This is Excalibur ,” Sammy said into the mike. “Number FRE-4316-DH, requesting permission for F-level orbit slot.
A sweet feminine computer answered promptly. “Permission granted. Welcome to Mars, Excalibur . Please proceed to F-192, coordinates ten point two and six point seven. This is a passenger loading zone only. If you wish to remain longer in orbit than four hours you must request a new slot in a lower zone. Please respond that you have copied and understood.”
“Gotcha, baby,” Strem said over Sammy’s shoulder.
“Response insufficient,” the computer said. “We await copy and clarification.”
“I wish I had a voice like that,” Jeanie said with a sigh. While Strem had been swallowing his hamburger, Jeanine had gone to the cargo bay and fitted herself with a pair of Uncle Dan’s fiber optic pants, commonly called opants . When hanging in a closet, opants resembled bland gray leather pants or jackets. But once on a person, they glowed a spectrum of colors, depicting one’s mood, which they determined by stealthily placed sensors in the wrists and armpits that were able to monitor the wearer’s heartbeat, skin resistance, temperature, and arterial dilation. As Jeanie sighed, her arms shone a faint red, indicating desire. Eric feared if he pulled on a pair and hung around Jeanie, he’d look like a strawberry.
“I met the woman they got to record those tapes,” Strem said. “She was a dog.”
“ Excalibur proceeding to F-192, coordinates ten point two and six point seven,” Sammy said into the mike. “We shall occupy the position approximately one hour.” He added, “Don’t mind what my partner said about you.”
“Copy and clarification completed. Reference to dog discarded.”
Strem scratched his head. “I do remember her having a sense of humor.” He paused. “So is Cleo in the F-zone?”
“Yes,” Sammy said, typing in the coordinates. The cubical holograph now contained an exquisite two-feet-in-diameter simulation of Mars, surrounded by ten concentric nebulous shells, which Eric assumed were the zone levels. Sammy manipulated the controls and the real Mars outside the windows grew three times in size as a smaller version of Space Station One appeared off their port side, ringed with a myriad of glittering spacecraft. Glancing into a sensor plate, Sammy added, “Cleo’s ferry is waiting. She must already be aboard it.” He sent her a beacon to lock onto, and a voice that could have belonged to a six-year old if it hadn’t somehow managed to sound so tough came over the control deck’s main speakers.
“Is that you, honey?”
“Which honey are you referring to, sugar?” Strem interrupted Sammy.
Cleo’s laugh was high and loud. She had a powerful singing voice, which she exercised regularly in a band The Meek Pulverizers – a revival of very old music style of music Sammy had once referred to as punk music.
Eric never felt completely at ease around Cleo. She was wild. Her hair was seldom the same colour two days in a row, and she was fond of chains and strange designs on her tight-fitting clothes. Without makeup and paraphernalia though, she was a doll: short and dainty with fine red hair and an innocent dimpled smile. She should have been in a church choir, not on stage shouting about racial prejudice and nuclear
The time passed swiftly. Strem punched up a hamburger from the automatic galley and just about had to forgo chewing to finish it before the red star swelled into a sandstorm-torn world. Mars was in a foul mood and Eric was glad their destination lay elsewhere. The northern polar cap was practically obscured by airborne dust. Had they landed they would have had to stay inside the domed cities and been unable to go exploring, which would have been worse than laying on the beach at home.
“This is Excalibur ,” Sammy said into the mike. “Number FRE-4316-DH, requesting permission for F-level orbit slot.
A sweet feminine computer answered promptly. “Permission granted. Welcome to Mars, Excalibur . Please proceed to F-192, coordinates ten point two and six point seven. This is a passenger loading zone only. If you wish to remain longer in orbit than four hours you must request a new slot in a lower zone. Please respond that you have copied and understood.”
“Gotcha, baby,” Strem said over Sammy’s shoulder.
“Response insufficient,” the computer said. “We await copy and clarification.”
“I wish I had a voice like that,” Jeanie said with a sigh. While Strem had been swallowing his hamburger, Jeanine had gone to the cargo bay and fitted herself with a pair of Uncle Dan’s fiber optic pants, commonly called opants . When hanging in a closet, opants resembled bland gray leather pants or jackets. But once on a person, they glowed a spectrum of colors, depicting one’s mood, which they determined by stealthily placed sensors in the wrists and armpits that were able to monitor the wearer’s heartbeat, skin resistance, temperature, and arterial dilation. As Jeanie sighed, her arms shone a faint red, indicating desire. Eric feared if he pulled on a pair and hung around Jeanie, he’d look like a strawberry.
“I met the woman they got to record those tapes,” Strem said. “She was a dog.”
“ Excalibur proceeding to F-192, coordinates ten point two and six point seven,” Sammy said into the mike. “We shall occupy the position approximately one hour.” He added, “Don’t mind what my partner said about you.”
“Copy and clarification completed. Reference to dog discarded.”
Strem scratched his head. “I do remember her having a sense of humor.” He paused. “So is Cleo in the F-zone?”
“Yes,” Sammy said, typing in the coordinates. The cubical holograph now contained an exquisite two-feet-in-diameter simulation of Mars, surrounded by ten concentric nebulous shells, which Eric assumed were the zone levels. Sammy manipulated the controls and the real Mars outside the windows grew three times in size as a smaller version of Space Station One appeared off their port side, ringed with a myriad of glittering spacecraft. Glancing into a sensor plate, Sammy added, “Cleo’s ferry is waiting. She must already be aboard it.” He sent her a beacon to lock onto, and a voice that could have belonged to a six-year old if it hadn’t somehow managed to sound so tough came over the control deck’s main speakers.
“Is that you, honey?”
“Which honey are you referring to, sugar?” Strem interrupted Sammy.
Cleo’s laugh was high and loud. She had a powerful singing voice, which she exercised regularly in a band The Meek Pulverizers – a revival of very old music style of music Sammy had once referred to as punk music.
Eric never felt completely at ease around Cleo. She was wild. Her hair was seldom the same colour two days in a row, and she was fond of chains and strange designs on her tight-fitting clothes. Without makeup and paraphernalia though, she was a doll: short and dainty with fine red hair and an innocent dimpled smile. She should have been in a church choir, not on stage shouting about racial prejudice and nuclear
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