Orbiters

Weldschmerz

…Announcing the Bookish Hall of Fame! Check out the Substacks for Angelique Fawns, M.E. Proctor, Jim Melvin, Julie B. Hughes, James Marshall, Susan Bordo, Christopher Johnston, I might be missing a few. Let me know.

All these ‘stackers have published books. No small thing. As a matter of fact, the more I wrastle with it, the awesomer these writers are. Is awesomer a word? It ought to be…

Alone in the ship’s commissary, Megan Bremer stared at her salad. The Malthusian diet includes spinach, spinach, and more spinach. Salad is baby spinach with onions and sprouts. The soup pureed spinach. The juice spinach. Megan was accustomed to spinach. Still, as the only Earthling aboard, she hadn’t forgotten what a half-pound burger was like. With cheese. And bacon.

Jennifer Tate walked in and spotted Megan sitting alone, staring at her salad. Tate selected a spinach salad and a few carrots from the carousel and walked over. “What’s the matter, honey?” She put her plate down and sat, unfolding a paper napkin. “A touch of weldschmerz?”

“Not me,” Megan said, brightening immediately. “I was just thinking of a coding problem. How about you? Your day going well?”

Malthusians are familiar with weldschmerz, pronounced with a “v”. It is an unease, a feeling of pointlessness, sudden, foolish. Afflicting even the strongest, weldschmerz could manifest itself without warning. You saw it on someone’s face, a blank stare, the brow knit. Inwardly, Megan admonished herself. She must be more careful.

“I think I have a touch of the old ’schmerz,” Jennifer said.

“You? You’re always so happy.”

Jennifer pointed a fork at her young friend. “I’ll be thirty soon. Shouldn’t I be married?”

“From what I’ve seen,” Megan said. “Being married is a good way to get the old weldschmerz.”

“You’re funny. But seriously, most people my age are married. Or engaged.”

“The captain isn’t.”

“That’s true,” Jennifer said.

“Of course, he has to worry about us.”

“Us?” Jennifer looked up quickly.

“All the crew.”

“Yes. Still, other captains are married.”

“True. But maybe he hasn’t met the right woman. Or the right woman hasn’t met him.” While Jennifer pondered this verbal jiu-jitsu Megan finally picked up her fork, jabbing at her salad. Lunch wasn’t going to turn into stuffed crust double cheese pizza, after all.

Psychologists believed they had identified the basis of weldschmerz. It had nothing to do with marriage, or spinach. Or pizza, for that matter. Long ago, the industrious Malthusians conquered the Moon. Then the Solar System, establishing forward posts on the moons of Jupiter and Saturn. They even put a very large colony on Pluto. After that they could go no further. The nearest stars were thousands of years away. The rest millions. No matter where they went, now and forever, Malthusians were stuck orbiting the same sun, over and over, for all eternity. Who wouldn’t be depressed?

At least that was the theory. “Let’s face it.” Megan said. “Captain Rollhagen should be married.”

“Who should be married?” a voice demanded. The women jumped. Kenneth Kern stood before them. He had a way of appearing when one least expected. Almost as a magic trick. “So. Who are we talking about?”

“Not you,” Megan said. She wasn’t intimidated by him.

“You are correct,” said Kern. “Anyone I marry must be special.”

Megan crunched her salad. “Doubtless, Mr. Kern.”

“Unusual.”

“Of course.”

“Not your normal woman.”

Megan took another bite of salad, and spoke with her mouth full. “You’re certainly one of a kind, Commander.”

“Thank you for noticing,” he said, a little uneasily. He didn’t like the direction this was going. He glanced back at the service carousel. “What’s for lunch?”

“Spinach.”

Kern flinched, and went for a tray. The dining hall lay empty. Even the scratch of a fork could be heard across the room. With a thousand seats available Kern chose one beside the women. Flourishing a napkin he fastened his black, beady eyes on Jennifer. He delighted in uncomfortable discussions. As long as it had nothing to do with him.

“Speaking of marriage,” he said to Jennifer Tate. “Why don’t you and the captain get married?”

“Mr. Kern! How inappropriate.”

“You’re perfect for each other. Neither of you has hobbies.”

“That’s not true!”

“Both of you already have a family.”

“Excuse me, Sir? What family?”

“The Service.”

“Why Mr. Kern, I simply don’t know what to think of such talk.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Megan piped in.

“You what?” Jennifer stared at her.

“Sure. If you marry Captain Rollhagen, you’ll be Commander Kern’s boss.”

“I will?”

“She will not!” said Kern. “The chain of command states I report solely to the captain of this ship.”

“I’m speaking as a practical matter,” Megan said. “If Jennifer and the captain are married, guess who will be in charge?”

Kern didn’t have to guess. Rollhagen in love? The man would be as helpless as a five year old.

“And,” Megan pressed the point. “The boss of the boss is the boss.”

You could see the wheels turning in Kern’s head. Slowly. Then fast. “Well, in any case,” he said. “I hope we can all agree this is mere speculation. The rules absolutely forbid romantic attachments of any kind. Rules are rules, and all of us must remember that. Now, I believe I will take my lunch to my office.” Carrying his tray, he hurried off.

“Is he okay?” Jennifer said.

“Oh, sure,” said Megan, smiling, looking at the door. “Just a little weldschmerz, I believe. He’ll get over it.”