The Lord of Opium

Matt was greeted warmly by Dr. Angel, but Cienfuegos was clearly not on her list of friends. As for the Mushroom Master—whom the jefe introduced as a doctor from California—she quickly decided that he was an eccentric old coot. The Mushroom Master played the role well. He peered nearsightedly at dials, jiggled handles, and poked buttons until Dr. Angel was almost as rude to him as she was to the Bug. Dr. Marcos came out from under the telescope long enough to utter a few surly words of welcome.

The visitors admired pictures of planets and star clusters and endured Dr. Angel’s long-winded explanation of focal lengths. But when they got to images of the Scorpion Star, the Mushroom Master was riveted. “Oh, my, that’s wonderful! And so familiar. If I close my eyes, I can imagine . . . ” The old man hadn’t seen the biosphere from outside, but he knew the layout. Matt could see him comparing the inner and outer shapes of the buildings. “That could be Africa and that Australia,” he murmured. Cienfuegos nudged him and he fell silent.

The Mushroom Master reached out and touched the screen, leaving a visible fingerprint. Matt could see Dr. Angel struggling to control herself. She adjusted the image, and it drew closer to the space station. They saw hovercrafts frozen between buildings and tubelike walkways. People in white lab coats stood at windows. “How many people live there?” asked the Mushroom Master.

“It varies. Around three hundred,” said Dr. Angel.

“Ah. So people come and go.”

“Scientists are rotated. Six months on and six months off. It’s difficult to be isolated for such long periods.”

“And how many children are there?”

Dr. Angel looked at him as though he were crazy. “It’s a space station. There’s no room for children.”

“My, my, my, my, my. That’s not going to do much for the future of the colony,” said the old man.

Dr. Angel looked over his head at Matt, as if to say, Where did you dig up this idiot? “Look, I have work to do,” she said. “Would you mind wandering around by yourselves? And please don’t let him touch anything. No buttons, no switches. Nothing.”

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” said Matt. “And thank you for your time.”

They went on with occasional stops to watch a technician study graphs or adjust a number on a dial. The Mushroom Master opened every door they passed—carefully, so Dr. Angel wouldn’t notice—and discovered a lunchroom with tables. “Excellent! Let’s have tea,” he said.

Two technicians were sitting at a table, but they left when the visitors arrived. The old man was intrigued by a coffee machine and, by punching a button, managed to scald himself. “Here, I’ll do it,” said Cienfuegos, blowing on the old man’s hand to cool his skin. “Coffee or hot chocolate? I don’t think you’d like the tea.”

“Hot chocolate,” the Mushroom Master said eagerly. They found a box full of donuts and helped themselves. “This is extremely unhealthy,” the old man said happily. “The dieticians at home are fanatical about me not eating sugar.”

“By the way, sir, you do a fine imitation of a Tundran,” said the jefe. “Dr. Rivas and Dr. Angel couldn’t wait to get rid of you.” The Mushroom Master smiled and stuffed another donut into his mouth.

Afterward they explored the solar telescope. A technician carrying a clipboard hurried over and offered to show them around. The man took them to the top of the tower, where the telescope followed the movement of the sun, and then down to the opening of a giant shaft that plunged at an angle into the earth.

“Look at that,” cried Matt. A huge tube filled the inner part of the shaft, and elevators enclosed in a chicken-wire wall spiraled slowly down the outer part.

“The elevators are for the maintenance crew. The tube is like a giant thermos bottle, and it needs to be checked constantly for weaknesses,” said the technician. “The image of the sun is projected inside the tube from lenses in the tower and filtered to remove most of the heat. Even so, the temperature can be lethal. The final image is relayed to computers in the main observatory to study the weather on the surface.”

“The sun has weather?”

“Yes, indeed. The surface is always boiling, and sometimes streams of hot gas are ejected into space. We’re concerned with the ones aimed at the Scorpion Star.”

Lights illuminated the sides of the shaft, but it was so deep that Matt couldn’t make out the bottom. Air conditioners whirred in alcoves at various levels, and a hot breeze rose out of the depths and was sucked through vents.

“Amazing,” said the Mushroom Master. “Even with all those safeguards, it’s still hot.”