Copyright © 1983, by David Brin. All rights reserved. No duplication or resale without permission.

     "They finally fired Bylinsky."
     I was up to my knees in agrisludge, a frothy brown mess at the bottom of my personal greenhouse tank, when I heard the remark. For a moment I thought I had imagined it.
     Your hearing plays tricks when you're wading around in mucky water, barely held to the floor by under a hundredth of a gee. I was groping in the goo, trying to find whatever had gummed up the aspirator. My breath blew up little green and brown droplets that hovered in front of my face for long seconds before slowly settling down again.
     "Ralph! Did you hear me? I said Bylinsky's out!"
     I looked up this time. Don Ishido, our communications and operations chief, hung halfway through the aft hatch of the greenhouse, twenty meters away. He was watching my reaction, maybe in order to report to the others exactly how I took the news. Probably there was money riding on it.
     I nodded. "Thanks, Don. Bylinsky's days were numbered. We'll miss him, but we'll survive."
     Ishido smiled faintly. He must have bet on my poker face. "What do you want me to tell the others, boss?"
     I shrugged. "We're still a tank farm. We buy 'em and store 'em and later we'll all get rich selling 'em back for a profit."
     "Even when they cut the water ration?"
     "There'll be a way. We're in the future business. Now get out of here and let me finish my recreational farming."
     Don smirked at my euphemism, but withheld comment. He ducked out, leaving me alone to my "recreation"... and my worries.
     After clearing a clump of gelatinized algae from the input ports, I climbed onto one of the catwalk longerons rimming the pond and turned on the bubbler. The air began to fill with tiny superoxygenated green droplets.
     I took a leap and sailed across the huge chamber to alight near the exit hatch. There I stowed my waders and looked around the greenhouse to make sure it was ready.
     In the ten years I've been living in tanks I doubt I've ever entered or left one without blinking at least once in awe. The hatch was at one end of a metal cylinder as long as a ten-story building is tall, with the diameter of a small house. The walls were stiffened with aluminum baffles which once kept a hundred tons of liquid hydrogen from sloshing under high stress. That ribwork now held my greenhouse ponds.
     The former hydrogen tank had a volume of over fifty thousand cubic feet. It, and its brothers, were just about the largest things ever put into space. And this one was all mine -- my own huge garden to putter around in during off-duty hours, growing new types of spaceadapted algae and yeasts.
     I passed through the yard-wide hatch into the intertank area between the two main section of the External Tank. In the middle the intertank was only four feet across. The hatch closed.
     Looking back into the garden tank through a tinted port, I pressed a button to let the sunshine in.
     A bright point of light blossomed at the opposite end of the cylinder, mirror-focused sunlight speared through a fused quartz window to strike the cloud of rising bubbles.
     I stayed long enough to watch the rainbows form.

     The intertank hoop connects the big and little parts of the great External Tanks, or ETs, as we call them. The smaller cell had once contained 550 cubic meters of liquid oxygen. These days I stored gardening tools in it. Not a day had passed, in the last five years, in which I hadn't wished someone on Earth would recognize the waste, and come and take my tool shed away from me -- to be used in some grand and wonderful plan.
     Now they were trying to do just that, but not in a way I cared for at all.
     "Boss? You still there? There's a telex from J.S.C. coming in."
     I grabbed the big steel beam that had once borne the thrust of giant, strap-on solid rocket boosters. Now it served as a convenient place to put the intercom.
     "Ishido, this is Rutter. I'm on my way. Don't let them sell us for scrap till I get there. Out."
     I put on my hardsuit, carefully double-checking each seal and valve. The lock cycled, and I emerged into vacuum, but not blackness.
     Overhead the Earth spanned the sky, a broad velvet blanket of browns and blues and fleecy white clouds. From just five hundred kilometers up, you don't see the Earth as a spinning marble in space. She covers an entire hemisphere, filling almost half the universe.
     I drifted, but after a minute my boots touched the metal of the tank again. The same faint microgravity that held my pools inside the garden worked here on the outside.
     The tank was the next to last in a row of forty of the great cylinders, nestled side by side. A parallel deck of sixteen huge tanks lay about sixty kilometers "overhead" linked to this collection by six strong cables. Twenty meters away from where I stood, one of the half-inch polymer tethers rose from its anchor point, a mirror-bright streak toward the planet overhead.
     Sometimes a careful observer could make out B Deck without aid -- a tiny rectangle about an eighth the apparent diameter of the moon -- against the bright bulk of the Earth. When we crossed the terminator, the tanks in Group B sparkled like gems in Terra's sunset tiara.
     Today I hadn't time to look for B Deck. The Feds had finally fired Edgar Bylinsky, the Tank Farm's last big supporter in NASA. If we thought times were hard before, they were going to get worse now.
     "Ralph?" It was Ishido's voice again, now coming over my suit radio. "We've got the telex. I think this is the big one."
     I pushed off toward the control center. "Okay, what's the news?"
     "Uh, they're moving fast. Pacifica's coming in with a couple of official bad news boys."
     I could guess what they were coming to tell us. They'd say they were here for "consultations," but actually it would be to say that Uncle Sam wasn't going to sell us any more water.
     "Don, when are the bad news boys due?"
     "E.T.A. about an hour."
     "I'll be right in."
     Another hop took me to the entrance of the control tank. It was sheathed in layers of plating cut from dismantled ETs, to protect the crew during solar proton storms.
     While waiting for the airlock to cycle, I looked up at the Indian Ocean, where they used to dump our tanks back at the beginning of the shuttle program. That awful waste had been one of the reasons for founding the Tank Farm.
     For years ours had been a lonely and expensive gamble. Now we had proved our point. Proved it too well, it seemed.
     They let us get a monopoly, and now they want to break us, I thought. And they might succeed, if they cut off our water.
     We had safeguarded the Key to Space for them, and expected them to be grateful when they realized its worth. We should have known better.

2.

     In the beginning there was the space shuttle. Never mind what came earlier. Before version two of the shuttle, space was a place for robots and daredevils.
     With tight budgets and all, the Space Transportation System has stayed fundamentally the same. A big, complex manned orbiter is launched from Canaveral or Vandenberg, strapped to two solid rocket boosters and one huge fuel tank carrying 770 tons of cryogenic propellants for the shuttle main engines. The engines are part of the orbiter, so they can be brought home and reused. The solid boosters drop off minutes after liftoff and are recovered for refurbishment. Even the unmanned heavy-lift cargo launchers use the same basic system.
     But until our group came along, the huge external tanks were simply dumped, after fueling the shuttle to almost orbital velocity.
     Once upon a time people thought we were on the verge of colonizing space. But then tight budgets and disasters cut the size of the STS fleet, and the cost of a pound sent into orbit remained in four figures. Visions of big O'Neill colonies and grand cities on the moon foundered without the bootstrap mass needed to build the dreams.
     The lock passed me through. I stowed my hardsuit in a restorer locker whose nameplate simply read "Bossman." While I racked my equipment, I recalled all the times I had explained the Tank Farm to audiences on Earth: to congressmen, housewives, investors -- to anyone who would listen.
     Back in the early eighties it was shown that the thirty-five-ton external tank can be carried all the way into orbit at zero cost to the orbiter's thirty-ton cargo capacity. Thirty-five tons of aluminum and polymers, already shaped into vacuum-tight cylinders, delivered free!
     And that wasn't all. On arrival the tanks would contain another five to thirty-five tons of leftover liquid hydrogen and oxygen, usable in upper stage engines, or to run fuel cells, or to be converted to precious water.
     At a time when the grand hopes for space seemed about to fall apart, the ET was like manna from Earth to Heaven. When the government didn't seem eager to seize the opportunity -- when they built their cramped, delicate, little "space stations" from expensive modules in the old-fashioned way -- the Colombo-Carroll Foundation, a consortium of U.S. and Italian interests, offered to buy the tanks.
     We would save them, until the world wised up, then sell them back. Meanwhile, the Tank Farm would provide orbit boosts via the tether-sling effect, saving customers fuel and time and paying our way until other investments matured.
     For ten years the Farm had been on course, but it seems we'd omitted a few lines of fine print in our contract. The Feds had to let us buy the tanks at a fixed price, but nothing in the contract said they had to give us the residual hydrogen and oxygen, too.
     It never occurred to us they'd not want to give us all the water we needed! Who in the world would have thought they'd ever want to take the Tank Farm away from us?