Chapter 3
“—zero!”
The ion drive came to life. No man could have gone behind its thick shielding to watch it and survived. Nor could he listen to it, or feel any vibration of its power. It was too efficient for that. In the so-called engine room, which was actually an electronic nerve center, men did hear the faint throb of pumps feeding reaction mass from the tanks. They hardly noticed, being intent on the meters, displays, readouts, and code signals which monitored the system. Boris Fedoroff’s hand was never distant from the primary cutoff switch. Between him and Captain Telander in the command bridge flowed a mutter of observations. It was not necessary to Leonora Christine. Far less sophisticated craft than she could operate themselves. And she was in fact doing so. Her intermeshing built-in robots worked with more speed and precision— more flexibility, even, within the limits of their programming— than mortal flesh could hope for. But to stand by was a necessity for the men themselves.
Elsewhere, the sole direct proof of motion that those had who lay in their cabins was a return of weight. It was not much, under one tenth gee, but it gave them an “up” and “down” for which their bodies were grateful. They released themselves from their beds. Reymont announced over the hall intercom: “Constable to personnel off watch. You may move around ad libitum— forward of your deck, that is.” Sarcastically: “You may recall that an official good-by ceremony, complete with benediction, will be broadcast at Greenwich noon. We’ll screen it in the gymnasium for those who care to watch.”
Reaction mass entered the fire chamber. Thermonuclear generators energized the furious electric arcs that stripped those atoms down to ions; the magnetic fields that separated positive and negative particles; the forces that focused them into beams; the pulses that lashed them to ever higher velocities as they sped down the rings of the thrust tubes, until they emerged scarcely less fast than light itself. Their blast was invisible. No energy was wasted on flames. Instead, everything that the laws of physics permitted was spent on driving Leonora Christine outward.
A vessel her size could not accelerate by this means like a Patrol cruiser. That would have demanded more fuel than she could hold, who must carry half a hundred people, and their necessities for ten or fifteen years, and their tools for satisfying scientific curiosity after they arrived, and (if the data beamed by the instrumented probe which had preceded her did actually mean that the third planet of Beta Virginis was habitable) the supplies and machines whereby man could begin to take a new world for himself. She spiraled slowly out of Earth orbit. The dwellers within her had ample chances to stand at her viewscreens and watch home dwindle among the stars.
There was no space to spare in space. Every cubic centimeter inside the hull must work. Yet persons intelligent and sensitive enough to adventure out here would have gone crazy in a “functional” environment. Thus far the bulkheads were bare metal and plastic. But the artistically talented had plans. Reymont noticed Emma Glassgold, molecular biologist, in a corridor, sketching out a mural that would show forest around a sunlit lake. And from the start, the residential and recreational decks were covered with a material green and springy as grass. The air gusting from the ventilators was more than purified by the plants of the hydroponic section and the colloids of the Darrell balancer. It went through changes of temperature, ionization, odor. At present it smelted like fresh clover— with an appetizing whiff added if you passed the galley, since gourmet food compensates for many deprivations.
Similarly, commons was a warren occupying a whole deck. The gymnasium, which doubled as theater and assembly room, was its largest unit. But even the mess was of a size to let diners stretch their legs and relax. Nearby were hobby shops, a clubroom for sedentary games, a swimming pool, tiny gardens and bowers. Some of the ship’s designers had argued against putting the dream boxes on this level. Should folk come here for fun be reminded by the door of that cabin that they must have ghostly substitutes for the realities they had left behind them? But the process was, after all, a sort of recreation too; having it in sick bay might be unpleasant, and that was the sole alternative.
There was no immediate need for that apparatus. The journey was still young. A slightly hysterical gaiety filled the atmosphere. Men roughhoused, women chattered, laughter was inordinate at mealtimes, and the frequent dances were occasions of heavy flirtation. Passing the gym, which stood open, Reymont saw a handball match in progress. At low gee, when you could virtually walk up a wall, the action got spectacular.
He continued to the pool. In an alcove off the principal corridor, it could hold several without crowding; but at this hour, 2100, no one was using it. Jane Sadler stood at the edge, frowning thoughtfully. She was a Canadian, a biotechnician in the organocycle department. Physically she was a big brunette, her features ordinary but the rest of her shown to high advantage by shorts and tee shirt.
“Troubles?” Reymont asked.
“Oh, hullo. Constable,” she responded in English. “Nothing wrong, except I can’t figure out how best to decorate in here. I’m supposed to make recommendations to my committee.”
“Didn’t they plan on a Roman bath effect?”
“Uh-huh. That covers a lot of ground, though. Nymphs and satyrs, or poplar groves, or temple buildings, or what?” She laughed. “Hell with it. I’ll suggest N & S. ff the job gets botched, it can always be done over, till we run out of paint. Give us something further to do.”
“Who can keep going five years— and five more, if we have to return— on hobbies?” Reymont said slowly.
Sadler laughed again. “Nobody. Don’t fret. Everyone aboard has a full program of work lined up, whether it be theoretical research or writing the Great Space Age Novel or caching Greek in exchange for tenser calculus.”
“Of course. I’ve seen the proposals. Are they adequate?”
“Constable, do relax! The other expeditions made it, more or less sanely. Why not us? Take your swim.” She grinned wider. “While you’re at it, soak your head.”
Reymont imitated a smile, removed his clothes, and hung them on a rack. She whistled. “Hey,” she said, “I hadn’t seen you before in less’n a coverall. That’s some collection of biceps and triceps and things you pack around. Calisthenics?”
“In my job, I’d better keep fit,” he replied uncomfortably.
“Some offwatch when you’ve nothing else to do,” she suggested, “come around to my cabin and exercise me.”
“I’d enjoy that,” he said, looking her up and down, “but at present Ingrid and I—”
“Yeah, sure. I was kidding, sort of, anyway. Seems like I’ll be making a steady liaison soon myself.”
“Really? Who, if I may ask?”
“Elof Nilsson.” She lifted a hand. “No, don’t say it. He’s not exactly Adonis. His manners aren’t always the sweetest. But he’s got a wonderful mind, the best in the ship, I suspect. You don’t get bored listening to him.” Her gaze shifted aside. “He’s pretty lonely too.”
Reymont stood quiet for a moment. “And you’re pretty fine, Jane,” he said. “Ingrid’s meeting me here. Why don’t you join us?”
She cocked her head. “By golly, you do keep a human being hidden under that policeman. Don’t worry, I won’t let out your secret. And I won’t stay, either. Privacy’s hard to come by. You two use this while you’ve got it.”
She waved and left. Reymont peered after her and back down into the water. He was standing thus when Lindgren arrived.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Beamcast from Luna. Another idiotic inquiry about how things are going for us. I’ll be positively glad when we get out into the Big Deep.” She kissed him. He hardly responded. She stepped back, trouble clouding her face. “What’s the matter, darling?”
“Do you think I’m too stiff?” he blurted.
She had no instant reply. The fluorolight gleamed on her tawny hair, a ventilator’s breeze ruffled it a little, the noise of the ball game drifted through the entrance arch. Finally: “What makes you wonder?”
“A remark. Well meant, but a slight shock just the same.”
Lindgren frowned. “I’ve told you before, you’ve been heavier-handed than I quite liked, the few times you’ve had to make somebody toe the line. No one aboard is a fool, a malingerer, or a saboteur.”
“Should I not have told Norbert Williams to shut up the other day, when he started denouncing Sweden at mess? Things like that can have a rather nasty end result.” Reymont laid a clenched fist in the other palm. “I know,” he said. “Military-type discipline isn’t needed, isn’t desirable… yet. But I’ve seen so much death, Ingrid. The time could come when we won’t survive, unless we can act as one and jump to a command.”
“Well, conceivably on Beta Three,” Lindgren admitted. “Though the robot didn’t send any data suggesting intelligent life. At most, we might encounter savages armed with spears— who would probably not be hostile to us.”
“I was dunking of hazards like storms, landslips, diseases, God knows what on an entire world that isn’t Earth. Or a disaster before we get there. I’m not convinced modern man knows everything about the universe.”
“We’ve covered this ground too often.”
“Yes. It’s old as space flight; older. That doesn’t make it less real.” Reymont groped for sentences. “What I’m trying to do is— I’m not sure. This situation is not like any other I was ever in. I’m trying to… somehow… keep alive some idea of authority. Beyond simple obedience to the articles and the officers. Authority which has the right to command anything, to command a man to death, if that’s needful for saving the rest—” He stared into her puzzlement. “No,” he sighed, “you don’t understand. You can’t. Your world was always good.”
“Maybe you can explain it to me, if you say it enough different ways.” She spoke softly. “And maybe I can make a few things clear to you. It won’t be easy. You’ve never taken off your armor, Carl. But we’ll try, shall we?” She smiled and slapped the hardness of his thigh. “Right now, though, silly, we’re supposed to be off duty. What about that swim?”
She slipped out of her garments. He watched her approach him. She liked strenuous sports and lying under a sun lamp afterward. It showed in full breasts and hips, slim waist, long supple limbs, a tan against which her blondness stood vivid. “Bozhe moi, you’re beautiful!” he said low in his throat.
She pirouetted. “At your service, kind sir— if you can catch me!” She made four low-gravity leaps to the end of the diving board and plunged cleanly off it. Her descent was dreamlike slow, a chance for aerial ballet. The splash when she struck made lingering lacy patterns.
Reymont entered directly from the poolside. Swimming was hardly different under this acceleration. The thrust of muscles, the cool silken flowing of water, would be the same at the galaxy’s rim, and beyond. Ingrid Lindgren had said once that such truths made her doubt she would ever become really homesick. Man’s house was the whole cosmos.
Tonight she frolicked, ducking, dodging, slipping from his grasp again and again. Their laughter echoed between the walls. When at last he cornered her, she embraced his neck in turn, laid her lips to his ear and whispered: “Well, you did catch me.”
“M-m-m-hm.” Reymont kissed the hollow between shoulder and throat. Through the wetness he smelled live girlflesh. “Grab our clothes and we’ll go.”
He carried her six kilos easily on one arm. When they were alone in the stairwell, he caressed her with his free hand. She kicked her heels and giggled. “Sensualist!”
“We’ll soon be back under a whole gee,” he reminded her, and started bounding down to officer level at a speed that would have broken necks on Earth.
—Later she raised herself on an elbow and met his eyes with hers. She had set the lights dim. Shadows moved behind her, around her, making her doubly gold- and amber-hued. With a finger she traced his profile.
“You’re a wonderful lover, Carl,” she murmured. “I’ve never had a better.”
“I’m fond of you too,” he said.
A hint of pain touched brow and voice. “But that’s the only time you really give of yourself. And do you, altogether, even then?”
“What is there to give?” His tone roughened. “I’ve told you about things that happened to me in the past.”
“Anecdotes. Episodes. No connection, no— There at die pool, for the first time, you offered me a glimpse of what you are. The tiniest possible glimpse, and you hid it away at once. Why? I wouldn’t use the insight to hurt you, Carl.”
He sat up, scowling. “I don’t know what you mean. People learn about each other, living together. You know I admire classical artists like Rembrandt and Bonestell, and don’t care for abstractions or chromodynamics. I’m not very musical. I have a barrack-room sense of humor. My politics are conservative. I prefer tournedos to filet mignon but wish the culture tanks could supply us with either more often. I play a wicked game of poker, or would if there were any point in it aboard this ship. I enjoy working with my hands and am good at it, so I’ll be helping build the laboratory facilities once that project gets organized. I’m currently trying to read War and Peace but keep falling asleep.” He smote the mattress. “What more do you need?”
“Everything,” she answered sadly. She gestured around the room. Her closet happened to stand open, revealing me innocent vanity of her best gowns. The shelves were filled with her private treasures, to the limit of her mass allowance— a battered old copy of Bellman, a lute, a dozen pictures waiting their turn to be hung, smaller portraits other kinfolk, a Hopi kachina doll… “You brought nothing personal.”
“I’ve traveled light through life.”
“On a hard road, I think. Maybe someday you’ll dare trust me.” She drew close to him. “Never mind now, Carl. I don’t want to harass you. I want you in me again. You see, this has stopped being a matter of friendship and convenience. I’ve fallen in love with you.”
When the appropriate speed was reached, lining out of Earth’s domain toward that sign of the zodiac where the Virgin ruled, Leonora Christine went free. Thrusters cold, she became another comet. Gravitation alone worked upon her, bending her path, diminishing her haste.
It had been allowed for. But the effect must be kept minimal. The uncertainties of interstellar navigation were too large as was, without adding an extra factor. So the crew— the professional spacemen, as distinguished from the scientific and technical personnel— worked under a time limit.
Boris Fedoroff led a gang outside. Their job was tricky. You needed skill to labor in weightlessness and not exhaust yourself trying to control tools and body. The best of men could still let both bondsoles lose their grip on the ship frame. You would float off, cursing, nauseated by spin forces, until you brought up at the end of your lifeline and hauled yourself back. Lighting was poor: unshielded glare in the sun, ink blackness in shadow except for what puddles of undiffused radiance were cast by helmet lamps. Hearing was no better. Words had trouble getting through the sounds of harsh breath and muttering blood, when these were confined in a spacesuit, and through the cosmic seething in radio earplugs. For lack of air purification comparable to the ship’s, gaseous wastes were imperfectly removed. They accumulated over hours until you toiled in a haze of sweat smell, water vapor, carbon dioxide, hydrogen sulfide, acetone… and your undergarments clung sodden to your skin… and you looked wearily through your faceplate at the stars, with a band of headache behind your eyes.
Nevertheless, the Bussard module, the hilt and pommel of the dagger, was detached. Maneuvering it away from the vessel was tough, dangerous labor. Without friction or weight, it kept every gram of its considerable inertial mass. It was as hard to stop as to set in motion.
Finally it trailed aft on a cable. Fedoroff checked the positioning himself. “Done,” he grunted. “I hope.” His men clipped their lifelines to the cable. He did likewise, spoke to Telander in the bridge, and cast off. The cable was reeled back inboard, taking the engineers along.
They had need for haste. While the module would follow the hull on more or less the same orbit, differential influences were acting. They would soon cause an undesirable shift in relative alignments. But everyone must be inside before the next stage of the process. The forces about to be established would not be kind to living organisms.
Leonora Christine extended her scoopfield webs. They glistened in the sunlight, silver across starry black. From afar she might have suggested a spider, one of those adventurous little arachnids that went flying off with kites made of dewy silk. She was not, after all, anything big or important in the universe.
Yet what she did was awesome enough on the human scale. Her interior power plant sent energy coursing into the scoopfield generators. From their controlling webwork sprang a field of magnetohydrodynamic forces— invisible but reaching across thousands of kilometers; a dynamic interplay, not a static configuration, but maintained and adjusted with nigh absolute precision; enormously strong but even more enormously complex.
The forces siezed the trailing Bussard unit, brought it into micrometrically exact position with respect to the hull, locked it in place. Monitors verified that everything was in order. Captain Telander made a final check with the Patrol on Luna, received his go-ahead, and issued a command. From then on, the robots took over.
Low acceleration on ion thrust had built up a modest outward speed, measurable in tens of kilometers per second. It sufficed to start the star-drive engine. The power available increased by orders of magnitude. At a full one gravity, Leonora Christine began to move!