[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science
Fiction May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: _A young man and a young woman alone on the first
over-the-moon ship. The world cheered them as the most romantic
adventurers in all history. Do-gooders decried them as immoral stunters.
Gaunt, serious militarists pronounced them part of the most crucial
experiment ever undertaken...._]
The general introduced them in the ship's shadow, a trim lieutenant, a
clean-cut major. "You probably already think of each other as Carol and
Ken. At any rate, there are no two people in the world who have heard as
much about each other without previously meeting."
She offered her hand and he took it, held it for a long moment while
their eyes locked. "Hello, Carol," he said warmly. "I'd have known you
from your pictures." And he realized as never before what a poor
substitute were the hoarded scraps of paper.
"Hello--Ken." A smile made her face radiant. "I've sort of studied your
pictures too."
Ken turned his eyes to the crowd--a roaring, cheering multitude
surrounding the poised rocket ship here on the California desert in this
zero hour. To certain harried physicists and engineers, it was a moment
promising paramount achievement. To romanticists of 1966, watching their
video screens avidly, it was fulfillment of their most sensual dreams: a
beautiful girl being given wholly and unreservedly to a handsome young
man; the flight around the moon was merely an added fillip. To a few
gaunt military psychologists it was the end of a long nightmare of
protests by women's clubs, demonstrations by national female societies
and actual attempts at murder by fanatical blue-noses; and a mere
beginning of the most crucial experiment ever undertaken--which _had_ to
be a success.
[Illustration]
Suddenly Ken was angry at the knowing looks from the throng's nearest
ranks. While the general continued his prepared speech into the mike,
focus of the hollow, hungry eyes of the video cameras, Ken pulled Carol
to his side and held her with an arm about her waist, glaring when the
crowd murmured and the cameras swung their way again. He had not
questioned the actions of the military, of the world, before. But now--a
public spectacle--
During the years of rigorous, specialized training almost from childhood
they had kept him away from Carol, teasing him--it was the only word
that now occurred to his mind--with the dangled promise of her presence
on the flight. They had let him see her pictures--intimate, almost-nude
photos harvested by the gossip columnists, snaps of her glory in bathing
attire as she lounged by a swimming pool.
Swimming. Since he had been selected as a boy, every free afternoon he
had been made to swim, swim, swim--developing the long, smooth muscles
they wanted him to have. It had been, he knew, the same with Carol.
Had they taunted her with his pictures too? Had she responded by wanting
him, loving him, longing for him? How did she feel about their first
moment together being shared by the greedy eyes of continents?
The President was speaking now, rolling sonorous sentences into the
mike, words which would officially sanction this unorthodox act of the
military, which would justify the morally unprecedented dispensing of
maid to man without benefit of--anything. Because the psychologists had
wanted it that way. Ken leaned down to whisper in her ear, "I wish I
could get you inside the ship."
She looked at him with sudden coolness. "Impatient, Major?" She turned
away quickly and he could feel her body stiffen.
Had he said something wrong? Or--the new thought was jarring disharmony:
did he represent the end of this girl's--_his_ girl's--hopes for a
conventional, happy marriage? Did she think him the altar of sacrifice,
whereupon she would accrue the moralist's scorn and, tomorrow, attract
only the lecherous? Or was it just an act? What, besides ship and
instrument operation, had they taught her?
Grimly he listened to the President, who was then extolling their merits
as though--well, as though they were some sort of laboratory specimens.
"... acute hearing, 20/10 vision ... perfect health ... highest
combination of intelligence and fast physical reactions ... exceptional
bravery and loyalty." Cheers. "... intensive training ... youngest to
receive their military ranks ... expert pilots ... _fittest humans for
this attempt_."
Stubbornly, Ken continued to hold her waist. He watched the sun sneak
around one stubby wing of the _Latecomer_. He'd need those glinting
wings to land. Land? What were the actual odds against circling the moon
and landing again on earth? That phase--and a lot of others--had never
been discussed. The speeches were over and he put the thought from his
mind. They were extending the mike to him, waiting for his farewell--or
his last words?
Abruptly, ignoring the mike, he swung Carol up the ramp and crawled in
through the port behind her.
* * * * *
In the narrow confines she slipped out of her uniform. She glanced at
him once, quickly, then cast down her eyes. "You don't have to look, you
know."
There was a hurt in his throat. "I want to look, Carol. I don't ever
want to stop looking at you. I--" He choked off, tore his eyes from her
and hurriedly began to get out of his uniform.
Hidden from the spectators outside, they divested themselves of all but
filmy, clinging, chemically inert garb. Carol's body was sheathed in a
kind of sarong. Ken wore a short, kilt-like affair. They pulled on soft,
tough-soled sandals. The medics had insisted on this specific attire,
but the psychologists had planned it that way. Their discarded clothing
was dropped into a basket. Ken shoved it out the port, down the ramp,
slammed and bolted the hatch. Then he stared at it. Clamped to the inner
side were two knives: one was about the length of a bayonet, shaped like
a saber; the other was half that length, and straight. Both were
sheathed, with belts wrapped around checkered handles.
All his official instructions flashed through his head in an instant.
All the technical data, instrument operation, procedures, emergency
measures. There had never been mention of knives. Except--of course.
Survival training. If he were unable to bring the ship to its proper
destination, was forced down in uninhabited territory, a knife would be
essential equipment. But so would a gun, fishing tackle, matches,
clothing....