[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine August 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Now was the captain's chance to prove he knew
less than the crew--all their lives hung upon it!
There was nothing showing on the video screen. That was why we were
looking at it so analytically.
"Transphasia, that's what it is," Ordinary Spaceman Quade stated with
a definite thrust of his angular jaw in my direction. "You can take my
word on that, Captain Gavin."
"Can't," I told him. "I can't trust your opinion. I can't trust
_anything_. That's why I'm Captain."
"You'll get over feeling like that."
"I know. Then I'll become First Officer."
"But look at that screen, sir," Quade said with an emphatic swing of
his scarred arm. "I've seen blank scanning like that before and you
haven't--it's your first trip. This always means transphasia--cortex
dissolution, motor area feedback, the Aitchell Effect--call it anything
you like, it's still transphasia."
"I know what transphasia is," I said moderately. "It means an
electrogravitational disturbance of incoming sense data, rechanneling
it to the wrong receptive areas. Besides the human brain, it also
effects electronic equipment, like radar and television."
"Obviously." Quade glanced disgustedly at the screen.
"Too obvious. This time it might not be a familiar condition of many
planetary gravitational fields. On this planet, that blank kinescope
may mean our Big Brother kites were knocked down by hostile natives."
"You are plain wrong, Captain. Traditionally, alien races never
interfere with our explorations. Generally, they are so alien to us
they can't even recognize our existence."
* * * * *
I drew myself up to my full height--and noticed in irritation it was
still an inch less than Quade's. "I don't understand you men. Look at
yourself, Quade. You've been busted to Ordinary Spaceman for just that
kind of thinking, for relying on tradition, on things that have worked
before. Not only your thinking is slipshod, you've grown careless about
everything else, even your own life."
"Just a minute, Captain. I've never been 'busted.' In the Exploration
Service, we regard Ordinary Spaceman as our highest rank. With my
hazard pay, I get more hard cash than _you_ do, and I'm closer to
retirement."
"That's a shallow excuse for complacency."
"Complacency! I've seen ten thousand wonders in twenty years of space,
with a million variations. But the patterns repeat themselves. We learn
to know what to expect, so maybe we can't maintain the reactionary
caution the service likes in officers."
"I resent the word 'reactionary,' Spaceman! In civilian life, I was
a lapidary and I learned the value of deliberation. But I never got
too cataleptic to tap a million-dollar gem, which is more than my
contemporaries can say, many of 'em."
"Captain Gavin," Quade said patiently, "you must realize that an
outsider like you, among a crew of skilled spacemen, can never be more
than a figurehead."
Was this the way I was to be treated? Why, this man had deliberately
insulted me, his captain. I controlled myself, remembering the
familiarity that had always existed between members of a crew working
under close conditions, from the time of the ancient submarines and the
first orbital ships.
"Quade," I said, "there's only one way for us to find out which of us
is right about the cause of our scanning blackout."
"We go out and find the reason."
"Exactly. We go. You and me. I hope you can stand my company."
"I'm not sure I can," he answered reluctantly. "My hazard pay doesn't
cover exploring with rookies. With all due respect, Captain."
I clapped him on the shoulder. "But, man, you have just been telling
me all we had to worry about was common transphasia. A man with your
experience could protect himself and cover even a rookie, under such
familiar conditions--right?"
"Yes, sir, I suppose I could," Quade said, bitterly aware he had lost
out somewhere and hoping that it wasn't the start of a trend.
* * * * *
"Looks okay to me," I said. Quade passed a gauntlet over his faceplate.
"It's real. I can blur it with a smudged visor. When it blurs, it's
solid."
The landscape beyond the black corona left by our landing rockets was
unimpressive. The rocky desert was made up of silicon and iron oxide,
so it looked much the same as a terrestrial location. Yellowish-white
sand ran up to and around reddish brown rock clawing into the pink
sunlight.
"I don't understand it," Quade admitted. "Transphasia hits you a foul
as soon as you let it into the airlock."
"Apparently, Quade, _this_ thing is going to creep up on us."
"Don't sound smug, Captain. It's pitty-pattying behind you too."
The keening call across the surface of consciousness postponed my reply.
The wail was ominously forlorn, defiant of description. I turned my
head around slowly inside my helmet, not even sure that I had heard it.
But what else can you do with a wail but _hear_ it?
Quade nodded. "I've felt this before. It usually hits sooner. Let's
trace it."
"I don't like this," I admitted. "It's not at all what I expected from
what you said about transphasia. It must be something else."
"It couldn't be anything else. I know what to expect. You don't. You
may begin smelling sensations, tasting sounds, hearing sights, seeing
tastes, touching odors--or any other combination. Don't let it bother
you."
"Of course not. I'll soothe my nerves by counting little shocks of
lanolin jumping over a loud fence."