Upon being told, he nodded with satisfaction. "Seventeen minutes, total.
Good job. Who's in charge?"
"A Mr. Tucker, sir."
"Tucker? Jim Tucker, by any chance?"
"Yes, sir."
General Shorter grunted. "Served with him once. He's probably
forgotten.... That's all right. I'll keep the suit on."
"I don't think they're expecting you with the surface party, General."
"Probably not or they'd be here. Earth crew?"
"They've been out ten months or so, sir."
"We will have colds, then. Would you take me to Mr. Tucker, please?" To
the other suited men he said, "Good, fast job."
General Shorter followed the crewman up the spiral staircase and along
the corridor. His hand touched a frictionless wall. "New plastic?"
"This is one of the most recent balls, sir."
"How does it handle?"
"Quite well, sir."
"I miss the Model Ten," he said.
"There's only a few left now, I guess."
"I haven't seen one in years."
The crewman stopped before a numberless panel. He knocked politely. "Mr.
Tucker? I have General Shorter here. He came out with the surface
party."
Mr. Tucker's voice, the edge of surprise partly lost through the
partition, came: "Just a moment."
In silence they waited. General Shorter moved restlessly. Several
minutes passed.
The panel opened.
* * * * *
Mr. Tucker was a short, rotund man. His close-cropped hair was graying,
although his face was unlined, with the smooth complexion of a child.
His irises were gray and gold.
General Shorter stepped forward and introduced himself.
"Come in."
The panel closed.
The two men stood. General Shorter glanced around for a chair.
"Small quarters," Mr. Tucker said. "If you like, sit there. I'll sit on
the bed."
They arranged themselves.
"Perhaps you don't remember me?" the general said. "We served
together--what, ten years ago?--for about two weeks on Avalon, I believe
it was."
"Yes, I thought that was the case. You have a good memory, General."
"Please," the general said, "just call me Max."
Mr. Tucker considered, without committing himself. He proffered a cigar.
The general declined.
Mr. Tucker lighted the cigar carefully, moving the flame several times
across the blunt end. He regarded the results without expression. "A
cigar should be properly lit, General," he said.
"Yes, yes, I suppose so," the general said. He paused to worry at a
wrinkle on his suit. "Good trip out?"
"Routine."
"New ship? I notice this is one of the new Balls."
"Mark Six."
"Ah, those. I've always liked the Mark Six. Solid construction. I've
been Destroyed maybe half the time in the Mark Sixes. Each one of the
Marks has its own personality--I've always thought so. I don't suppose
you remember the old Mark Two? That was a long time ago. I've been
around. We got lost in one once. It picked a pseudo-fault line and ...
well, never mind. Earth the same, I guess?"
"Hasn't changed."
"I don't know when I'll get back," the general said. The statement
seemed to dangle as though it were an unfinished question.
"The new detectors have put Miracastle on the fringe of things."
"I've followed the work," the general said. "I try to keep up. It
involves a new concept of mass variation, doesn't it?"
"It just about makes it uneconomical to colonize a two-stage planet any
more. Or to keep one going."
The general's eyelids flickered. His body moved beneath the wrinkled
folds of the surface suit. Cigar smoke curled in the still air.
Mr. Tucker said, "You must have been aware that it would not have been a
great loss to have evacuated Miracastle."
The general shuffled in silence. "Yes, sir, I knew the background. It's
part of my job to know things like that. You'll find, sir, that I have a
strong sense of responsibility. If it's part of my job, I'll know about
it."
General Max Shorter abruptly stood and for a moment was motionless, a
man deformed and diminished in stature by the ill-fitting surface suit.
Expressionless, he looked down, without psychological advantage, at the
seated civilian holding the partially smoked cigar.
Later the same day, Mr. Tucker and two of the three other members of the
Committee donned surface suits and, together with Captain Meford, the
cartographer assigned to Miracastle, they boarded the surface scout.
They arranged themselves in the uncomfortable bucket seats and strapped
in.
"Little early for an easy ride," Mr. Tucker commented.
"I've been out before," Captain Meford said laconically. It was his
usual manner.
"How long do you think it will take us to get there?"
"Between fifteen and twenty minutes, if I don't hit too much cross
wind."
Mr. Ryan, one of the other two civilians, commented, "A long time
between cigars, eh, Jim?"
The question was out of place and was ignored without hostility.
Mr. Ryan twisted uncomfortably. At length he said, apologetically,
"Dirty, filthy business. I wish it were over with."
"So do I," Mr. Tucker said.
Captain Meford activated the ramp and eased the scout out. It was
immediately buffeted by the winds.
"Sorry," he said. "It'll take a minute. Hold tight." The scout moved in
three dimensions, erratically. "Wow! Let's set it at about twenty-six
inches. Sorry. This will slow us down, but it will ease the bumps on
down draft. There. That's better. We're okay now, I think. I guess we
can settle back."
Thirty-five minutes later, they came to what was left of the alien city.
* * * * *
Back in the Richardson dome, General Shorter had coffee, in his
quarters, with the remaining man on the Committee, a Mr. Flison. They
were going through the ritual of conversation.
"This is the first time you've been Destroyed then, sir," the general
said. "My first time was so long ago I've forgotten what it feels like."
"I was uneasy in advance," Mr. Flison said. "You read various
descriptions about the physical sensations. Intellectually, of course,
you draw a distinction, but emotionally you know that the only word
which applies is death--pure and simple. But there's no sensation. It
happens too fast. You don't even notice it."
Politely attentive, the general had leaned forward. "I don't think it
could be put better," he contributed. "That's very apt. You don't even
notice it."
Mr. Flison's eyes narrowed in speculation. They maintained the general's
own in unwavering focus. He did not acknowledge the compliment.
The general's eyes broke to one side. He moved nervously as though
physically to dismiss the tactical error of underestimating his
opponent.
"Since this is your first planet," the general said, "perhaps you'd like
to see something of the operation? Basically, we have nine Richardson
Domes here on Miracastle. Two are the living quarters--the other similar
to this. Right now domes Seven and Nine are the more important. They
contain the air-changing equipment. We are holding tightly to our
completion date, and these two--Seven and Nine--will be pulled out in
fifteen days. That is to say, they will, barring any serious
interruptions in our work. On schedule, I should point out."
The general poured coffee for himself. Mr. Flison politely declined.
"When you've been in the Corps as long as I have," the general resumed,
"the schedule becomes a part of you. Everything--" he held his hands
before him, fingers spread, palms facing, and drew them
together--"converges on that. It's that simple. Other planets are
waiting. In a society as complex as ours, a million--and I mean this
literally, sir--a million decisions must be reviewed if the schedule
falls behind. Delay of a critical item of equipment can necessitate an
unbelievably vast reassignment of personnel and supply patterns. A small
cause reverberates throughout the whole fabric of the space technology."
"General Shorter, I think perhaps you're being carried away a little.
I'm sure we have adequate procedures to accommodate minor variations in
equipment delivery dates. If we don't, the Lord help us: we'd have been
dead long ago."
The general was in the process of forming an immediate reply, but he
reconsidered. When he reached for the coffee, which by now was cool and
bitter, his hand was trembling.
The general licked his lips. "More coffee? No? Well, I didn't intend to
get off on this. I really wanted to ask if you'd like to inspect our
operations." He glanced at his time piece. "I could show you the present
shift operation in Dome Nine."
Mr. Flison rose. "No, General, I don't want to be of any bother. I
wouldn't want to interfere with your--work."