_Somewhat like Nathan Hale of old, Jak SP
regretted having but one vitality to give for
his Planet ... and the starry-eyed Drusilla._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
One hour and forty-one minutes before deceleration, the spacecopter
materialized off to right, matching precisely the 3360 kilometers per
second speed of the Box. Jak SP34509260 jerked erect in answer to
blinking red lights and screeching collision whistles. The dark glass
and liquid ozone of the control cabin windows gave but a distorted view
of space, although enough to show the sleek shape outside.
Drusilla GW414249834, asymmetric in a flowing, floreated, red robe,
clamped slender hands over her ears and squawled, "What now, Jak? You
know I have a headache! Can't you be considerate?"
Jak pressed a switch, to stop the whistles, and hoped she would not
faint again. His wide mouth drooping with concern, he said, "It's
O.K., sweetjet. That spacecopter did it. See?"
He activated all viewers.
With rotorwings and fins retracted, the spacecopter resembled a thick,
but sharply pointed, needle. Jak increased the magnification of Number
3 viewer until he could read the license, SE-YNWGR. "From Enceladus!"
he said. "Saturn's second moon. If I'd known she had a station, we
could have looked there for a doc. Did you take that tomato juice off
my uniform?"
Drusilla's gray eyes squinted. She stood with such rigidity that her
feet floated clear of the deck. She said, "I informed you I'll accept
no substitute for the Wollongong Obstetric Hospital on Earth, and I
didn't clean your uniform. That cleanser makes me vomit."
"Sorry, sweetjet," Jak mumbled. He wished he could say something just
once without upsetting her. He magnetized his shoes and pulled Drusilla
down from the ceiling. "I was thinking of you," he pleaded, "but don't
you worry. We'll be on Luna in a bit over four earth-days. From there
to--"
Drusilla pulled loose and flitted to Number 3 viewer. "Why couldn't
you have a plane like that?" she demanded with a dramatic gesture at
the needle shape. "The Box! That's what this wreck looks like, a
prehistoric boxcar!"
"But, sweetjet, I've told you. Streamlining is useless except in
atmosphere. The Box is the most economical construction for--"
"What's that insignia?" Drusilla interrupted. "Like a skull and two
bones. What is it?"
Jak turned the knob to maximum magnification. "Umm. I believe that's
an old pictograph for poison. Perhaps they're carrying some poisonous
cargo, and--"
"In a yatch?" Drusilla sneered. "Why can't you have a yatch?"
"My salary. I hoped to pick up enough ore in the Rings, this trip, but
we had to bring you back, and--"
"You act as if it were my fault!" Drusilla squeaked.
The plates of the Box vibrated slightly as the spacecopter threw out
magnetic grapplers and reeled in until the fuselages touched. The
airlock of the slender plane opened to release three spacesuited
figures. "Men!" Drusilla gasped. Her hands flew in instinctive twitches
to red tattooed lips, blue tattooed eyelids, and green dyed hair.
Jak's pointed chin seemed to grow longer. He sighed. He shook his head
and muttered, "Probably want to borrow a welding rod. I remember once
in the Albert Group, a miner boarded me looking almost devitalized,
and all he wanted was a can opener to--"
"Spare me the anecdotes," said Drusilla, surveying her surgically
tilted nose in a small mirror. "That's all I've heard for three months."
* * * * *
Jak's shoulders heaved in a greater sigh. He hoped for no more trips
like this one. During endless earth-days he had cruised the Cassini
Division of the Rings of Saturn, picking up a little yttrium, antimony
and platinum, with Drusilla sunk in depths of boredom and rarely
leaving the plane. The arrival of the viewnote informing her that
her Self Portrait had won first prize in the Interearth Photographic
Salon had elated her for several days; but then she had announced, one
earth-morning, the development of an acute case of pregnancy. Since the
much published history of Lar BW16177 on Hungaria throbbed vivid in his
mind, Jak could do nothing except set a course for Luna, carrying half
empty ore bins and four months of unexpired leave.
A bulb on the instrument panel blinked to signal the opening of the
outer airlock door. Jak said, "If I can't greet them in uniform, I'll
have to go like this." He adjusted his trunks and stood by the airlock,
which placed him head down in relation to Drusilla posing by the
strangely silent radio.
Lar BW16177, stranded on the asteroid, had been devitalized horribly
when, under low gravity, the fetus had developed with unprecedented
rapidity. Jak had set the fastest course he thought safe for Drusilla,
6,240,000,000 kilometers at 1 G acceleration, 208,000,000 kilometers
in free fall, and 6,240,000,000 kilometers at 1 G deceleration. He
had tried to keep Drusilla occupied with her photographic hobby and
its current triumph, although he could not understand why her picture
had won first prize. It had no color, being done in blacks, grays,
and whites, and showed every detail of her face. It looked about
like something Daguerre would have done in 1839. Jak much preferred
modern photography with its soft colors, pleasing blurs, and striking
abstractions. His own hobby was woodcarving, because so few things were
made of wood.
The inner door of the airlock opened. The three men in space-suits
walked across the ceiling and down the bulkhead to the deck. Jak
saluted the faces almost invisible behind colored glass and made
gestures asking the visitors to remove their helmets. One of the men
turned and clanked off along the narrow passage. Another unsealed and
removed the helmet of the tall man who seemed to be the leader.
Drusilla actually blushed and giggled. Jak, who considered himself
above petty embarrassment, felt rather ashamed himself, for the
visitor had never had his facial hair removed. It grew profusely in a
disgusting fringe between nose and upper lip and formed a horrid black
triangle on the point of his chin. Jak rubbed a shaking hand over his
own smooth cheeks and shaven head and stammered, "Welcome to the--the
Box. How's your hobby? I--I am Jak SP345O926O, and this is Drusilla
GW414249834. How may we help?"
The man with the hairy lip paid little attention to the traditional
greeting, nor did he reply. His black eyes smoldered at Drusilla. In a
vibrant voice, he purred, "Drusilla, Latin, meaning 'with dewy eyes.'
How appropriate! What a rare and sweet old name! I detest these ugly
modern names."