"You not going to get drunk again, boss?" The Donarrian's voice rumbled
disappointment.
"I am. And I'm going to try to stay drunk the whole damn voyage. You
just don't know what we're heading for, Wocha."
* * * * *
_Stranger, go back._
_Spaceman, go home. Turn back, adventurer._
_It is death. Return, human._
* * * * *
The darkness whispered. Voices ran down the length of the ship,
blending with the unending murmur of the drive, urging, commanding,
whispering so low that it seemed to be within men's skulls.
Basil Donovan lay in darkness. His mouth tasted foul, and there was
a throb in his temples and a wretchedness in his throat. He lay and
listened to the voice which had wakened him.
_Go home, wanderer. You will die, your ship will plunge through the
hollow dark till the stars grow cold. Turn home, human._
"Boss. I hear them, boss. I'm scared."
"How long have we been under weigh? When did we leave Ansa?"
"A week ago, boss, maybe more. You been drunk. Wake up, boss, turn on
the light. They're whispering in the dark, and I'm scared."
"We must be getting close."
_Return. Go home. First comes madness and then comes death and then
comes the spinning outward forever. Turn back, spaceman._
Bodiless whisper out of the thick thrumming dark, sourceless
all-pervading susurration, and it mocked, there was the cruel cynical
scorn of the outer vastness running up and down the laughing voice.
It murmured, it jeered, it ran along nerves with little icy feet and
flowed through the brain, it called and gibed and hungered. It warned
them to go back, and it knew they wouldn't and railed its mockery
at them for it. Demon whisper, there in the huge cold loneliness,
sneering and grinning and waiting.
Donovan sat up and groped for the light switch. "We're close enough,"
he said tonelessly. "We're in their range now."
Footsteps racketed in the corridor outside. A sharp rap on his door.
"Come in. Come in and enjoy yourself."