"I know," he admitted coolly. "I'm actually a Neptunian mudworm,
completely devoid of emotions. I'm here in disguise to destroy the
Earth, and if you reveal my secret I'll eat you alive."
She ignored his sally and shook her head. "But why do I always have to
go to dances with Roger Bond?" she asked plaintively. "Oh, well. Never
mind," she said, and turned away.
He watched her as she crossed the recreation room floor and stepped
through the exit sphincter. She was just a silly girl, of course, but
she had pointed up a very real problem of starship life when she asked,
"_Why do I always have to go to dances with Roger Bond?_"
The _Valhalla_ was practically a self-contained universe. The Crew was
permanent; no one ever left, unless it was to jump ship the way Steve
had--and Steve was the only Crewman in the _Valhalla's_ history to do
that. And no one new ever came aboard, except in the case of the
infrequent changes of personnel. Judy Collier herself was one of the
newest members of the Crew, and her family had come aboard five ship
years ago, because a replacement signal officer had been needed.
Otherwise, things remained the same. Two or three dozen families, a few
hundred people, living together year in and year out. No wonder Judy
Collier always had to go to dances with Roger Bond. The actual range of
eligibles was terribly limited.
That was why Steve had gone over the hill. What was it he had said? _I
feel the walls of the ship holding me in like the bars of a cell._ Out
there was Earth, population approximately eight billion or so. And up
here is the _Valhalla_, current population precisely 176.
He knew all 176 of them like members of his own family--which they
were, in a sense. There was nothing mysterious about anyone, nothing
new.
And that was what Steve had wanted: something new. So he had jumped
ship. Well, Alan thought, development of a hyperdrive would change the
whole setup, if--if----
He hardly found the quarantine to his liking either. The starmen had
only a brief stay on Earth, with just the shortest opportunity to go
down to the Enclave, mingle with starmen from other ships, see a new
face, trade news of the starways. It was almost criminal to deprive them
of even a few hours of it.
Well, a dance was the second best thing. But it was a pretty distant
second, he thought, as he pushed himself up out of the pneumochair.
He looked across the recreation room. _Speak of the devil_, he thought.
There was Roger Bond now, stretched out and resting too under a
radiotherm lamp. Alan walked over to him.
"Heard the sad news, Rog?"
"About the quarantine? Yeah." Roger glanced at his wristchron. "Guess
I'd better start getting spruced up for the dance," he said, getting to
his feet. He was a short, good-looking, dark-haired boy a year younger
than Alan.
"Going with anyone special?"
Roger shook his head. "Who, special? Who, I ask you? I'm going to take
skinny Judy Collier, I guess. There's not much choice, is there?"
"No," Alan agreed sadly, "Not much choice at all."
Together they left the recreation room. Alan felt a strange sort of
hopeless boredom spreading over him, as if he had entered a gray fog. It
worried him.
"See you tonight," Roger said.
"I suppose so," Alan returned dully. He was frowning.
_Chapter Three_
The _Valhalla_ touched down on Earth at 1753 on the nose, to nobody's
very great surprise. Captain Mark Donnell had not missed schedule once
in his forty ship years in space, which covered a span of over a
thousand years of Earth's history.
Landing procedure was rigidly set. The Crew debarked by family, in order
of signing-on; the only exception to the order was Alan. As a member of
the Captain's family--the only other member, now--he had to wait till
the rest of the ship was cleared. But his turn came eventually.
"Solid ground again, Rat!" They stood on the jet-fused dirt field where
the _Valhalla_ had landed. The great golden-hulled starship was reared
up on its tail, with its huge landing buttresses flaring out at each
side to keep it propped up.
"Solid for _you_, maybe," Rat said. "But the trip's just as wobbly as
ever for me, riding up here on your shoulder."
Captain Donnell's shrill whistle sounded, and he cupped his hands to
call out, "The copters are here!"
Alan watched the little squadron of gray jetcopters settle to the
ground, rotors slowing, and headed forward along with the rest of the
Crew. The copters would take them from the bare landing field of the
spaceport to the Enclave, where they would spend the next six days.
The Captain was supervising the loading of the copters. Alan sauntered
over to him.
"Where to, son?"
"I'm scheduled to go over in Copter One."
"Uh-uh. I've changed the schedule." Captain Donnell turned away and
signalled to the waiting crew members. "Okay, go ahead and fill up
Copter One!"
They filed aboard. "Everyone get back," the Captain yelled. A tentative
_chugg-chuff_ came from the copter; its rotors went round and it lifted,
stood poised for a moment on its jetwash, and shot off northward toward
the Starmen's Enclave.
"What's this about a change in schedule, Dad?"
"I want you to ride over with me in the two-man copter. Kandin took your
place aboard Copter One. Let's go now," he shouted to the next group.
"Start loading up Number Two."
The Crewmen began taking their places aboard the second copter, and soon
its pilot signalled through the fore window that he was loaded up. The
copter departed. Seeing that he would be leaving the field last, Alan
made himself useful by keeping the younger Crew children from wandering.
At last the field was cleared. Only Alan and his father remained, with
the little two-man copter and the tall gleaming _Valhalla_ behind them.
"Let's go," the Captain said. They climbed in, Alan strapping himself
down in the co-pilot's chair and his father back of the controls.
"I never see much of you these days," the Captain said after they were
aloft. "Running the _Valhalla_ seems to take twenty-four hours a day."
"I know how it is," Alan said.
After a while Captain Donnell said, "I see you're still reading that
Cavour book." He chuckled. "Still haven't given up the idea of finding
the hyperdrive, have you?"
"You know I haven't, Dad. I'm sure Cavour really did work it out, before
he disappeared. If we could only discover his notebook, or even a letter
or something that could get us back on the trail----"
"It's been thirteen hundred years since Cavour disappeared, Alan. If
nothing of his has turned up in all that time, it's not likely ever to
show. But I hope you keep at it, anyway." He banked the copter and cut
the jets; the rotors took over and gently lowered the craft to the
distant landing field.
Alan looked down and out at the heap of buildings becoming visible
below. The crazy quilt of outdated, clumsy old buildings that was the
local Starmen's Enclave.
He felt a twinge of surprise at his father's words. The Captain had
never shown any serious interest in the possibility of faster-than-light
travel before. He had always regarded the whole idea as sheer fantasy.
"I don't get it, Dad. Why do you hope I keep at it? If I ever find what
I'm looking for, it's going to mean the end of Starman life as you know
it. Travel between planets will be instantaneous. There--there won't be
this business of making jumps and getting separated from everyone you
used to know."
"You're right. I've just begun thinking seriously about this business
of hyperdrive. There wouldn't be any Contraction effect. Think of the
changes it would mean in Starman society! No more--no more permanent
separations if someone decides to leave his ship for a while."
Alan understood what his father meant. Suddenly he saw the reason for
Captain Donnell's abrupt growth of interest in the development of a
hyperdrive.
_It's Steve that's on his mind_, Alan thought. _If we had had a
hyperspace drive and Steve had done what he did, it wouldn't have
mattered. He'd still be my age._
Now the _Valhalla_ was about to journey to Procyon. Another twenty years
would pass before it got back, and Steve would be almost fifty by then.
That's what's on his mind, Alan thought. He lost Steve forever--but he
doesn't want any more Steves to happen. The Contraction took one of his
sons away. And now he wants the hyperdrive as much as I do.
Alan glanced at the stiff, erect figure of his father as they clambered
out of the copter and headed at a fast clip toward the Administration
Building of the Enclave. He wondered just how much pain and anguish his
father was keeping hidden back of that brisk, efficient exterior.
_I'll get the Cavour drive someday_, Alan thought suddenly. _And I'll be
getting it for him as well as me._
The bizarre buildings of the Enclave loomed up before him. Behind them,
just visible in the purplish twilight haze, were the tips of the shining
towers of the Earther city outside. Somewhere out there, probably, was
Steve.
_I'll find him too_, Alan thought firmly.
* * * * *
Most of the _Valhalla's_ people had already been assigned rooms in the
quarantine section of one of the Enclave buildings when Alan and his
father arrived.
The bored-looking desk clerk--a withered-looking oldster who was
probably a retired Starman--gave Alan his room number. It turned out to
be a small, squarish room furnished with an immense old pneumochair long
since deflated, a cot, and a washstand. The wall was a dull green, with
gaping cracks in the faded paint, and cut heavily with a penknife into
one wall was the inscription, BILL DANSERT SLEPT HERE, _June 28 2683_ in
sturdy block letters.
Alan wondered how many other starmen had occupied the room before and
after Bill Dansert. He wondered whether perhaps Bill Dansert himself
were still alive somewhere between the stars, twelve centuries after he
had left his name in the wall.
He dropped himself into the pneumochair, feeling the soggy squish of the
deflated cushion, and loosened the jacket of his uniform.
"It's not luxurious," he told Rat. "But at least it's a room. It's a
place to stay."
The medics started coming around that evening, checking to see that none
of the newly-arrived starmen had happened to bring back any strange
disease that might cause trouble. It was slow work--and the _Valhalla_
people were told that it would take at least until the following morning
before the quarantine could be lifted.
"Just a precautionary measure," said the medic apologetically as he
entered Alan's room clad in a space helmet. "We really learned our
lesson when that shipload from Altair came in bearing a plague."
The medic produced a small camera and focused it on Alan. He pressed a
button; a droning sort of hum came from the machine. Alan felt a curious
glow of warmth.
"Just a routine check," the medic apologized again. He flipped a lever
in the back of the camera. Abruptly the droning stopped and a tape
unravelled out of the side of the machine. The medic studied it.
"Any trouble?" Alan asked anxiously.
"Looks okay to me. But you might get that cavity in your upper right
wisdom tooth taken care of. Otherwise you seem in good shape."
He rolled up the tape. "Don't you starmen ever get time for a fluorine
treatment? Some of you have the worst teeth I've ever seen."
"We haven't had a chance for fluorination yet. Our ship was built before
they started fluorinating the water supplies, and somehow we never find
time to take the treatment while we're on Earth. But is that all that's
wrong with me?"
"All that I can spot just by examining the diagnostic tape. We'll have
to wait for the full lab report to come through before I can pass you
out of quarantine, of course." Then he noticed Rat perched in the
corner. "How about that? I'll have to examine it, too."
"I'm not an _it_," Rat remarked with icy dignity. "I'm an intelligent
extra-terrestrial entity, native of Bellatrix VII. And I'm not carrying
any particular diseases that would interest you."
"A talking rat!" The medic was amazed. "Next thing we'll have sentient
amebas!" He aimed the camera at Rat. "I suppose I'll have to record you
as a member of the crew," he said, as the camera began to hum.
After the medic had gone, Alan tried to freshen up at the washstand,
having suddenly recalled that a dance was on tap for this evening.
As he wearily went through the motions of scrubbing his face clean, it
occurred to him that he had not even bothered to speak to one of the
seven or eight Crew girls he had considered inviting.
He sensed a curious disturbed feeling growing inside him. He felt
depressed. Was this, he wondered, what Steve had gone through? The wish
to get out of this tin can of a ship and really see the universe?
"Tell me, Rat. If you were me----"
"If I were you I'd get dressed for that dance," Rat said sharply. "If
you've got a date, that is."
"That's just the point. I _don't_ have a date. I mean, I didn't bother
to make one. I know all those girls so well. Why bother?"
"So you're not going to the dance?"
"Nope."
Rat clambered up the arm of the pneumochair and swivelled his head
upward till his glittering little eyes met Alan's. "You're not planning
to go over the hill the way Steve did, are you? I can spot the symptoms.
You look restless and fidgety the way your brother did."
After a moment of silence Alan shook his head. "No. I couldn't do that,
Rat. Steve was the wild kind. I'd never be able just to get up and go,
the way he did. But I've got to do _something_. I know what he meant. He
said the walls of the ship were pressing in on him. Holding him back."
With a sudden impatient motion he ripped open the magnesnaps of his
regulation shirt and took it off. He felt himself changing, inside.
Something was happening to him. Maybe, he thought, he was catching
whatever it was Steve had been inflamed by. Maybe he had been lying to
himself all along, about being different in makeup from Steve.
"Go tell the Captain I'm not going to the dance," he ordered Rat.
"Otherwise he'll wonder where I am. Tell him--tell him I'm too tired, or
something. Tell him anything. But don't let him find out how I feel."
_Chapter Four_
The next morning, Roger Bond told him all about the dance.
"It was the dullest thing you could imagine. Same old people, same dusty
old dances. Couple of people asked me where you were, but I didn't tell
them anything."
"Good."
They wandered on through the heap of old, ugly buildings that composed
the Starmen's Enclave. "It's just as well they think I was sick," Alan
said. "I was, anyway. Sick from boredom."
He and Roger sat down carefully on the edge of a crumbling stone bench.
They said nothing, just looking around. After a long while Alan broke
the uncomfortable silence.
"You know what this place is? It's a ghetto. A self-imposed ghetto.
Starmen are scared silly of going out into the Earther cities, so they
keep themselves penned up in this filthy place instead."
"This place is really old. I wonder how far back those run-down
buildings date."
"Thousand years, maybe more. No one ever bothers to build new ones. What
for? The starmen don't mind living in the old ones."
"I almost wish the medical clearance hadn't come through after all,"
said Roger moodily.
"How so?"
"Then we'd be still quarantined up there. We wouldn't be able to come
down and get another look at the kind of place this really is."
"I don't know which is worse--to be cooped up in quarantine or to go
wandering around a dismal hole like the Enclave." Alan stood up,
stretched, and took a deep breath. "Phew! Get a lungful of that sweet,
fresh, allegedly pure Terran air! I'll take ship atmosphere, stale as it
is, any time over this smoggy soup."
"I'll go along with that. Say, look--a strange face!"
Alan turned and saw a young starman of about his own age coming toward
them. He wore a red uniform with gray trim instead of the
orange-and-blue of the _Valhalla_.
"Welcome, newcomers. I suppose you're from that ship that just put down?
The _Valhalla_?"
"Right. Name's Alan Donnell, and this is Roger Bond. Yours?"
"I'm Kevin Quantrell." He was short and stocky, heavily tanned, with a
square jaw and a confident look about him. "I'm out of the starship
_Encounter_, just back from the Aldebaran system. Been in the Enclave
two weeks now--with a lot more ahead of me."
Alan whistled. "Aldebaran! That's--let's see, 109 years round trip. You
must be a real old-timer, Quantrell!"
"I was born in 3403. Makes me 473 years old, Earthtime. But I'm
actually only seventeen and a half. Right before Aldebaran we made a hop
to Capella, and that used up 85 years more in a hurry."
"You've got me by 170 years," Alan said. "But I'm only seventeen
myself."
Quantrell grinned cockily. "It's a good thing some guy thought up this
Tally system of chalking up every real day you live through. Otherwise
we'd be up to here in confusion all the time."
He leaned boredly against the wall of a rickety building which once had
proudly borne the chrome-steel casing characteristic of early 27th
Century architecture, but whose outer surface was now brown and scaly
from rust. "What do you think of our little paradise?" Quantrell asked
sarcastically. "Certainly puts the Earther cities to shame."
He pointed out across the river, where the tall, glistening buildings of
the adjoining Earther city shone in the morning sunlight.
"Have you ever been out there?" Alan asked.
"No," Quantrell said in a tight voice. "But if this keeps up much
longer----" He clenched and unclenched his fists impatiently.
"What's the trouble?"
"It's my ship--the _Encounter_. We were outspace over a century, you
know, and when we got back the inspection teams found so many things
wrong with the ship that she needs just about a complete overhauling.
They've been working her over for the last two weeks, and the way it
looks it'll be another couple of weeks before she's ready to go. And I
don't know how much longer I can stand being penned up in this
Enclave."
"That's exactly how your brother----" Roger started to say, and stopped.
"Sorry."
"That's okay," Alan said.