Pink and Jerry and Joe Silver walked around and around the spacesuit.
Bill Calico, the astrogator, and Washington Daley, the senior
lieutenant, sat in front of it on stools covered with Venusian
joerg-hide, going through a routine of flippant gags that thinly
disguised their bafflement. Finally Pinkham said, "When were these suits
invented?"
"2144," said Joe Silver.
Bright kid, thought Pink with irritation. "Thirty-odd years ago. That's
my guess, too."
"October 1st, 2144, is the patent date," said Joe Silver smugly.
"Click, click, click," said Daley. "Your mind is a damn file room,
Silver. It gives me the jitters."
Joe Silver looked at him expressionlessly.
"I just read the date on the instruction plate," he said.
Captain Pinkham bent down and read aloud from the nayrust plate set
into the back of the spacesuit.
"'Bernard Patent Slugjet Suit, size 24-B patented' ... here it is.
'Instructions for reviving occupant. The man in this suit is alive if
the translucent face plate is tinted orange.'"
"It is," said Bill Calico with eagerness.
"'Unscrew the seven small x-screws around face plate. Depress lever Z on
right side of chest plate. Loosen gorget, shoulder pieces, pallettes,
brassarts, cuisses....'" They were following the instructions as he
read. He thought, these suits were terrific, they were the best. But you
had to have a billion dollars behind your expedition or you couldn't
afford 'em. Each one cost half as much as a regular-size moon rocket!
They shouldn't have stopped making them, though. They ought to have
tried bringing down the cost. One of these could save a man's life when
nothing else in God's universe could; and a man's life is surely worth
as much as half a moon rocket?
The Bernard Slugjet Suit. Guaranteed to keep a guy alive for a minimum
of 250 years in free space. Guaranteed to let him emerge healthy
and--miraculously--sane, provided he was picked up within the time
limit.
You were jetting toward the edge of the galaxy, say. Your ship ran into
trouble. A big meteor tore out your belly, or your fuel gave out, or any
of a million things happened to crack up the beautiful great spaceship
that was your vehicle and your pride and almost _you_, an extension of
yourself, an expression of your yearning to conquer the stars. So you
got into your slugjet suit and walked out an air-lock, if you had enough
warning, that is. And there you were in space.
Your suit was actually a miniature spaceship itself; if there was land
anywhere near, you aimed for it, loosed your powerful shoulder jets, and
shot toward it. The suit had a range of about five hundred thousand
miles, which was often enough.
But suppose it wasn't. Then you just stayed there in black space, and
you started to touch buttons in the big gloves, to pull levers on the
chest, and to activate other circuits by the sound of your voice. And
the suit became a world for you, a world that kept you healthy and sane
for a quarter of a millennium.
Your life processes were slowed down to a pace of only a crawl and a
mumble, next door to death. Your breathing couldn't be detected. Your
heart beat six times to the hour. Drugs did it, and vapors, the
depressants of a hundred planets gathered and refined by Bernard for
his suits.
You didn't sleep; you didn't need to. You were a slug, a worm in a
cocoon, awake in an ultra-slow-motion way. In 250 years, you aged about
fifteen. The suits were supposed to have a maximum efficiency of a
thousand years; you came out an old man at the end of that time, maybe,
but it was an even bet that you _did_ come out.
And to keep your mind whole and unwarped, there in the immensity of
brain-shattering space, you were entertained--well and constantly.
Three-dimensional movies were shown on your translucent face plate, so
slow that to a person with unhampered reflexes they would look like
stills. Music played to you, a low drone and buzz that to you was jazz,
classical, anything you selected. The Minute Waltz took several hours to
play in your ear.
Body wastes and carbon dioxide were eliminated, and breathable air
released, by the same principles in use in spaceships. You were fed
intravenously, vitamins, concentrates of everything you needed were
stuck into you without your knowing it, for you lived too slowly to be
capable of pain. The temperature of your suit was even. Audiotherapy was
given you at suitable intervals. You were rescued, and came out of your
suit as well-adjusted, as balanced as you'd gone in. Maybe more so.
Rescued? It wasn't all left to luck. The radio in your high bulbous
crest broadcast a constant S.O.S. Your suit glowed so that it could be
spotted easily, a crimson star against the blackness. Your own life
within it called to every life-scanner within 500,000 miles.
Meanwhile, you were in a damn fine world of your own....
Pinkham finished reading the instructions, and walked around to the
front of the bulky suit. Bill Calico lifted off the crest, Daley removed
the helmet, Jerry and Joe Silver caught the suit as it fell away in two
sections.
And Captain Pinkham caught the girl.
* * * * *
She was slim and full in the places where a woman ought to be so, and
her hair, close-cropped, was black-brown and shining. Her face was good,
damn good, bloody damn fine to a spaceman who'd been out on the ways for
a couple of years; but Pink had the happy thought--it was the first one
he had, before the shock really hit him that that this was a
_girl_--that she would have looked just as good to him on Earth.
She wore the uniform of an organicus officer: just a bit dated, the
lapels too wide by an inch, the synthetic fabric of the jacket just a
little more clinging and revealing than the current fashion, the pants
narrow at the cuff where today's were bell-bottomed. She must have been
out here a while; not more than thirty years, though. She did not look
more than twenty-five now, and the normal life span was a hundred
and ten.... Pink snapped his queer thoughts sharply into line. What did
her age matter to him?
She was limp in his arms, as relaxed as a sleeping kitten. Her eyes,
deep brown, were open but heavy-lidded. He half-knelt, cradling her
comfortably, as Jerry anticipated his question and said, "She's okay.
She'll be out of it in a few minutes. She's still living slower than we
are."
Joe Silver, unaccountably across the room by the life-scanner, said,
"Hey! There's another one!"
"Another what?" asked his senior lieutenant, Daley.
"Another fellow--or girl--in a Slugjet. Down that direction a few
thousand miles."
As all of them but Pink raced to the screen, the girl began to sing,
softly, musically, and very slowly.
"_I am sick of this bucketing Lunar run
In this dirty old steel cocoon;
I'm sick of the Earth and I'm sick of the Sun
And I'm sick to death of the Moon...._"
That was--what was the name?--the Lament of the Veteran Rocketeer, a
ballad that Pink had been singing in his grade school days. He hadn't
heard it for more than a dozen years. Probably popular when this gal
blasted off Terra.
She stopped singing. "'Bout time you got here," she said drowsily. "I've
been waiting for months. Didn't Fawcett's crest radio reach you?"
"Take it easy," said Pink, and told himself that was a stupid thing to
say. "Who are you? What was your expedition?"
She blinked. "You aren't Commander Dyevis, are you? Who are you?"
"I'm Joe Silver," said that young upstart over Pinkham's shoulder.
"Nobody asked you," said Daley. They had left the screen, all but Jerry,
who was making course for the second speck of life in the asteroid belt.
"This is the _Elephant's Child_, flagship of Armada Seven, 843 days out
of Terra to explore star systems 87 through 93," said Pink quietly. "We
just plucked you off an asteroid in System Ninety. This is--" _take it
easy_, he said to himself this time, "this is October 18th, 2176."
"Holy Holmendis," said the girl, turning a little pale. "Our ship split
up her seams in November of 2158."
Daley, the oldest of the lot at thirty-six, and the coolest spacehead of
them all, said, "May I introduce Captain John Pinkham, our leader?"
Formalities eased a shock, he knew, and helped you over the rough spots.
"I'm Lt. Washington Daley and you are--"
"Organicus Officer Circe Smith, of Colonel Fawcett's exploratory
armada," she said automatically.
"Fawcett!" said everyone, loudly and with amazement.
"So he got to System Ninety," said Pink. "Every spaceman on the ways has
wondered about Fawcett for eighteen years. He vanished with two ships--"
"She knows that, Captain," said Daley.
"Oh. Of course."
"Our other ship was still okay when we broke up," said O. O. Smith,
brushing her short hair back from a forehead that was wide and
intelligent. "My crest radio was on the fritz, but Fawcett's was all
right and he was supposed to call Commander Dyevis, who was cruising
down by Planet Four. At least half a dozen of us got off in Slugjet
Suits before the ship died. I guess his message never got to Dyevis."
"Lord knows," said Pinkham. The _Elephant's Child_ shivered slightly as
her recoil engines stopped her. Jerry came over from the controls.
"There's another one sitting outside," he said casually.
"Maybe it's Colonel Fawcett," the girl cried eagerly.
Jerry shook his head. "I'm afraid not." He looked at her a moment, then
turned to Pinkham. "This one has four arms," he said.