Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and
Fantasy July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
VOYAGE TO ETERNITY
By
Milton Lesser
Temple faced leaving Earth--and the girl he loved--if his
country drafted him. But the hard part was in knowing he'd
never return!...
* * * * *
When the first strong sunlight of May covered the tree-arched avenues
of Center City with green, the riots started.
[Illustration]
The people gathered in angry knots outside the city hall, met in the
park and littered its walks with newspapers and magazines as they
gobbled up editorial comment at a furious rate, slipped with dark of
night through back alleys and planned things with furious futility.
Center City's finest knew when to make themselves scarce: their
uniforms stood for everything objectionable at this time and they
might be subjected to clubs, stones, taunts, threats, leers--and
knives.
But Center City, like most communities in United North America, had
survived the Riots before and would survive them again. On past
performances, the damage could be estimated, too. Two-hundred
fifty-seven plate glass windows would be broken, three-hundred twelve
limbs fractured. Several thousand people would be treated for minor
bruises and abrasions, Center City would receive half that many damage
suits. The list had been drawn clearly and accurately; it hardly ever
deviated.
And Center City would meet its quota. With a demonstration of
reluctance, of course. The healthy approved way to get over social
trauma once every seven-hundred eighty days.
"Shut it off, Kit. Kit, please."
The telio blared in a cheaply feminine voice, "Oh, it's a long way to
nowhere, forever. And your honey's not coming back, never, never,
never...." A wailing trumpet represented flight.
"They'll exploit anything, Kit."
"It's just a song."
"Turn it off, please."
Christopher Temple turned off the telio, smiling. "They'll announce
the names in ten minutes," he said, and felt the corners of his mouth
draw taut.
"Tell me again, Kit," Stephanie pleaded. "How old are you?"
"You know I'm twenty-six."
"Twenty-six. Yes, twenty-six, so if they don't call you this time,
you'll be safe. Safe, I can hardly believe it."
"Nine minutes," said Temple in the darkness. Stephanie had drawn the
blinds earlier, had dialed for sound-proofing. The screaming in the
streets came to them as not the faintest whisper. But the song which
became briefly, masochistically popular every two years and two months
had spoiled their feeling of seclusion.
"Tell me again, Kit."
"What."
"You know what."
He let her come to him, let her hug him fiercely and whimper against
his chest. He remained passive although it hurt, occasionally stroking
her hair. He could not assert himself for another--he looked at his
strap chrono--for another eight minutes. He might regret it, if he
did, for a lifetime.
"Tell me, Kit."
"I'll marry you, Steffy. In eight minutes, less than eight minutes,
I'll go down and get the license. We'll marry as soon as it's legal."
"This is the last time they have a chance for you. I mean, they won't
change the law?"
Temple shook his head. "They don't have to. They meet their quota this
way."
"I'm scared."
"You and everyone else in North America, Steffy."
She was trembling against him. "It's cold for June."
"It's warm in here." He kissed her moist eyes, her nose, her lips.
"Oh God, Kit. Five minutes."
"Five minutes to freedom," he said jauntily. He did not feel that way
at all. Apprehension clutched at his chest with tight, painful
fingers, almost making it difficult for him to breathe.
"Turn it on, Kit."
* * * * *
He dialed the telio in time to see the announcer's insincere smile.
Smile seventeen, Kit thought wryly. Patriotic sacrifice.
"Every seven-hundred eighty days," said the announcer, "two-hundred of
Center City's young men are selected to serve their country for an
indeterminate period regulated rigidly by a rotation system."
"Liar!" Stephanie cried. "No one ever comes back. It's been thirty
years since the first group and not one of them...."
"Shh," Temple raised a finger to his lips.
"This is the thirteenth call since the inception of what is popularly
referred to as the Nowhere Journey," said the announcer. "Obviously,
the two hundred young men from Center City and the thousands from all
over this hemisphere do not in reality embark on a Journey to Nowhere.
That is quite meaningless."
"Hooray for him," Temple laughed.
"I wish he'd get on with it."
"No, ladies and gentlemen, we use the word Nowhere merely because we
are not aware of the ultimate destination. Security reasons make it
impossible to...."
"Yes, yes," said Stephanie impatiently. "Go on."
"... therefore, the Nowhere Journey. With a maximum security lid on
the whole project, we don't even know why our men are sent, or by what
means. We know only that they go somewhere and not nowhere, bravely
and not fearfully, for a purpose vital to the security of this nation
and not to slake the thirst of a chessman of regiments and divisions.
"If Center City's contribution helps keep our country strong, Center
City is naturally obligated...."
"No one ever said it isn't our duty," Stephanie argued, as if the
announcer could indeed hear her. "We only wish we knew something about
it--and we wish it weren't forever."
"It isn't forever," Temple reminded her. "Not officially."
"Officially, my foot. If they never return, they never return. If
there's a rotation system on paper, but it's never used, that's not a
rotation system at all. Kit, it's forever."
"... to thank the following sponsors for relinquishing their time...."
"No one would want to sponsor _that_," Temple whispered cheerfully.
"Kit," said Stephanie, "I--I suddenly have a hunch we have nothing to
worry about. They missed you all along and they'll miss you this time,
too. The last time, and then you'll be too old. That's funny, too old
at twenty-six. But we'll be free, Kit. Free."
"He's starting," Temple told her.
A large drum filled the entire telio screen. It rotated slowly, from
bottom to top. In twenty seconds, the letter A appeared, followed by
about a dozen names. Abercrombie, Harold. Abner, Eugene. Adams,
Gerald. Sorrow in the Abercrombie household. Despair for the Abners.
Black horror for Adams.
The drum rotated.
"They're up to F, Kit."
Fabian, Gregory G....
Names circled the drum slowly, like viscous alphabet soup.
Meaningless, unless you happened to know them.
"Kit, I knew Thomas Mulvany."
N, O, P....
"It's hot in here."
"I thought you were cold."
"I'm suffocating now."
R, S....
"T!" Stephanie shrieked as the names began to float slowly up from the
bottom of the drum.
Tabor, Tebbets, Teddley....
Temple's mouth felt dry as a ball of cotton. Stephanie laughed
nervously. Now--or never. Never?
Now.
Stephanie whimpered despairingly.
TEMPLE, CHRISTOPHER.
* * * * *
"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Jones."
"Hardly, Mr. Smith. Hardly. Three minutes late."
"I've come in response to your ad."
"I know. You look old."
"I am over twenty-six. Do you mind?"
"Not if you don't, Mr. Smith. Let me look at you. Umm, you seem the
right height, the right build."
"I meet the specifications exactly."
"Good, Mr. Smith. And your price."
"No haggling," said Smith. "I have a price which must be met."
"Your price, Mr. Smith?"
"Ten million dollars."
The man called Jones coughed nervously. "That's high."
"Very. Take it or leave it."
"In cash?"
"Definitely. Small unmarked bills."
"You'd need a moving van!"
"Then I'll get one."
"Ten million dollars," said Jones, "is quite a price. Admittedly, I
haven't dealt in this sort of traffic before, but--"
"But nothing. Were your name Jones, really and truly Jones, I might
ask less."
"Sir?"
"You are Jones exactly as much as I am Smith."
"Sir?" Jones gasped again.
Smith coughed discreetly. "But I have one advantage. I know you. You
don't know me, Mr. Arkalion."
"Eh? Eh?"
"Arkalion. The North American Carpet King. Right?"
"How did you know?" the man whose name was not Jones but Arkalion
asked the man whose name was not Smith but might as well have been.
"When I saw your ad," said not-Smith, "I said to myself, 'now here
must be a very rich, influential man.' It only remained for me to
study a series of photographs readily obtainable--I have a fine memory
for that, Mr. Arkalion--and here you are; here is Arkalion the Carpet
King."
"What will you do with the ten million dollars?" demanded Arkalion,
not minding the loss nearly so much as the ultimate disposition of his
fortune.
"Why, what does anyone do with ten million dollars? Treasure it.
Invest it. Spend it."
"I mean, what will you do with it if you are going in place of my--"
Arkalion bit his tongue.
"Your son, were you saying, Mr. Arkalion? Alaric Arkalion the Third.
Did you know that I was able to boil my list of men down to thirty
when I studied their family ties?"
"Brilliant, Mr. Smith. Alaric is so young--"
"Aren't they all? Twenty-one to twenty-six. Who was it who once said
something about the flower of our young manhood?"
"Shakespeare?" said Mr. Arkalion realizing that most quotes of lasting
importance came from the bard.
"Sophocles," said Smith. "But, no matter. I will take young Alaric's
place for ten million dollars."
Motives always troubled Mr. Arkalion, and thus he pursued what might
have been a dangerous conversation. "You'll never get a chance to
spend it on the Nowhere Journey."
"Let me worry about that."
"No one ever returns."
"My worry, not yours."
"It is forever--as if you dropped out of existence. Alaric is so
young."
"I have always gambled, Mr. Arkalion. If I do not return in five
years, you are to put the money in a trust fund for certain designated
individuals, said fund to be terminated the moment I return. If I come
back within the five years, you are merely to give the money over to
me. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
"I'll want it in writing, of course."
"Of course. A plastic surgeon is due here in about ten minutes, Mr.
Smith, and we can get on with.... But if I don't know your name, how
can I put it in writing?"
Smith smiled. "I changed my name to Smith for the occasion. Perfectly
legal. My name is John X. Smith--now."
"That's where you're wrong," said Mr. Arkalion as the plastic surgeon
entered. "Your name is Alaric Arkalion III--_now_."
The plastic surgeon skittered around Smith, examining him minutely
with the casual expertness that comes with experience.
"Have to shorten the cheek bones."
"For ten million dollars," said Smith, "you can take the damned things
out altogether and hang them on your wall."
* * * * *
Sophia Androvna Petrovitch made her way downtown through the bustle of
tired workers and the occasional sprinkling of Comrades. She crushed
her _ersatz_ cigarette underfoot at number 616 Stalin Avenue, paused
for the space of five heartbeats at the door, went inside.
"What do you want?" The man at the desk was myopic but bull-necked.
Sophia showed her party card.
"Oh, Comrade. Still, you are a woman."
"You're terribly observant, Comrade," said Sophia coldly. "I am here
to volunteer."
"But a woman."
"There is nothing in the law which says a woman cannot volunteer."
"We don't make women volunteer."
"I mean really volunteer, of her own free will."
"Her--own--free will?" The bull-necked man removed his spectacles,
scratched his balding head with the ear-pieces. "You mean volunteer
without--"
"Without coercion. I want to volunteer. I am here to volunteer. I want
to sign on for the next Stalintrek."
"Stalintrek, a woman?"
"That is what I said."
"We don't force women to volunteer." The man scratched some more.
"Oh, really," said Sophia. "This is 1992, not mid-century, Comrade.
Did not Premier Stalin say, 'Woman was created to share the glorious
destiny of Mother Russia with her mate?'" Sophia created the quote
randomly.
"Yes, if Stalin said--"
"He did."
"Still, I do not recall--"
"What?" Sophia cried. "Stalin dead these thirty-nine years and you
don't recall his speeches? What is your name, Comrade?"
"Please, Comrade. Now that you remind me, I remember."
"What is your name."
"Here, I will give you the volunteer papers to sign. If you pass the
exams, you will embark on the next Stalintrek, though why a beautiful
young woman like you--"
"Shut your mouth and hand me those papers."
There, sitting behind that desk, was precisely why. Why should she,
Sophia Androvna Petrovitch, wish to volunteer for the Stalintrek?
Better to ask why a bird flies south in the winter, one day ahead of
the first icy gale. Or why a lemming plunges recklessly into the sea
with his multitudes of fellows, if, indeed, the venture were to turn
out grimly.
But there, behind that desk, was part of the reason. The Comrade. The
bright sharp Comrade, with his depth of reasoning, his fountain of
gushing emotions, his worldliness. _Pfooey!_
It was as if she had been in a cocoon all her life, stifled, starved,
the cottony inner lining choking her whenever she opened her mouth,
the leathery outer covering restricting her when she tried to move. No
one had ever returned from the Stalintrek. She then had to assume no
one would. Including Sophia Androvna Petrovitch. But then, there was
nothing she would miss, nothing to which she particularly wanted to
return. Not the stark, foul streets of Stalingrad, not the workers
with their vapid faces or the Comrades with their cautious, sweating,
trembling, fearful non-decisions, not the higher echelon of Comrades,
more frightened but showing it less, who would love the beauty of her
breasts and loins but not herself for you never love anything but the
Stalinimage and Mother Russia herself, not those terrified
martinet-marionettes who would love the parts of her if she permitted
but not her or any other person for that matter.
Wrong with the Stalintrek was its name alone, a name one associated
with everything else in Russia for an obvious, post-Stalin reason. But
everything else about the Stalintrek shrieked mystery and adventure.
Where did you go? How did you get there? What did you do? Why?
A million questions which had kept her awake at night and, if she thought
about them hard enough, satisfied her deep longing for something
different. And then one day when stolid Mrs. Ivanovna-Rasnikov had said,
"It is a joke, a terrible, terrible joke they are taking my husband Fyodor
on the Stalintrek when he lacks sufficient imagination to go from here to
Leningrad or even Tula. Can you picture Fyodor on the Stalintrek? Better
they should have taken me. Better they should have taken his wife." That
day Sophia could hardly contain herself.
As a party member she had access to the law and she read it three
times from start to finish (in her dingy flat by the light of a
smoking, foul-smelling, soft-wax candle) but could find nothing
barring women from the Stalintrek.
Had Fyodor Rasnikov volunteered? Naturally. Everyone volunteered,
although when your name was called you had no choice. There had been
no draft in Russia since the days of the Second War of the People's
Liberation. Volunteer? What, precisely, did the word mean?
She, Sophia Androvna Petrovitch would volunteer, without being told.
Thus it was she found herself at 616 Stalin Avenue, and thus the
balding, myopic, bull-necked Comrade thrust the papers across his desk
at her.
She signed her name with such vehemence and ferocity that she almost
tore through the paper.
CHAPTER II
_Three-score men sit in the crowded, smoke-filled room. Some drink
beer, some squat in moody silence, some talk in an animated fashion
about nothing very urgent. At the one small door, two guards pace back
and forth slowly, creating a gentle swaying of smoke-patterns in the
hazy room. The guards, in simple military uniform, carry small, deadly
looking weapons._
FIRST MAN: Fight City Hall? Are you kidding? They took you, bud.
Don't try to fight it. I know. I _know_.
SECOND MAN: I'm telling you, there was a mistake in the records. I'm
over twenty-six. Two weeks and two days. Already I wrote to my
Congressman. Hell, that's why I voted for him, he better go to bat for
me.
THIRD MAN: You think that's something? I wouldn't be here only those
doctors are crazy. I mean, crazy. Me, with a cyst big as a golf ball
on the base of my spine.
FIRST MAN: You too. Don't try to fight it.
FOURTH MAN: (Newly named Alaric Arkalion III) I look forward to this
as a stimulating adventure. Does the fact that they select men for the
Nowhere Journey once every seven hundred and eighty days strike anyone
as significant?
SECOND MAN: I got my own problems.
ALARIC ARKALION: This is not a thalamic problem, young man. Not
thalamic at all.
THIRD MAN: Young man? Who are you kidding?
ALARIC ARKALION: (Who realizes, thanks to the plastic surgeon, he is
the youngest looking of all, with red cheeks and peach-fuzz whiskers)
It is a problem of the intellect. Why seven hundred and eighty days?
FIRST MAN: I read the magazines, too, chief. You think we're all going
to the planet Mars. How original.
ALARIC ARKALION: As a matter of fact, that is exactly what I think.
SECOND MAN: Mars?
FIRST MAN (Laughing) It's a long way from Mars to City Hall, doc.
SECOND MAN: You mean, through space to Mars?
ALARIC ARKALION: Exactly, exactly. Quite a coincidence, otherwise.
FIRST MAN: You're telling me.
ALARIC ARKALION: (Coldly) Would you care to explain it?
FIRST MAN: Why, sure. You see, Mars is--uh, I don't want to steal your
thunder, chief. Go ahead.
ALARIC ARKALION: Once every seven hundred and eighty days Mars and the
Earth find themselves in the same orbital position with respect to the
sun. In other words, Mars and Earth are closest then. Were there such
a thing as space travel, new, costly, not thoroughly tested, they
would want to make each journey as brief as possible. Hence the seven
hundred and eighty days.
FIRST MAN: Not bad, chief. You got most of it.
THIRD MAN: No one ever said anything about space travel.
FIRST MAN: You think we'd broadcast it or something, stupid? It's part
of a big, important scientific experiment, only we're the hamsters.
ALARIC ARKALION: Ridiculous. You're forgetting all about the Cold War.
FIRST MAN: He thinks we're fighting a war with the Martians. (Laughs)
Orson Wells stuff, huh?
ALARIC ARKALION: With the Russians. The Russians. We developed A
bombs. They developed A bombs. We came up with the H bomb. So did
they. We placed a station up in space, a fifth of the way to the moon.
So did they. Then--nothing more about scientific developments. For
over twenty years. I ask you, doesn't it seem peculiar?
FIRST MAN: Peculiar, he says.
ALARIC ARKALION: Peculiar.
SECOND MAN: I wish my Congressman....
FIRST MAN: You and your Congressman. The way you talk, it was your
vote got him in office.
SECOND MAN: If only I could get out and talk to him.
ALARIC ARKALION: No one is permitted to leave.
FIRST MAN: Punishable by a prison term, the law says.
SECOND MAN. Oh yeah? Prison, shmision. Or else go on the Nowhere
Journey. Well, I don't see the difference.
FIRST MAN: So, go ahead. Try to escape.
SECOND MAN: (Looking at the guards) They got them all over. All over.
I think our mail is censored.
ALARIC ARKALION: It is.
SECOND MAN: They better watch out. I'm losing my temper. I get violent
when I lose my temper.
FIRST MAN: See? See how the guards are trembling.
SECOND MAN: Very funny. Maybe you didn't have a good job or something?
Maybe you don't care. I care. I had a job with a future. Didn't pay
much, but a real blue chip future. So they send me to Nowhere.
FIRST MAN: You're not there yet.
SECOND MAN: Yeah, but I'm going.
THIRD MAN: If only they let you know when. My back is killing me. I'm
waiting to pull a sick act. Just waiting, that's all.
FIRST MAN: Go ahead and wait, a lot of good it will do you.
THIRD MAN: You mind your own business.
FIRST MAN: I am, doc. You brought the whole thing up.
SECOND MAN: He's looking for trouble.
THIRD MAN: He'll get it.
ALARIC ARKALION: We're going to be together a long time. A long time.
Why don't you all relax?
SECOND MAN: You mind your own business.
FIRST MAN: Nuts, aren't they. They're nuts. A sick act, yet.
SECOND MAN: Look how it doesn't bother him. A failure, he was. I can
just see it. What does he care if he goes away forever and doesn't
come back? One bread line is as good as another.
FIRST MAN: Ha-ha.
SECOND MAN: Yeah, well I mean it. Forever. We're going away,
someplace--forever. We're not coming back, ever. No one comes back.
It's for good, for keeps.
FIRST MAN: Tell it to your Congressman. Or maybe you want to pull a
sick act, too?
THIRD MAN: (Hits First Man, who, surprised, crashes back against a
table and falls down) It isn't an act, damn you!
GUARD: All right, break it up. Come on, break it up....
ALARIC ARKALION: (To himself) I wish I saw that ten million dollars
already--_if_ I ever get to see it.
* * * * *
They drove for hours through the fresh country air, feeling the wind
against their faces, listening to the roar their ground-jet made, all
alone on the rimrock highway.
"Where are we going, Kit?"
"Search me. Just driving."
"I'm glad they let you come out this once. I don't know what they
would have done to me if they didn't. I had to see you this once. I--"
Temple smiled. He had absented himself without leave. It had been
difficult enough and he might yet be in a lot of hot water, but it
would be senseless to worry Stephanie. "It's just for a few hours," he
said.
"Hours. When we want a whole lifetime. Kit. Oh, Kit--why don't we run
away? Just the two of us, someplace where they'll never find you. I
could be packed and ready and--"
"Don't talk like that. We can't."
"You want to go where they're sending you. You want to go."
"For God's sake, how can you talk like that? I don't want to go
anyplace, except with you. But we can't run away, Steffy. I've got to
face it, whatever it is."
"No you don't. It's noble to be patriotic, sure. It always was. But
this is different, Kit. They don't ask for part of your life. Not for
two years, or three, or a gamble because maybe you won't ever come
back. They ask for all of you, for the rest of your life, forever, and
they don't even tell you why. Kit, don't go! We'll hide someplace and
get married and--"
"And nothing." Temple stopped the ground-jet, climbed out, opened the
door for Stephanie. "Don't you see? There's no place to hide. Wherever
you go, they'd look. You wouldn't want to spend the rest of your life
running, Steffy. Not with me or anyone else."
"I would. I would!"
"Know what would happen after a few years? We'd hate each other. You'd
look at me and say 'I wouldn't be hiding like this, except for you.
I'm young and--'"
"Kit, that's cruel! I would not."
"Yes, you would. Steffy, I--" A lump rose in his throat. He'd tell her
goodbye, permanently. He had to do it that way, did not want her to
wait endlessly and hopelessly for a return that would not materialize.
"I didn't get permission to leave, Steffy." He hadn't meant to tell
her that, but suddenly it seemed an easy way to break into goodbye.
"What do you mean? No--you didn't...."
"I had to see you. What can they do, send me for longer than forever?"
"Then you do want to run away with me!"
"Steffy, no. When I leave you tonight, Steffy, it's for good. That's
it. The last of Kit Temple. Stop thinking about me. I don't exist.
I--never was." It sounded ridiculous, even to him.
"Kit, I love you. I love you. How can I forget you?"
"It's happened before. It will happen again." That hurt, too. He was
talking about a couple of statistics, not about himself and Stephanie.
"We're different, Kit. I'll love you forever. And--Kit ... I know
you'll come back to me. I'll wait, Kit. We're different. You'll come
back."
"How many people do you think said _that_ before?"
"You don't want to come back, even if you could. You're not thinking
of us at all. You're thinking of your brother."
"You know that isn't true. Sometimes I wonder about Jase, sure. But if
I thought there was a chance to return--I'm a selfish cuss, Steffy. If
I thought there was a chance, you know I'd want you all for myself.
I'd brand you, and that's the truth."
"You do love me!"
"I loved you, Steffy. Kit Temple loved you."
"Loved?"
"Loved. Past tense. When I leave tonight, it's as if I don't exist
anymore. As if I never existed. It's got to be that way, Steffy. In
thirty years, no one ever returned."
"Including your brother, Jase. So now you want to find him. What do I
count for? What...."
"This going wasn't my idea. I wanted to stay with you. I wanted to
marry you. I can't now. None of it. Forget me, Steffy. Forget you ever
knew me. Jase said that to our folks before he was taken." Almost five
years before Jason Temple had been selected for the Nowhere Journey.
He'd been young, though older than his brother Kit. Young, unattached,
almost cheerful he was. Naturally, they never saw him again.
"Hold me, Kit. I'm sorry ... carrying on like this."
They had walked some distance from the ground-jet, through scrub oak
and bramble bushes. They found a clearing, fragrant-scented,
soft-floored still from last autumn, melodic with the chirping of
nameless birds. They sat, not talking. Stephanie wore a gay summer
dress, full-skirted, cut deep beneath the throat. She swayed toward
him from the waist, nestled her head on his shoulder. He could smell
the soft, sweet fragrance of her hair, of the skin at the nape of her
neck. "If you want to say goodbye...." she said.
"Stop it," he told her.
"If you want to say goodbye...."
Her head rolled against his chest. She turned, cradled herself in his
arms, smiled up at him, squirmed some more and had her head pillowed
on his lap. She smiled tremulously, misty-eyed. Her lips parted.
He bent and kissed her, knowing it was all wrong. This was not
goodbye, not the way he wanted it. Quickly, definitely, for once and
all. With a tear, perhaps, a lot of tears. But permanent goodbye. This
was all wrong. The whole idea was to be business-like, objective. It
had to be done that way, or no way at all. Briefly, he regretted
leaving the encampment.
This wasn't goodbye the way he wanted it. The way it had to be. This
was _auf weidersen_.
And then he forgot everything but Stephanie....
* * * * *
"I am Alaric Arkalion III," said the extremely young-looking man with
the old, wise eyes.
How incongruous, Temple thought. The eyes look almost middle-aged. The
rest of him--a boy.
"Something tells me we'll be seeing a lot of each other," Arkalion
went on. The voice was that of an older man, too, belying the youthful
complexion, the almost childish features, the soft fuzz of a beard.
"I'm Kit Temple," said Temple, extending his hand. "Arkalion, a
strange name. I know it from somewhere.... Say! Aren't you--don't you
have something to do with carpets or something?"
"Here and now, no. I am a number. A-92-6417. But my father is--perhaps
I had better say was--my father is Alaric Arkalion II. Yes, that is
right, the carpet king."
"I'll be darned," said Temple.
"Why?"
"Well," Temple laughed. "I never met a billionaire before."
"Here I am not a billionaire, nor will I ever be one again. A-92-6417,
a number. On his way to Mars with a bunch of other numbers."
"Mars? You sound sure of yourself."
"Reasonably. Ah, it is a pleasure to talk with a gentleman. I am
reasonably certain it will be Mars."
Temple nodded in agreement. "That's what the Sunday supplements say,
all right."
"And doubtless you have observed no one denies it."
"But what on Earth do we want on Mars?"
"That in itself is a contradiction," laughed Arkalion. "We'll find
out, though, Temple."
They had reached the head of the line, found themselves entering a
huge, double-decker jet-transport. They found two seats together,
followed the instructions printed at the head of the aisle by
strapping themselves in and not smoking. Talking all around them was
subdued.
"Contrariness has given way to fear," Arkalion observed. "You should
have seen them the last few days, waiting around the induction center,
a two-ton chip on each shoulder. Say, where _were_ you?"
"I--what do you mean?"
"I didn't see you until last evening. Suddenly, you were here."
"Did anyone else miss me?"
"But I remember you the first day."
"Did anyone else miss me? Any of the officials?"
"No. Not that I know of."
"Then I was here," Temple said, very seriously.
Arkalion smiled. "By George, of course. Then you were here. Temple,
we'll get along fine."
Temple said that was swell.
"Anyway, we'd better. Forever is a long time."
Three minutes later, the jet took off and soared on eager wings toward
the setting sun.
* * * * *
"Men, since we are leaving here in a few hours and since there is no
way to get out of the encampment and no place to go over the desert
even if you could," the microphone in the great, empty hall boomed as
the two files of men marched in, "there is no harm in telling you
where you are. From this point, in a limited sense, you shall be kept
abreast of your progress.
"We are in White Sands, New Mexico."
"The Garden Spot of the Universe!" someone shouted derisively,
remembering the bleak hot desert and jagged mountain peaks as they
came down.
"White Sands," muttered Arkalion. "It looks like space travel now,
doesn't it, Kit."
Temple shrugged. "Why?"
"White sands was the center of experiments in rocketry decades ago,
when people still talked about those things. Then, for a long time, no
one heard anything about White Sands. The rockets grew here, Kit."
"I can readily see why. You could look all your life without finding a
barren spot like this."
"Precisely. Someone once called this place--or was it some other place
like it?--someone once called it a good place to throw old razor
blades. If people still used razor blades."
The microphone blared again, after the several hundred men had entered
the great hall and milled about among the echoes. Temple could picture
other halls like this, other briefings. "Men, whenever you are given
instructions, in here or elsewhere, obey them instantly. Our job is a
big one, complicated and exacting. Attention to detail will save us
trouble."
Someone said, "My old man served a hitch in the army, back in the
sixties. That's what he always said, attention to details. The army is
crazy about things like that. Are we in the army or something?"
"This is not the army, but the function is similar," barked the
microphone. "Do as you are told and you will get along."
Stirrings in the crowd. Mutterings. Temple gaped. Microphone, yes--but
receivers also, placed strategically, all around the hall, to pick up
sound. Telio receivers too, perhaps? It made him feel something like a
goldfish.
Apparently someone liked the idea of the two-way microphones. "I got a
question. When are we coming back?"
Laughter. Hooting. Catcalls.
Blared the microphone: "There is a rotation system in operation, men.
When it is feasible, men will be rotated."
"Yeah, in thirty years it ain't been whatsiz--feasible--once!"
"That, unfortunately, is correct. When the situation permits, we will
rotate you home."
"From where? Where are we going?"
"At least tell us that."
"Where?"
"How about that?"
There was a pause, then the microphone barked: "I don't know the
answer to that question. You won't believe me, but it is the truth. No
one knows where you are going. No one. Except the people who are
already there."
More catcalls.
"That doesn't make sense," Arkalion whispered. "If it's space travel,
the pilots would know, wouldn't they?"
"Automatic?" Temple suggested.
"I doubt it. Space travel must still be new, even if it has thirty years
under its belt. If that man speaks the truth--if no one knows ... just
where in the universe _are_ we going?"