[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine August 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
You too can be a Qurono. All you need do is
geoplanct. All you need know is when to stop!
Barnhart sauntered right into the middle of them. He covertly watched
the crew close in around him and he never twitched an eyelash.
_Officers must never panic_, he reminded himself, and manipulated the
morning sighting on the nearest sun through the Fitzgerald lens. It was
exactly 900:25:30, Galactic Time.
He jotted the reading in, satisfied. The warm breath tickling the back
of his neck was unnerving. If he showed fear and grabbed a blaster
from the locker he could probably control them, but he was devastingly
aware that a captain must never show fear.
"Captain Barnhart," Simmons, the mate, drawled politely, "do you still
plan on making the jump at 900 thirty?"
The captain removed his eyeglasses and polished the lenses.
"Simmons," he said in comforting, confiding tones, "you are well aware
that regulations clearly state that a spaceship that phases in on
a star in major trans-spot activity is required to re-phase within
twenty-four hours to avoid being caught in turbulence."
"Yes, sir," Simmons said. "But, as I have stated before, it is my
belief that regulation means that a ship should phase to avoid the
_possibility_ of being caught in an energy storm. We landed right in
the middle of one. As you are aware, sir, if we phase now there is an
excellent chance we will warp right into the sun!"
Barnhart shook his lean, bronze head wearily. "Simmons, the Admiralty
has gone through this thousands of times. Obviously they know our
danger is greater by staying where we are. Why, Ignatz 6Y out there may
_nova_! We'll have to take our chances."
"No, sir." Simmons thrust his pale, blue-veined jaw at him, his light
eyes Nordicly cold below a blond cropping. "The storm spots are dying
down. We aren't phasing yet."
Barnhart drew himself up and looked down at the mate. Behind Simmons,
York moved closer. The captain was suddenly aware of York's low
forehead and muscular, free-swinging arms. It was probably sheer bias,
but he had frequently entertained the idea that Englishmen were closer
to our apelike ancestor than most people ... the way they ran around
painted blue when everybody was civilly wearing clothes and all.
Obviously York was incapable of thinking for himself and was willing to
do anything Simmons commanded him to do.
It became transparent to Barnhart that they were going to mutiny to
avoid following their duty as clearly outlined in regulations. Judging
from York's twitching knuckles, they were going to resist by strangling
him.
Barnhart wondered if this was the time to show fear and unlock a weapon
to defend himself.
York clamped onto him before he could decide on the proper
interpretation of the regulations and just as his mind settled on the
irresolvable question: If a captain must never show fear, why was he
given the key to a hand weapons locker to use when in fear of his life?
* * * * *
Barnhart gazed around the purple clearing with clouded eyes. He
trembled in near traumatic shock. It was almost too much to bear.
Regulations clearly stated that no officer was to be _marooned_ on a .9
Earth-type planet at fourteen-forty Galactic Time, early evening local.
Or (he brushed at his forehead) he was damned certain they at least
strongly _implied_ it.
But fear was such a foreign element to his daily routine he discarded
it.
The scene took him back to his boyhood.
He sorted out the survival supplies, lifting even the portable nuclear
generator effortlessly under the .67 gravity, and remembered how he
used to go camping regularly every month when he was a Boy Scout. He
had been a bookish child, too obsessed with reading, they told him.
So he had put himself on a regular schedule for play. Still, it never
seemed to make people like him much better. After he established his
routine he didn't try to change it--he probably couldn't make things
better and he certainly couldn't stand them any worse.
Barnhart paused in his labors and stripped off his soaked uniform
shirt, deciding to break out his fatigues. As the wet sleeve turned
wrong side out he noticed his wristwatch showed fifteen hundred hours.
As usual he fetched his toothbrush from the personals kit and started
to scrub his teeth.
This was when he saw his first qurono in the act of geoplancting.
It was a deeply disturbing experience.
* * * * *
Barnhart and the lank, slick-bodied alien ignored each other every
morning while the marooned captain had his coffee and the native
chronoped; each afternoon while Barnhart laid down for a nap and the
other xenogutted; and of course before retiring while Barnhart brushed
his teeth and the alien did his regular stint of geoplancting.
The captain sat about arranging living quarters on the planet. The
crew of the _Quincey_ had provided him with every necessity except
communications gear. Still he was confident he would find a way back
and see that Simmons and the rest got the punishment clearly called for
in Regulation C-79, Clause II.
This driving need to have the regulation obeyed was as close as he
could get to anger.
His lot was a rough and primitive one, but he sat down to doing
the best with things that he could. Using the nuclear reactor, he
synthesized a crude seven-room cottage. He employed an unorthodox
three-story architecture. This gave him a kind of observation tower
from which he could watch to see if the natives started to get
restless. Traditionally, this would be a bad sign.
Humming to himself, he was idly adding some rococo work around the
front door when thirteen-hundred-thirty came up and he stopped for his
nap. At the edge of the now somewhat larger clearing the alien was
xenogutting in the indigo shadows of a drooping bush-tree. Since he
hadn't furnished the house yet, Barnhart stretched out on the grass.
Suddenly he sat upright and shot a glance at the alien. Could this sort
of thing be regarded as restless activity?
He was safe so long as the aliens maintained their regular routine but
if they started to deviate from it he was in trouble.
He tossed around on the velvet blades for some minutes.
He got to his feet.
The nap would have to be by-passed. As much as he resented the
intrusion on his regular routine he would have to find some other
natives. He had to know if all the aliens on the planet xenogutted each
afternoon as he was having his nap.
The thought crossed his mind that he might not wake up some afternoon
if his presence was causing the aliens to deviate dangerously from
their norm.
* * * * *
The most unnerving thing about the village was that there were exactly
ten houses and precisely one hundred inhabitants. Each house was 33.3
feet on a side. The surfaces were hand-hewn planking or flat-sided
logs. There were four openings: each opposing two were alternately one
foot and an alarming ten feet high. Barnhart couldn't see the roof. The
buildings appeared square, so he supposed the houses were 33.3 feet
tall.
At the end of the single packed, violet-earthed street facing up the
road was a large sign of some unidentifiable metal bearing the legend
in standard Galactic: