She hadn't meant to be so cruel. Or so stupid. But when they were
quarreling, or when he talked that repugnant, dedicated, other-world
garble, something always went cold and furious and--lonely inside her,
and made her fight back unfairly.
After he'd gone--for good, he said--her anger had sustained her for a
few weeks. Then, bleakly, she knew she'd go to the ends of Earth for
Jack. Or even to the Moon....
* * * * *
Sitting rigid in the tense stillness of a rocket ship that was about
to leap from Earth, Marcia started as an officer ducked his head into
the passenger compartment from the pilot room's deep glow. But it
wasn't Jack. The officer's lips moved hurriedly as he counted over the
seats. He ducked back out of sight. From the bulk-heads, the overhead,
everywhere, came a deep, quiet rumble. Some of the passengers looked
anxious, some excited, and some just leafed casually through magazines.
Now the brown-clad Miss Eagen was speaking from the head of the aisle.
"Those of you who haven't been in a rocket before won't find it much
different from being in an airplane. At the same time--" She paused,
quiet brown eyes solemn. "What you are about to experience is something
that will make you proud to belong to the human race."
_That_ again! thought Marcia furiously; and then all emotion left her
but cold, ravening fear as the rumble heightened. She tried to close
her eyes, her ears against it, but her mind wouldn't respond. She
squirmed in her chair and found herself staring down at the field.
It looked the way she felt--flat and pale and devoid of life, with a
monstrous structure of terror squatting in it. The scene was abruptly
splashed with a rushing sheet of flame that darkened the daytime sky.
Then it was torn from her vision.
It was snatched away--the buildings, the trees, the roads surrounding
the field seemed to pour in upon it, shrinking as they ran together.
Roads dried up like parched rivers, thinning and vanishing into the
circle of her horrified vision. A great, soft, uniform weight pressed
her down and back; she fought it, but it was too big and too soft.
Now Earth's surface was vague and Sun-splashed. Marcia's sense of loss
tore at her. She put up her hands, heavily, and pressed the glass as
if she could push it out, push herself out, go back, back to Earth
and solidity. Clouds shot by like bullets, fell away until they were
snowflakes roiling in violet haze. Then, in the purling universe that
had grown around the ship, Earth was a mystic circle, a shallow dish
floating darkly and heavily below.
"We are now," said Miss Eagen's calm voice, "thirty-seven miles over
Los Angeles."
After that, there was scarcely room for thought--even for fear, though
it lurked nearby, ready to leap. There was the ascent, the quiet,
sleeplike ascent into space. Marcia very nearly forgot to breathe. She
had been prepared for almost anything except this quality of peace and
awe.
* * * * *
She didn't know how long she had been sitting there, awestruck,
spellbound, when she realized that she had to finish the job she'd
started, and do it right now, this minute. It might already be too
late ... she wished, suddenly, and for the very first time, that she'd
paid more attention to Jack's ramblings about orbits and turn-over
points and correction blasts, and all that gobbledegook. She glanced
outside again and the sky was no longer deep blue, but black. She
pressed herself up out of the soft chair--it was difficult, because of
the one-and-a-half gravities the ship was holding--and plodded heavily
up the aisle. Miss Eagen was just rising from the chair in which she
sat for the take-off.
"Miss Eagen--"
"Yes, Mrs. Fos--why, what's the matter?"
Seeing the startled expression on the stewardess' face, Marcia realized
she must be looking like a ghost. She put a hand to her cheek and found
it clammy.
"Come along," said Miss Eagen cheerfully. She put a firm arm around
Marcia's shoulder. "Just a touch of space-sickness. This way. _That's_
it. We'll have you fixed up in a jiffy."
"It isn't s-space sickness," said Marcia in a very small and very
positive voice. She let herself be led forward, through the door and to
the left, where there was a small and compact ship's hospital.
"Now, now," said Miss Eagen briskly, "just you lie down there, Mrs.
Foster. Does it hurt any special place?"
Marcia lay down gratefully. She closed her eyes tightly and said, "I'm
not Mrs. Foster. It doesn't hurt."
"You're not--" Miss Eagen apparently decided to take one thing at a
time. "How do you feel?"
"Scared," said Marcia.
"Why, what--is there to be scared of?"
"I'm pregnant."
"Well, that's no--You're _what_?"
"I'm Mrs. McHenry. I'm Jack's wife."
There was such a long pause that Marcia opened her eyes. Miss Eagen was
looking at her levelly. She said, "I'll have to examine you."
"I know. Go ahead."
Miss Eagen did, swiftly and thoroughly. "You're so right," she
breathed. She went to the small sink, stripping off her rubber gloves.
With her back to Marcia, she said, "I'll have to tell the captain, you
know."
"I know. I'd rather ... tell him myself."
"Thanks," said Miss Eagen flatly. Marcia felt as if she'd been slapped.
Miss Eagen dried her hands and crossed to an intercom. "Eagen to
Captain."
"McHenry here."
"Captain McHenry, could you come back to the hospital right away?"
"Not right away, Sue." _Sue! No wonder he had found it so easy to walk
out!_ She looked at the trim girl with hating eyes. The intercom said,
"You know I've got course-correction computations from here to yonder.
Give me another forty minutes."
"I think," said Sue Eagen into the mike, "that the computations can
wait."
"The hell you do!" The red contact light on the intercom went out.
"He'll be right here," said Miss Eagen.
* * * * *
Marcia sat up slowly, clumsily. Miss Eagen did not offer to help.
Marcia's hands strayed to her hair, patted it futilely.
He came in, moving fast and purposefully, as always. "Sue, what in time
do you think you--_Marcia!_" His dark face broke into a delighted grin
and he put his arms out. "You--you're here--_here_, on my ship!"
"I'm pregnant, Jack," she said. She put out a hand to ward him off. She
couldn't bear the thought of his realizing what she had done while he
had his arms around her.
"You _are_? You--we--" He turned to Miss Eagen, who nodded once, her
face wooden. "Just find it out?"
This time Miss Eagen didn't react at all, and Marcia knew that she had
to speak up. "No, Jack. I knew weeks ago."
There was no describable change in his face, but the taut skin of his
space-tanned cheek seemed, somehow, to draw inward. His eyebrow ridges
seemed to be more prominent, and he looked older, and very tired.
Softly and slowly he asked, "What in God's name made you get on the
ship?"
"I had to, Jack. I had to."
"Had to kill yourself?" he demanded brutally. "This tears it. This ties
it up in a box with a bloody ribbon-bow. I suppose you know what this
means--what I've got to do now?"
"Spin ship," she replied immediately, and looked up at him pertly, like
a kindergarten child who knows she has the right answer.
He groaned.
"You said you could do it."
"I can ... try," he said hollowly. "But--why, _why_?"
"Because," she said bleakly, "I learned long ago that a man grows to
love what he has to fight for."
"And you were going to make me fight for you and the child--even if the
lives of a hundred and seventy people were involved?"
"You said you could handle it. I thought you could."
"I'll try," he said wearily. "Oh, I'll try." He went out, dragging his
feet, his shoulders down, without looking at her.
There was a stiff silence. Marcia looked up at Miss Eagen. "It's true,
you know," she said. "A man grows to love the things he has to defend,
no matter how he felt about them before."
The stewardess looked at her, her face registering a strange mixture of
detachment and wonder. "You really believe that, don't you?"
Marcia's patience, snapped. "You don't have to look so superior. I know
what's bothering _you_. Well, he's _my_ husband, and don't you forget
it."
* * * * *
Miss Eagen's breath hissed in. Her eyes grew bright and she shook her
head slightly. Then she turned on her heel and went to the intercom.
Marcia thought for a frightened moment that she was going to call Jack
back again. Instead she dialed and said, "Hospital to Maintenance.
Petrucelli?"
"Petrucelli here."
"Come up with a crescent wrench, will you, Pet?"
Another stiff silence. A question curled into Marcia's mind and she
asked it. "Do you work on all these ships at one time or another?"
Miss Eagen did not beat around the bush. "I've been with Captain
McHenry for three years. I hope to work with him always. I think he's
the finest in the Service."
"He--th-thinks as well of you, no doubt."
Petrucelli lounged in, a big man, easy-going, powerful. "What's busted,
muscles?"
"Bolt the bed to the bulkhead, Pet. Mrs. McHenry--I'm sorry, but you'll
have to get up."
Marcia bounced resentfully off the cot and stood aside. Petrucelli
looked at her, cocked an eyebrow, looked at Miss Eagen, and asked,
"Jaywalker?"
"Please hurry, Pet." She turned to Marcia. "I've got to explain to the
passengers that there won't be any free fall. Most of them are looking
forward to it." She went out.
Marcia watched the big man work for a moment. "Why are you putting the
bed on the wall?"
He looked at her and away, quickly. "Because, lady, when we start to
spin, that outside bulkhead is going to be _down_. Centrifugal force,
see?" And before she could answer him he added, "I can't talk and work
at the same time."
Feeling very much put-upon, Marcia waited silently until he was
finished, and the bed hung ludicrously to the wall like a walking fly.
She thanked him timidly, and he ignored it and went out.
Miss Eagen returned.
"That man was very rude," said Marcia.
Miss Eagen looked at her coolly. "I'm sorry," she said, obviously not
meaning sorry at all.
Marcia wet her lips. "I asked you a question before," she said evenly.
"About you and the captain."
"You did," said Sue Eagen. "Please don't."
"And why not?"
"Because," said Miss Eagen, and in that moment she looked almost as
drawn as Jack had, "I'm supposed to be of service to the passengers at
all times no matter what. If I have feelings at all, part of my job is
to keep them to myself."
"Very courteous, I'm sure. However, I want to release you from your
sense of duty. I'm _most_ interested in what you have to say."
Miss Eagen's arched nostrils seemed pinched and white. "You really want
me to speak my piece?"
* * * * *
In answer Marcia leaned back against the bulkhead and folded her arms.
Miss Eagen gazed at her for a moment, nodded as if to herself, and
said, "I suppose there always will be people who don't pay attention
to the rules. Jaywalkers. But out here jaywalkers don't have as much
margin for error as they do crossing against a traffic light on Earth."
She looked Marcia straight in the eye. "What makes a jaywalker isn't
ignorance. It's a combination of stupidity and stubbornness. The
jaywalker does _know_ better. In your case...."
She sighed. "It's well known--even by you--that the free-fall condition
has a weird effect on certain people. The human body is in an
unprecedented situation in free fall. Biologically it has experienced
the condition for very short periods--falling out of trees, or on
delayed parachute jumps. But it isn't constituted to take hour after
hour of fall."
"What about floating in a pool for hours?" asked Marcia sullenly.
"That's quite a different situation. 'Down' exists when you're
swimming. Free-fall means that everything around you is 'up.' The
body's reactions to free-fall go much deeper than space-nausea and a
mild feeling of panic. When there's a glandular imbalance of certain
kinds, the results can be drastic. Apparently some instinctual part
of the mind reacts as if there were a violent emergency, when no
emergency is recognized by the reasoning part of the mind. There
are sudden floods of adrenalin; the 17-kesteroids begin spastic
secretions; the--well, it varies in individuals. But it's pretty well
established that the results can be fatal. It kills men with prostate
trouble--sometimes. It kills women in menopause--often. It kills women
in the early stages of pregnancy--_always_."
"But how?" asked Marcia, interested in spite of her resentment.
"Convulsions. A battle royal between a glandular-level panic and a
violent and useless effort of the will to control the situation.
Muscles tear, working against one another. Lungs rupture and air
is forced into the blood-stream, causing embolism and death. Not
everything is known about it, but I would guess that pregnant women are
especially susceptible because their protective reflexes, through and
through, are much more easily stimulated."
"And the only thing that can be done about it is to supply gravity?"
"Or centrifugal force (or centripetal, depending on where you're
standing, but why be technical?)--or, better yet, keep those people
off the ships."
"So now Jack will spin the ship until I'm pressed against the walls
with the same force as gravity, and then everything will be all right."
"You make it sound so simple."
"There's no need to be sarcastic!" Marcia blurted. "Jack can do it. You
think he can, don't you? Don't you?"
"He can do anything any space skipper has ever done, and more,"
said Sue Eagen, and her face glowed. "But it isn't easy. Right this
minute he's working over the computer--a small, simple, ship-board
computer--working out orbital and positional and blast-intensity data
that would be a hard nut for the giant calculators on Earth to crack.
And he's doing it in half the time--or less--than it would take the
average mathematician, because he has to; because it's a life-and-death
matter if he makes a mistake or takes too long."
* * * * *
"But--but--"
"But what?" Miss Eagen's composure seemed to have been blasted to
shreds by the powerful currents of her indignation. Her eyes flashed.
"You mean, but why doesn't he just work the ship while it's spinning
the same way he does when it isn't?"
Through a growing fear, Marcia nodded mutely.
"He'll spin the ship on its long axis," said the stewardess with
exaggerated patience. "That means that the steering jet tubes in the
nose and tail are spinning, too. You don't just turn with a blast on
one tube or another. The blasts have to be let off in hundreds of short
bursts, timed to the hundredth of a second, to be able to make even a
slight course correction. The sighting instruments are wheeling round
and round while you're checking your position. Your fuel has to be
calculated to the last ounce--because enough fuel for a Moon flight,
with hours of fuelless free-fall, and enough fuel for a power spin
and course corrections while spinning, are two very different things.
Captain McHenry won't be able to maneuver to a landing on the Moon.
He'll do it exactly right the first time, or not at all."