I.

"All passengers, will you[1] pay attention, please?" All the

high-fidelity speakers of the starship _Procyon_ spoke as one, in the

skillfully-modulated voice of the trained announcer. "This is the fourth

and last cautionary announcement. Any who are not seated will seat

themselves at once. Prepare for take-off acceleration of one and

one-half gravities; that is, everyone will weigh one-half again as much

as his normal Earth weight for about fifteen minutes. We lift in twenty

seconds; I will count down the final five seconds.... Five ... Four ...

Three ... Two ... One ... Lift!"

[1] Transcriber's Note: The original read "will pay attention,

please?"

[Illustration]

The immense vessel rose from her berth; slowly at first, but with

ever-increasing velocity; and in the main lounge, where many of the

passengers had gathered to watch the dwindling Earth, no one moved for

the first five minutes. Then a girl stood up.

She was not a startlingly beautiful girl; no more so than can be seen

fairly often, of a summer afternoon, on Seaside Beach. Her hair was an

artificial yellow. Her eyes were a deep, cool blue. Her skin, what could

be seen of it--she was wearing breeches and a long-sleeved shirt--was

lightly tanned. She was only about five-feet-three, and her build was

not spectacular. However, every ounce of her one hundred fifteen pounds

was exactly where it should have been.

First she stood tentatively, flexing her knees and testing her weight.

Then, stepping boldly out into a clear space, she began to do a

high-kicking acrobatic dance; and went on doing it as effortlessly and

as rhythmically as though she were on an Earthly stage.

"You mustn't _do_ that, Miss!" A stewardess came bustling up. Or,

rather, not exactly bustling. Very few people, and almost no

stewardesses, either actually bustle in or really enjoy one point five

gees. "You really _must_ resume your seat, Miss. I must insist.... Oh,

you're Miss Warner...."

She paused.

"That's right, Barbara Warner. Cabin two eight one."

"But really, Miss Warner, it's regulations, and if you should fall...."

"Foosh to regulations, and _pfui_ on 'em. I won't fall. I've been

wondering, every time out, if I could do a thing, and now I'm going to

find out."

Jackknifing double, she put both forearms flat on the carpet and lifted

both legs into the vertical. Then, silver slippers pointing motionlessly

ceilingward, she got up onto her hands and walked twice around a vacant

chair. She then performed a series of flips that would have done credit

to a professional acrobat; the finale of which left her sitting calmly

in the previously empty seat.

"See?" she informed the flabbergasted stewardess. "I _could_ do it, and

I didn't...."

Her voice was drowned out in a yell of approval as everybody who could

clap their hands did so with enthusiasm. "More!" "Keep it up, gal!" "Do

it again!"

"Oh, I didn't do that to show off!" Barbara Warner flushed hotly as she

met the eyes of the nearby spectators. "Honestly I didn't--I just _had_

to know if I could." Then, as the applause did not die down, she fairly

scampered out of the room.

* * * * *

For one hour before the _Procyon's_ departure from Earth and for three

hours afterward, First Officer Carlyle Deston, Chief Electronicist, sat

attentively at his board. He was five feet eight inches tall and weighed

one hundred sixty-two pounds net. Just a little guy, as spacemen go.

Although narrow-waisted and, for his heft, broad-shouldered, he was

built for speed and maneuverability, not to haul freight.

Watching a hundred lights and half that many instruments, listening to

two phone circuits, one with each ear, and hands moving from switches to

rheostats to buttons and levers, he was completely informed as to the

instant-by-instant status of everything in his department.

Although attentive, he was not tense, even during the countdown. The

only change was that at the word "Two" his right forefinger came to rest

upon a red button and his eyes doubled their rate of scan. If anything

in his department had gone wrong, the _Procyon_'s departure would have

been delayed.

And again, well out beyond the orbit of the moon, just before the

starship's mighty Chaytor engines hurled her out of space as we know it

into that unknowable something that is hyperspace, he poised a finger.

But Immergence, too, was normal; all the green lights except one went

out, needles dropped to zero, both phones went dead, all signals

stopped. He plugged a jack into a socket below the one remaining green

light and spoke:

"Procyon One to Control Six. Flight Eight Four Nine. Subspace Radio Test

One. How do you read me, Control Six?"

"Control Six to Procyon One. I read you ten and zero. How do you read

me, Procyon One?"

"Ten and zero. Out." Deston flipped a toggle and the solitary green

light went out.

Perfect signal and zero noise. That was that. From now until

Emergence--unless something happened--he might as well be a passenger.

Everything was automatic, unless and until some robot or computer yelled

for help. Deston leaned back in his bucket seat and lighted a cigarette.

He didn't need to scan the board constantly now; any trouble signal

would jump right out at him.

Promptly at Dee plus Three Zero Zero--three hours, no minutes, no

seconds after departure--his relief appeared.

"All black, Babe?" the newcomer asked.

"As the pit, Eddie. Take over." Eddie did so. "You've picked out your

girl friend for the trip, I suppose?"

"Not yet. I got sidetracked watching Bobby Warner. She was doing

handstands and handwalks and forward and back flips in the lounge--under

one point five gees yet. _Wow!_ And after that all the other women

looked like a dime's worth of catmeat. She doesn't stand out too much

until she starts to move, but then--Oh, _brother_!" Eddie rolled his

eyes, made motions with his hands, and whistled expressively. "Talk

about poetry in motion! Just walking across a stage, she'd bring down

the house and stop the show cold in its tracks."

"O. K., O. K., don't blow a fuse," Deston said, resignedly. "I know.

You'll love her undyingly; all this trip, maybe. So bring her up, next

watch, and I'll give her a gold badge. As usual."

"You ... how _dumb_ can you get?" Eddie demanded. "D'you think I'd even

_try_ to play footsie with _Barbara Warner_?"

"You'd play footsie with the Archangel Michael's sister if she'd let

you; and she probably would. So who's Barbara Warner?"

Eddie Thompson gazed at his superior pityingly. "I know you're ten nines

per cent monk, Babe, but I _did_ think you pulled your nose out of the

megacycles often enough to learn a _few_ of the facts of life. Did you

ever hear of Warner Oil?"

"I think so." Deston thought for a moment. "Found a big new field,

didn't they? In South America somewhere?"

"Just the biggest on Earth, is all. And not only on Earth. He operates

in all the systems for a hundred parsecs around, and he never sinks a

dry hole. Every well he drills is a gusher that blows the rig clear up

into the stratosphere. Everybody wonders how he does it. My guess is

that his wife's an oil-witch, which is why he lugs his whole family

along wherever he goes. Why else would he?"

"Maybe he loves her. It happens, you know."

"Huh?" Eddie snorted. "After twenty years of her? Comet-gas! Anyway,

would _you_ have the sublime gall to make passes at Warner Oil's

heiress, with more millions in her own sock than you've got dimes?"

"I don't make passes."

"That's right, you don't. Only at books and tapes, even on ground

leaves; more fool you. Well, then, would you _marry_ anybody like that?"

"Certainly, if I loved...." Deston paused, thought a moment, then went

on: "Maybe I wouldn't, either. She'd make me dress for dinner. She'd

probably have a live waiter; maybe even a butler. So I guess I wouldn't,

at that."

"You nor me neither, brother. But _what_ a dish! What a lovely,

luscious, toothsome _dish_!" Eddie mourned.

"You'll be raving about another one tomorrow," Deston said, unfeelingly,

as he turned away.

"I don't know; but even if I do, _she_ won't be anything like _her_,"

Eddie said, to the closing door.

And Deston, outside the door, grinned sardonically to himself. Before

his next watch, Eddie would bring up one of the prettiest girls aboard

for a gold badge; the token that would let her--under approved escort,

of course--go through the Top.

He himself never went down to the Middle, which was passenger territory.

There was nothing there he wanted. He was too busy, had too many

worthwhile things to do, to waste time that way ... but the hunch was

getting stronger and stronger all the time. For the first time in all

his three years of deep-space service he felt an overpowering urge to go

down into the very middle of the Middle; to the starship's main lounge.

He knew that his hunches were infallible. At cards, dice, or wheels he

had always had hunches and he had always won. That was why he had

stopped gambling, years before, before anybody found out. He was that

kind of a man.

Apart from the matter of unearned increment, however, he always followed

his hunches; but this one he did not like at all. He had been resisting

it for hours, because he had never visited the lounge and did not want

to visit it now. But _something_ down there was pulling like a tractor,

so he went. He didn't go to his cabin; didn't even take off his

side-arm. He didn't even think of it; the .41 automatic at his hip was

as much a part of his uniform as his pants.

Entering the lounge, he did not have to look around. She was playing

bridge, and as eyes met eyes and she rose to her feet a shock-wave swept

through him that made him feel as though his every hair was standing

straight on end.

"Excuse me, please," she said to the other three at her table. "I must

go now." She tossed her cards down onto the table and walked straight

toward him; eyes still holding eyes.

He backed hastily out into the corridor, and as the door closed behind

her they went naturally and wordlessly into each other's arms. Lips met

lips in a kiss that lasted for a long, long time. It was not a

passionate embrace--passion would come later--it was as though each of

them, after endless years of bootless, fruitless longing, had come

finally home.

"Come with me, dear, where we can talk," she said, finally; eying with

disfavor the half-dozen highly interested spectators.

And a couple of minutes later, in cabin two hundred eighty-one, Deston

said: "So _this_ is why I had to come down into passenger territory. You

came aboard at exactly zero seven forty-three."

"Uh-uh." She shook her yellow head. "A few minutes before that. That was

when I read your name in the list of officers on the board. First

Officer, Carlyle Deston. I got a tingle that went from the tips of my

toes up and out through the very ends of my hair. Nothing like when we

actually saw each other, of course. We both knew the truth, then. It's

wonderful that you're so strongly psychic, too."

"I don't know about that," he said, thoughtfully. "All my training has

been based on the axiomatic fact that the map is _not_ the territory.

Psionics, as I understand it, holds that the map is--practically--the

territory, but can't prove it. So I simply don't know _what_ to believe.

On one hand, I have had real hunches all my life. On the other, the

signal doesn't carry much information. More like hearing a siren when

you're driving along a street. You know you have to pull over and stop,

but that's all you know. It could be police, fire ambulance--_anything_.

Anybody with any psionic ability at all ought to do a lot better than

that, I should think."

"Not necessarily. You've been fighting it. Ninety-nine per cent of your

mind doesn't _want_ to believe it; is dead set against it. So it has to

force its way through whillions and skillions of ohms of resistance, so

only the most powerful stimuli--'maximum signal' in your jargon,

perhaps?--can get through to you at all." Suddenly she giggled like a

schoolgirl. "You're either psychic or the biggest wolf in the known

universe, and I know you aren't a wolf. If you hadn't been as psychic as

I am, you'd've jumped clear out into subspace when a perfectly strange

girl attacked you."

"How do you know so much about me?"

"I made it a point to. One of the juniors told me you're the only virgin

officer in all space."

"That was Eddie Thompson."

"Uh-huh." She nodded brightly.

"Well, is that bad?"

"Anything else but. That is, he thought it was terrible--outrageous--a

betrayal of the whole officer caste--but to me it makes everything just

absolutely perfect."

"Me, too. How soon can we get married?"

"I'd say right now, except...." She caught her lower lip between her

teeth and thought. "No, no 'except'. Right now, or as soon as you can.

You can't, without resigning, can you? They'd fire you?"

"Don't worry about that," he grinned. "My record is good enough, I

think, to get a good ground job. Even if they fire me for not waiting

until we ground, there's lots of jobs. I can support you, sweetheart."

"Oh, I know you can. I wasn't thinking of _that_. You wouldn't _like_ a

ground job."

"What difference does that make?" he asked, in honest surprise. "A man

grows up. I couldn't have you with me in space, and I'd like that a lot

less. No, I'm done with space, as of now. But what was that 'except'

business?"

* * * * *

"I thought at first I'd tell my parents first--they're both aboard--but

I decided not to. She'd scream bloody murder and he'd roar like a lion

and none of it would make me change my mind, so we'll get married

first."

He looked at her questioningly; she shrugged and went on: "We aren't

what you'd call a happy family. She's been trying to make me marry an

old goat of a prince and I finally told her to go roll her hoop--to get

a divorce and marry the foul old beast herself. And to consolidate two

empires, he's been wanting me to marry a multi-billionaire--who is also

a louse and a crumb and a heel. Last week he _insisted_ on it and I blew

up like an atomic bomb. I told him if I got married a thousand times I'd

pick every one of my husbands myself, without the least bit of help from

either him or her. I'd keep on finding oil and stuff for him, I said,

but that was all...."

"_Oil_!" Deston exclaimed, involuntarily, as everything fell into place

in his mind. The way she walked; poetry in motion ... the oil-witch ...

two empires ... more millions than he had dimes.... "Oh, you're Barbara

Warner, then."

"Why, of course; but my friends call me 'Bobby'. Didn't you--but of

course you didn't--you never read passenger lists. If you did, you'd've

got a tingle, too."

"I got plenty of tingle without reading, believe me. However, I never

expected to----"

"Don't say it, dear!" She got up and took both his hands in hers. "I

know how you feel. I don't like to let you ruin your career, either, but

_nothing_ can separate us, now that we've found each other. So I'll tell

you this." Her eyes looked steadily into his. "If it bothers you the

least bit, later on, I'll give every dollar I own to some foundation or

other, I swear it."

He laughed shamefacedly as he took her in his arms. "Since that's the

way _you_ look at it, it won't bother me a bit."

"Uh-huh, you _do_ mean it." She snuggled her head down into the curve of

his neck. "I can tell."

"I know you can, sweetheart." Then he had another thought, and with

strong, deft fingers he explored the muscles of her arms and back. "But

those acrobatics in plus gee--and you're trained down as hard and fine

as I am, and it's my business to be--how come?"

"I majored in Physical Education and I love it. And I'm a Newmartian,

you know, so I teach a few courses----"

"Newmartian? I've heard--but you aren't a colonial; you're as Terran as

I am."

"By blood, yes; but I was born on Newmars. Our actual and legal

residence has always been there. The tax situation, you know."

"I don't know, no. Taxes don't bother me much. But go ahead. You teach a

few courses. In?"

"Oh, bars, trapeze, ground-and-lofty tumbling, acrobatics, aerialistics,

high-wire, muscle-control, judo--all that kind of thing."

"Ouch! So if you ever happen to accidentally get mad at me you'll tie me

right up into a pretzel?"

"I doubt it; very seriously. I've tossed lots of two-hundred-pounders

around, of course, but they were _not_ space officers." She laughed

unaffectedly as she tested his musculature much more professionally and

much more thoroughly than he had tested hers. "Definitely I couldn't. A

good big man can always take a good little one, you know."

"But I'm not big; I'm just a little squirt. You've probably heard what

they call me?"

"Yes, and I'm going to call you 'Babe', too, and mean it the same way

they do. Besides, who wants a man a foot taller than she is and twice as

big? You're just _exactly_ the right size!"

"That's spreading the good old oil, Bobby, but I'll never tangle with

you if I can help it. Buzz-saws are small, too, and sticks of dynamite.

Shall we go hunt up the parson--or should it be a priest? Or a rabbi?"

"Even _that_ doesn't make a particle of difference to you."

"Of course not. How could it?"

"A parson, please." Then, with a bright, quick grin: "We _have_ got a

lot to learn about each other, haven't we?"

"Some details, of course, but nothing of any importance and we'll have

plenty of time to learn them."

"And we'll love every second of it. You'll live down here in the Middle

with me, won't you, all the time you aren't actually on duty?"

"I can't imagine doing anything else," and the two set out, arms around

each other, to find a minister. And as they strolled along:

"Of course you won't actually _need_ a job, ever, or my money, either.

You never even thought of dowsing, did you?"

"Dowsing? Oh, that witch stuff. Of course not."

"Listen, darling. All the time I've been touching you I've been learning

about you. And you've been learning about me."

"Yes, but----"

"No buts, buster. You have really tremendous powers, and they _aren't_

latent, either. All you have to do is quit fighting them and _use_ them.

You're ever so much stronger and fuller than I am. All I can do at

dowsing is find water, oil, coal, and gas. I'm no good at all on

metals--I couldn't feel gold if I were perched right on the roof of Fort

Knox; I couldn't feel radium if it were frying me to a crisp. But I'm

_positive_ that you can tune yourself to anything you want to find."

He didn't believe it, and the argument went on until they reached the

"Reverend's" quarters. Then, of course, it was dropped automatically;

and the next five days were deliciously, deliriously, ecstatically happy

days for them both.