The muscles in Marlowe's chest felt cramped from holding his breath in.
While she spoke, he could almost believe she knew what she was doing,
that she had a knack for it. Perhaps she did--brief flashes of clarity
swept over her senile, beclouded mind. And the same with the old man.
These instances of sanity--and luck--had pulled them through.
The ship was back, unharmed. He shouldn't ask for more. And yet--they
had made it to Earth.
The chute in the desk clattered noisily and ejected a packet. Marlowe
looked at it--it was for him. The full medical report; it had been slow
in coming. But this was a small town. The doctor who had looked them
over was good, though. Marlowe made certain of that.
He opened the report and read. When he finished, he knew that though
luck and angels had been with them on takeoff and part of the
passage--along with dimly remembered fragments of unrelated skills that
had somehow coalesced into a working knowledge of how to run a ship--it
wasn't the whole story. When they landed on Earth, it was no miracle.
They had known what they were doing.
"What is it?" asked Ethan. "Habeas corpus?"
"No," said Marlowe. But in one sense it was, though of a kind that no
mere judge could return a verdict on. He read the report again.
"No evidence of mental senility," it said in part. "Micro-samples of
brain cells seem to be taken from someone about forty or fifty. Physical
reactions are slow but firm and consistent. There are puzzling aspects.
Certain obscure functions apparently are those of septuagenarians.
Others are in keeping with the mental age. The weakest organs govern, of
course; they should live another thirty years, as if they really were in
their seventies. However, locomotion and judgment should not be impaired
until the very end. Query: Are you sure these are the people I was
supposed to examine? I couldn't find that deep, inoperable, though
non-malignant tumor the man was supposed to have."
Marlowe folded and refolded the report. Radiation could kill. But it
could also cure. It was a standard treatment. But never so drastic and
not on the aged for this purpose. He had come at once on two monumental
discoveries, both by accident. How many discoveries _were_ accidental?
These two wouldn't live longer, but they would have a better life and in
full possession of their senses.
"Sure, we borrowed--stole the ship," said Ethan abruptly, interrupting
Marlowe's thoughts. "You got it back, but that don't change things.
We've got money. We might have enough to pay for most of the fuel."
"It's not necessary. We'll charge it off as an experiment." Marlowe
tried to frown. Perhaps he succeeded. "In return for not prosecuting, I
want you to abandon your pension and go to work for Interplanet
Transport."
Ethan's joints creaked as he sat up eagerly. "Work it off? Sounds fair."
There were wrinkles on his face and there never would be any less, but
they weren't as deep as they had been, not when they formed the network
of a smile. "I can sweep out a ship. Maybe you'd even let me go on a
trip once in a while. I could be a cabin boy."
They had been considered useless and incapable for so long that they
still didn't realize what he was saying. They weren't childish, but they
thought they were. Re-education would have to proceed slowly.
"I had a trip in mind for you," said Marlowe. "And Amantha will have to
go to work, too."
"Young man, it's been a long time since I cooked anything but one
canalberry shortcake, but you just watch what I can stir up."
"I've got just the place for you," Marlowe answered. "One more
stipulation--don't talk about your experiences. If reporters come
around, and I think they will, say merely that we traced the ship and,
after conferring with you, decided to drop all charges. Understand?"
Amantha nodded. "Look bad for you, wouldn't it? Not guarding the ships
any better than that, I mean."
He was thankful their minds had merely been resharpened, that they would
never regain their original edge. She was right--it _would_ look bad.
Also, the company had competitors. And by the time _they_ got wind of
it, he wanted to have a head-start. Only a few of the aged would fit in
with his plans, though the rest would benefit, and by more than a change
of status.
Marlowe nodded. "That's it. Report tomorrow and we'll go over your
assignments."
"Guess you don't know what we're like," said Ethan. "We've hardly seen
our littlest grandson yet. What do you suppose we stole--experimented
with the ship for?"
Marlowe watched them go and, as the door closed, began to write
hurriedly. The others would be here soon. He wanted to have it
summarized by the time they arrived.
Half an hour later, he looked at what he'd put down. It was on the back
of the medical report.
"Memo: Change the design of our lastest ship. Instead of a heavy-hulled,
superfast rocket, requiring the utmost in bodily coordination and
stamina, reverse every specification. Permeability to radiation no
objection."
He chuckled. Demarest would threaten to resign. It violated every
precept he had ever learned. But the engineer would change his mind when
he saw the rest of it.
* * * * *
Marlowe read on: "Top speed need not be high. Emphasis should be placed
on safety. Must be maneuverable by operators whose reactive time is not
fast, but whose judgment and foresight are trustworthy. Stress
simplicity.
"Memo No. 2: Inaugurate another class of service. In addition to fast
speedy passages when planets are close, a freight system that can
operate continuously is now possible. The planets will open up faster if
a steady supply route can be maintained. Older passengers will be a
mainstay, especially since therapeutic value is sure to be disclosed.
Estimated time to prepare for first run--one year minimum.
"Memo No. 3: Recruiting. Do not overlook the most unlikely skill. It may
indicate undisclosed ability of high order.
"Training: Blank. Improvise as you go along!"
Marlowe got up. He thought he heard planes overhead. If so, he had
something for them. He'd have to argue, but he felt up to it. The sand
had disappeared from his eyes. His step was lighter, too.
And that was because of another item he hadn't written down. He wouldn't
forget.
He was in the mid-forties and would have to begin learning. It was the
awkward age--too old--too young. He couldn't hope to pilot the
murderously fast ships currently in use. And he couldn't take his place
in the clumsy tubs that would soon be swinging between the planets,
opening up space to commerce. He would have to wait, but what he learned
now would be useful some day. It would be better integrated for having
been long buried in his memory.
A vintage aspiration.
When he was immune to the mutating effects of radiation, old and nearly
sleepless, he could retire from this career--into a better one.