At the top of the ramp, a Lhari glanced briefly at his papers, motioned
him through. Bart passed through the airlock, and into a brightly lit
corridor half full of passengers. The line was moving slowly, and for
the first time Bart had a chance to think.
He had never seen violent death before. In this civilized world, you
didn't. He knew if he thought about Briscoe, he'd start bawling like a
baby, so he swallowed hard a couple of times, set his chin, and
concentrated on the trip to Procyon Alpha. That meant this ship was
outbound on the Aldebaran run--Proxima Centauri, Sirius, Pollux,
Procyon, Capella and Aldebaran.
The line of passengers was disappearing through a doorway. A woman ahead
of Bart turned and said nervously, "We won't be put into cold-sleep
right away, will we?"
He reassured her, remembering his inbound trip five years ago. "No, no.
The ship won't go into warp-drive until we're well past Pluto. It will
be several days, at least."
Beyond the doorway the lights dwindled, and a Mentorian interpreter took
his dark glasses, saying, "Kindly remove your belt, shoes and other
accessories of leather or metal before stepping into the decontamination
chamber. They will be separately decontaminated and returned to you.
Papers, please."
With a small twinge of fright, Bart surrendered them. Would the
Mentorian ask why he was carrying two wallets? Inside the other one, he
still had his Academy ID card which identified him as Bart Steele, and
if the Mentorian looked through them to check, and found out he was
carrying two sets of identity papers....
But the Mentorian merely dumped all his pocket paraphernalia, without
looking at it, into a sack. "Just step through here."
Holding up his trousers with both hands, Bart stepped inside the
indicated cubicle. It was filled with faint bluish light. Bart felt a
strong tingling and a faint electrical smell, and along his forearms
there was a slight prickling where the small hairs were all standing on
end. He knew that the invisible R-rays were killing all the
microorganisms in his body, so that no disease germ or stray fungus
would be carried from planet to planet.
The bluish light died. Outside, the Mentorian gave him back his shoes
and belt, handed him the paper sack of his belongings, and a paper cup
full of greenish fluid.
"Drink this."
"What is it?"
The medic said patiently, "Remember, the R-rays killed _all_ the
microorganisms in your body, including the good ones--the antibodies
that protect you against disease, and the small yeasts and bacteria that
live in your intestines and help in the digestion of your food. So we
have to replace those you need to stay healthy. See?"
The green stuff tasted a little brackish, but Bart got it down all
right. He didn't much like the idea of drinking a solution of "germs,"
but he knew that was silly. There was a big difference between disease
germs and helpful bacteria.
Another Mentorian official, this one a young woman, gave him a key with
a numbered tag, and a small booklet with WELCOME ABOARD printed
on the cover.
The tag was numbered 246-B, which made Bart raise his eyebrows. B class
was normally too expensive for Bart's father's modest purse. It wasn't
quite the luxury class A, reserved for planetary governors and
ambassadors, but it was plenty luxurious. Briscoe had certainly sent him
traveling in style!
B Deck was a long corridor with oval doors; Bart found one numbered 246,
and, not surprisingly, the key opened it. It was a pleasant little
cabin, measuring at least six feet by eight, and he would evidently have
it to himself. There was a comfortably big bunk, a light that could be
turned on and off instead of the permanent glow-walls of the cheaper
class, a private shower and toilet, and a placard on the walls informing
him that passengers in B class had the freedom of the Observation Dome
and the Recreation Lounge. There was even a row of buttons dispensing
synthetic foods, in case a passenger preferred privacy or didn't want to
wait for meals in the dining hall.
A buzzer sounded and a Mentorian voice announced, "Five minutes to Room
Check. Passengers will please remove all metal in their clothing, and
deposit in the lead drawers. Passengers will please recline in their
bunks and fasten the retaining straps before the steward arrives.
Repeat, passengers will please...."
Bart took off his belt, stuck it and his cuff links in the drawer and
lay down. Then, in a sudden panic, he got up again. His papers as Bart
Steele were still in the sack. He got them out, and with a feeling as if
he were crossing a bridge and burning it after him, tore up every scrap
of paper that identified him as Bart Steele of Vega Four, graduate of
the Space Academy of Earth. Now, for better or worse, he was--who _was_
he? He hadn't even looked at the new papers Briscoe had given him!
He glanced through them quickly. They were made out to David Warren
Briscoe, of Aldebaran Four. According to them, David Briscoe was twenty
years old, hair black, eyes hazel, height six foot one inch. Bart
wondered, painfully, if Briscoe had a son and if David Briscoe knew
where his father was. There was also a license, validated with four runs
on the Aldebaran Intrasatellite Cargo Company--planetary ships--with the
rank of Apprentice Astrogator; and a considerable sum of money.
Bart put the papers in his pants pocket and the torn-up scraps of his
old ones into the trashbin before he realized that they looked exactly
like what they were--torn-up legal identity papers and a broken plastic
card. _Nobody_ destroyed identity papers for any good reason. What could
he do?
Then he remembered something from the Academy. Starships were
closed-system cycles, no waste was discarded, but everything was
collected in big chemical tanks, broken down to separate elements,
purified and built up again into new materials. He threw the paper into
the toilet, worked the plastic card back and forth, back and forth until
he had wrenched it into inch-wide bits, and threw it after them.
The cabin door opened and a Mentorian said irritably, "Please lie down
and fasten your straps. I haven't all day."
Hastily Bart flushed the toilet and went to the bunk. Now everything
that could identify him as Bart Steele was on its way to the breakdown
tanks. Before long, the complex hydrocarbons and cellulose would all be
innocent little molecules of carbon, oxygen, hydrogen; they might turn
up in new combinations as sugar on the table!
The Mentorian grumbled, "You young people think the rules mean everybody
but you," and strapped him far too tightly into the bunk. Bart felt
resentful; just because Mentorians could work on Lhari ships, did they
have to act as if they owned everybody?
When the man had gone, Bart drew a deep breath. Was he really doing the
right thing?