He was a coward not only in the eyes of his men
but his father as well. Yet sometimes fear can be
mistaken for the honor badge of great courage....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
December 1950
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Dirk Jemson pressed his forehead against the cool metal of the
astro-chart and hoped that he was not going to be sick. At any moment,
the space cruiser would be entering the gravity field of Caliban, and
if he were ordered to assume control ... he shuddered at the prospect.
Around him in the cabin, the other members of the crew went quietly
about their duties. Allen, the astrogator worked over his charts
and calculations; Kennedy, the atochanic squinted worriedly at the
readings on his gauges; Tabor, the biophysicist was engrossed in a book.
They were men handling routine assignments automatically. If they felt
any of the fear, the impending nausea which constricted Dirk's stomach,
they gave no outward indication of it.
He straightened himself and closed his eyes. These others were at home
out in space, unperturbed by the thought that they were rushing now at
the speed of light toward an unknown world, the dark satellite of
Caliban. They could not understand this space sickness which held him
in a vise. They were like his father.
Dirk looked apprehensively toward the audio-visor above Allen's head.
Momentarily, his father's face would blur into that screen; his
father's voice would saw into the quiet of the cabin with a command.
And all of these men would come to attention and listen, for this would
be the face and voice of Commandant Jemson--Terra's most renowned and
daring space explorer.
Dirk's gaze roamed the cabin. These others--Allen, Kennedy--even Tabor
who was only an observer--would listen to the words of the Commandant;
but they would know that his message was meant only for Dirk. Dirk
Jemson--the Commandant's son.
Wave upon wave of the sickness swept over him and he fought desperately
against the impulse to call out for help. He imagined the surprise
on their faces as they assisted him, and then, afterward, the polite
pretense that nothing had happened.
Why couldn't they leave him on Terra, doing the things he wanted to
do--the things he could do well? He was an alien here. He had been an
alien in the Service from the beginning. The agonizing days at the
strato-school on Mars still stood vividly in his memory.
They had expected such great things of him. After all, he was the son
of Commandant Jemson and his brother Ken had been one of the most
brilliant graduates the school ever had. Now, young Dirk was there to
carry on in the Jemson tradition--to make good for the Commandant and
for the gallant Ken who had lost his life in the first attempt made to
land on Setebos.
* * * * *
They had expected great things--but they had been disappointed. Of
course, his panic on the trip to Mars had been understandable. The
first experience in space. It often happened so. Soon he'd be as calm
and unaffected as the others.
Then, there had been the practice flight to Deimos. For Dirk, it still
had the immediacy of a nightmare. It was five years now--more than
five--and yet he could still visualize the cramped quarters of that
training ship.
The instructor had been a fish-faced young man named Petley. Ensign
Petley. He had seen in Dirk Jemson a chance for advancement. Give the
commandant's son the breaks, he had told himself, and you'll get a
promotion.
As the trainer approached Deimos, Petley had turned from the
visi-shield and smiled patronizingly at the tensed class who crowded
around him.
"We're approaching Deimos, class," he said, and his lips made little
smacking noises as he spoke. "I'm going to let Dirk show us how to make
a landing. Dirk--take the controls."
And with that, he had gestured to Dirk and stepped back. The silence
in the training ship had been absolute. The other thirteen in the
class stared at the recipient of this signal honor. Who but the son of
the commandant would be trusted to land a ship on his first training
flight? Who but the heir to the space mantle of Commandant Jemson.
Dirk remembered the sticky perspiration that had drenched his uniform
as he had stared in disbelief at the beaming Petley. He had stammered
some excuse, but Petley had smiled and firmly insisted. This was no
time to be modest.
Dirk had closed his eyes, moved to the controls. Through the
visi-shield, the grey orb of Deimos rushed toward him. The black maw
of space was a swirling, twisting, rotating nightmare that blurred up
at him.
In the background, Ensign Petley had murmured explanations to the
watchers. Closer and closer whirled Deimos. Dirk's hands had faltered
over the degravitator. Somehow, the movement of the universe had
communicated itself to him. His mind, his heart, his stomach all swam
in a whirlpool of black motion.
"Now, Dirk!" Petley's voice was sharp. "Now! Show the class!"
The eyes had been on him--the urgency in the voice had been great--but
the hypnotic spinning of Deimos in the visi-shield was irresistible.
With a little sigh, Dirk had blacked out.
There had been very little said, naturally. Petley had broken the rules
in turning a ship over to a boot, in the first place; and one of the
other trainees had saved them by seizing the controls at the crucial
moment and decelerating. Dirk had asked to be transferred to another
class, and his request was granted. He was, after all, the Commandant's
son and allowances must be made.
Enough allowances were made to permit him to graduate from the
strato-school. He was a great theorist, his instructors agreed. Perhaps
he lacked a little of his father's daring and drive, but he had the
same comprehension, the same inter-stellar grasp.
And after graduation, nothing sensational. A little routine work
between Mars and Luna--work which permitted him to stay in the
navigator's cell--away from the visi-shield--away from the twisting
whirlpool of space.
For, after all, promotions must not come too rapidly. He was the son
of a famous man and sons of famous men are closely observed by the
Universe. When he rose, it must not be the result of family, but
because he was well qualified and experienced.
* * * * *
His days as a Lunar navigator were as happy as any Dirk had known, but
they were not to last. Commandant Jemson was planning another voyage
of exploration--the most audacious in his long and brilliant career.
The goal was the dark satellite known as Caliban. A space armada would
accompany the commandant on this, the climactic space trek of his
colorful career, and in charge of one cruiser in the fleet would be
Dirk Jemson--the commandant's brilliant but untried son.
And now, they were approaching Caliban.
"What d'ya think we'll find on Caliban, Doc?" Kennedy addressed his
question to Tabor, who had closed his book with a little sigh, and was
staring dreamily ahead.
"Very little." Tabor pursed his lips in an academic pout. "It is my
theory that the atmosphere on Caliban will not support organic life as
we know it."
"But there could be other kinds? Like the Venusians, maybe, or those
things from Circe I've seen at the Zoo."
Tabor nodded. "That's what makes being a part of this expedition so
stimulating. When we reach Caliban, I will be the first biophysicist to
be permitted to examine the satellite. I'll be the first to coordinate
fact and theory."
Allen peered through the visi-shield. "You can start coordinatin'
pretty soon, Doc. Caliban's just ahead."
As Allen spoke, the audio-visor above his head hummed and flickered.
Dirk tensed himself. This was it. In a few seconds, that humming and
flickering would materialize and he would be watching his father's
face, hearing his father's voice.
As with a single impulse, the other three men in the cabin turned and
regarded Dirk. They seemed to sense that the moment was his. Allen
stepped back from the visi-shield; Kennedy turned from his gauges.
Commandant Jemson's face spread on the screen like a slow stain. He
cleared his voice. This was a strong face. The eyes were compelling;
the nose generous and the mouth firm. Steel grey hair, cut short,
completed the impression of controlled power.
"Attention," the voice said; and it, too, was dynamic, forceful.
"Attention, all participants in Operation Caliban. We are now
approaching our objective. The flight, thus far, has been distinguished
by its orderliness. We know that the landing will be equally
well-organized. The high command has decided that the space cruiser
ICARUS, piloted by Lieutenant Dirk Jemson, shall have the honor of
leading the armada in. If that is clear, we will rendezvous on Caliban."
The image flickered for a moment and then dwindled away. The die was
cast. Shakily, Dirk rose to his feet. There had been a second when he
had harbored the wild hope that his father might reserve the honor of
the first landing for himself; that hope had foundered and gone down.
The echo of the older man's pride hung suspended in Dirk's mind. Why
couldn't the commandant understand that with Dirk it was different? Why
couldn't he see the difference?
"Are you all right, sir?" That was Allen, struggling to mask his
concern with an air of forced casualness.
"Yes." Dirk's voice sounded strained and taut. "Yes. I'm all right.
I'll take over, Allen." He moved toward the visi-shield and Allen
retreated.
They were staring at him now, as those fellow students had stared long
years before; but now, it was Caliban which bobbed in the visi-shield,
not Deimos; this was the lead ship in the Jemson Armada, not a trainer;
they were all waiting for him--Dirk Jemson--the commandant's son--to
lead them in.
* * * * *
He clutched at the controls. His mouth was dry and his eyes ached. He
longed desperately to close them--to shut out the spinning universe
before him. He stared at his hands on the controls and they seemed
detached--as if they belonged to someone else.
Allen was at his shoulder with a suggestive clearing of his throat:
"Are you sure, lieutenant, that you're well?"
Impatiently, Dirk nodded. Why didn't they leave him alone? Why couldn't
they ALL leave him alone?