They were waiting. Waiting on him. This was the moment--the moment he
had hoped to avoid--when other men depended on him to put them into
a safe harbor in space. His father was testing him. He was supposed
to show the superiority of the breed--the special gifts that made the
Jemson men apart.
He closed his eyes for a moment and began to decelerate.
"Careful of the flagship!" Kennedy's voice was low, but tense. "You're
cutting in on him."
Dirk forced himself to open his eyes. The universe spun and whirled in
a confused circle before him and in the center of that gyrating mass
was the flagship. Somehow he missed it.
"Steady on your course, ICARUS!" This was the crisp instruction on the
audio-visor.
Caliban rushed toward them, but all space between was a twisting,
writhing spectrum of color. Dirk's mind was a pinwheel, spinning in
reckless abandon toward oblivion. He couldn't keep his eyes open.
He was sick. Really sick. A sob tore through his clenched teeth. He
slumped over the controls.
"Lieutenant!" That was Allen's voice, and then, something shoved him
to the floor. There was a wrenching, tearing of metal, and a sickening
lurch. Resolutely, Dirk kept his eyes tight shut against what he might
see when he opened them.
There was a murmur of voices--Kennedy, Allen, Tabor--and then,
gradually, a deceleration as the ship settled into Caliban's atmosphere.
It had happened again--only not in an isolated training ship with a
fish-faced instructor, but before the entire Armada. They all knew now,
and Dirk was almost relieved. It was as if he had relinquished a role
that he had been ill-suited to play.
"Lieutenant Jemson," a voice said close to his ear. "Lieutenant are you
all right?" It was Tabor, the biophysicist.
Dirk opened his eyes. Allen and Kennedy were at the controls. The
cruiser was settling on its tail for a landing. Tabor's face was a
study in embarrassed concern.
Dirk nodded. He must say something. "Sure. Sure. I'm all right. Anyone
else hurt?"
Tabor shook his head. "We sheared a fin off the flagship, but no one
was injured. What happened to you?"
Dirk closed his eyes again. What answer could he give? "Just space
dizziness," he said. "That's all. Space dizziness." He looked to catch
Tabor's reaction.
The scientist nodded, but behind his eyes was a puzzlement. Space
dizziness in a lieutenant of the Federation's space armada? Space
dizziness in the son of Commandant Jemson?
"All clear." Allen and Kennedy were scrupulously avoiding his eyes,
busying themselves with the reports and logs.
Suddenly, he wished that he could make them understand. He wished that
there were words which would communicate to them the sinking feeling
that had seized him as he gazed into the visi-shield. But there were no
words. These were men inured to space. They could not appreciate the
shattering malady that gripped him.
* * * * *
Tabor rose and moved over to the others. They conversed quietly, and
once or twice, Dirk saw them nod in his direction. Then he closed his
eyes again. It was better that way. Soon enough he would have to face
his father. And what could be said? There were no excuses. He had
failed. If Allen had not been quick, the ICARUS would have been lost;
perhaps the entire Armada jeopardized. No. There was no excuse.
And he could expect no forgiveness. If it was difficult for these men
now with him to understand his weakness, it would be impossible for
his father. Why couldn't Ken have lived, he wondered. He was the son
the Commandant wanted. He had the dash and the spirit. He was never
troubled by consequences. He acted on impulse ... bravely, daringly.
The trio was donning space suits, preparing to venture out onto
Caliban. He half-raised himself.
"Going with us, lieutenant?" Allen asked the question for the others.
Dirk hesitated and Kennedy interposed: "Maybe you'd rather have us send
a Med over to take care of you."