They turned away in relief and zipped on the space uniforms. Just as
they were preparing to enter the compression chamber, the audio-visor
hummed. They paused and looked back expectantly.
The sleek face of the commandant's orderly blurred into focus.
"Lieutenant Jemson will report to the commandant aboard the flagship."
That was all. The picture faded.
Instinctively, the trio in the doorway looked toward Dirk. He managed a
smile and waved them on. After a moment's hesitation, they stepped into
the compression chamber and out of sight.
With fumbling hands, he put on his own space suit. What would his
father say? What could he say? Words would only make it worse. And
Commandant Jemson was not a man to seek out the kind word, the gentle
phrase. His speech resembled his tactics--raw, direct, uncompromising.
Slowly, Dirk moved into the compression chamber and from it into the
murk of the world known as Caliban. Even protected as he was by his
space suit, Dirk could sense the slimy chill in the atmosphere. It was
as if wet, fibrous hands pushed at his suit; as if oozing tendrils
slithered across his visor plate. The footing was insecure as well, and
he had the unpleasant sensation that he was walking on raw eggs.
Dark Caliban, he thought, pushing his way through the grey-brown fog.
Dark Caliban--scene of Dirk Jemson's final shame and disgrace. Poor
dad. This was to have been his crowning achievement and all it had been
was a blow to his pride.
Impatiently, Dirk swiped at his glass visor plate with his swathed
hands. Some substance--gelatinous and moist--seemed to have formed
there.
The guard at the flagship was expecting him, and he quickly entered the
compression chamber and doffed the uniform. As he put it on a hook to
await his return, he noticed with a little shudder of revulsion that
the jelly-like things he had noticed on his visor were also clustered
here and there in the folds of his space suit. This was probably the
life to which Tabor had referred.
The orderly outside his father's office saluted, but Dirk thought he
sensed in the click of the heels, the tilt of the chin just a nuance of
disrespect--as an executioner might salute the criminal just before the
disintegrating switch were thrown.
* * * * *
Commandant Jemson was seated at an enormous table of batek-wood from
Thule. He didn't look up when Dirk closed the cabin door behind him and
waited at attention.
The Commandant was not a large man, yet he managed somehow through the
sheer force of his personality to convey the impression of a giant.
Seated now behind the great table, he seemed some remote demi-god,
omnipotent and untouchable.
Just as Dirk was about to clear his throat to ease the tension,
his father spoke: "Come to the table." That was all. The voice was
carefully modulated and controlled. Too carefully.
Dirk was face to face with his father across the glistening batek-wood.
Looking down into its polished surface, he could see his own white
face, as well as each movement of his father's hands.
"You disgraced me."
The three words were thrown at him with electric force. Never before
in his life could Dirk remember hearing three words spoken with such
intensity and emotion. All of his father's life was summed up in that
anguished declaration; all the hopes that had been sabotaged; all the
dreams that were now derelict; and yet, the three words were spoken so
quietly, they scarcely carried across the room.
He wished his father would look up at him. If he could see the eyes, it
might be easier. "You shouldn't have expected me to do it. You had no
right to expect it of me."
"No right!" The Commandant stood abruptly, his knuckles white against
the wood of the table as he leaned forward. "What do you think I had
left in my life but you--and the things you might do? What do you
think I built my world on after Ken was killed? No right!" The eyes
raked him now with a barrage of contempt and hurt. "You would have
killed those men. Killed them because you're a weakling! A coward!"
The words fell in the silent room like coiling snakes. Dirk stepped
back. The hate, frustration and disappointment which radiated from
the older man was almost unbearable. "You can't understand, dad," he
faltered.
"No. I can't. And don't call me 'dad.' You're no longer my son. No
Jemson could put the lives of his men in jeopardy, no matter how
stricken he might be. And this isn't the first time. I've closed my
eyes. I told myself you were young; that you'd grow into this as you
matured."
"You shouldn't have tried to make me a space pilot. It's not for me. I
could have found some other life on Terra ... something that I could
have done well ... could have made you proud."
"Proud!" The square shoulders sagged, and the old man sank down into
his chair. "Proud. Proud of a weakling who puts his own comfort above
the lives of his crew?" He stared again at the polished table surface,
as if he might read there an answer to the dilemma. "If I hadn't seen
it, I wouldn't have believed it."
"Not all men are alike, dad. You must see that." But Dirk knew it was
hopeless. His father knew only one life and that his son could want
another was beyond his comprehension.
"You'll never have a chance to fail anyone else."
"What do you mean?"
The Commandant pushed a parchment across the table. "Your discharge.
Dishonorable. You'll return to Terra at once. They're fueling a small
ship for you now. You'll have to manage it alone. I can't spare anyone
to pilot it for you."
Dirk picked up the parchment with a trembling hand. "Dad, we can't
separate like this. I'm sorry I failed you. You just gave me a job that
was too big for me."
There was a pause, and when the commandant spoke again, it was in a
voice so low that Dirk could scarcely hear him. "What I've done, I
did, not for myself, but for my sons. What fame I've won, I didn't
seek selfishly, but only in order that my sons might inherit a name
for honor, for courage, for integrity. I've devoted a lifetime to
establishing a name to pass on to my sons ... a name the Universe could
speak with pride." The strong voice broke. The Commandant raised his
eyes and regarded Dirk. "I've wasted my life building something for my
sons. Wasted it, because both my sons are DEAD!"
"Dad!" Dirk's voice snapped in the quiet room like a whip.
"Lieutenant, you are dismissed." The commandant regarded the table top.
"Listen to me! Please!" Dirk leaned across the table. "I know what it's
meant to you, dad, but I can't help myself. You've got to believe that
I've tried. All these years, I've tried to be what you wanted ... what
you thought I was ... but it's hopeless."
"I said you were dismissed, lieutenant. Take off for Terra as soon as
your ship is fueled."
Dirk stood staring in disbelief at his father for a long moment, and
then, he turned and walked slowly to the door. He paused with his hand
on the latch. "I'm sorry, dad," he said, and turning swiftly, went out
of the room.
* * * * *
The flagship was strangely quiet as he walked down the passageway to
the compression chamber. It was as if the entire crew mourned with the
commandant the passing of his son. "_You disgraced me. You disgraced
me. You disgraced me._" The phrase whirled and circled in his mind.
The guard outside the compression chamber stood stiffly at attention
as Dirk approached. Looking at the impassive young face, Dirk felt
a sudden twist of envy. Here was a man happy in his chosen duties,
working out his destiny in an honorable and satisfying way.
Inside the chamber, Dirk began automatically to put on his space suit.
What possible future could there be for him on Terra? If he changed his
name, perhaps he could find a little happiness; but could he ever erase
the picture in his mind of his father's face, or the sound of a low
voice ceaselessly repeating "You disgraced me"?
On the floor beneath the peg on which he had hung his space suit, he
noticed a puddle of ooze--the colorless gelatine he had seen on his
visor. Was his imagination working overtime, or was there more of it
now than when he had gone in to talk to his father? It couldn't be, and
yet he had thought there were only a few blotches of it on his suit.
The world of Caliban was always in half-darkness. Dirk found this
somehow comforting as he pushed through the murk to the command center.
He actually felt less alien here than on sunlit Terra.
His father had already taken action, he learned from the officer
in charge. A small SD-4 reconnaissance ship had been placed at his
disposal. It was fueled and he could blast off whenever he chose. The
officer avoided his eyes, Dirk noted, and there was between the two of
them, an elaborate pretense that nothing had happened.
With his orders, Dirk returned to the ICARUS for his gear. He hoped
that the others would not have returned, but he was disappointed.
Tabor was in the cruiser when he stepped aboard. The biophysicist was
crouched over his microscope, concentrating intently on some specimen
he had found. He was scarcely aware that Dirk had come in.
There weren't many things to collect. An officer in the Space Armada
learned to travel light. He didn't hurry. He was reluctant to leave
the ICARUS, to isolate himself in the cramped quarters of the SD-4, to
leave behind forever the life which he had tried to take as his own.
Tabor huddled over his microscope, punctuating the silence with little
exclamations of surprise. The specimen on the slide was apparently
proving of interest. Another happy man, thought Dirk.