The starship landed at noon on a brilliant sunlit day, somewhere on
Earth's North American continent. Barrent had planned on waiting for
darkness before leaving; but the control room screens flashed an ancient
and ironic warning: _All passengers and crew must disembark at once.
Ship rigged for full decontamination procedure. Twenty minutes._
He didn't know what was meant by full decontamination procedure. But
since the crew was emphatically ordered to leave, a respirator might not
provide much safety. Of the two dangers, leaving the ship seemed the
lesser.
The members of Group Two had given a good deal of thought to the
clothing Barrent would wear upon debarkation. Those first minutes on
Earth might be crucial. No cunning could help him if his clothing was
obviously strange, outlandish, alien. Typical Earth clothing was the
answer; but the Group wasn't sure what the citizens of Earth wore. One
part of the Group had wanted Barrent to dress in their reconstructed
approximation of civilian dress. Another part felt that the guard's
uniform he had worn on board would see him through his arrival on Earth
as well. Barrent himself had agreed with a third opinion, which felt
that a mechanic's one-piece coverall would be least noticeable around a
spacefield, and suffer the least change of style over the years. In the
towns and cities, this disguise might put him at a disadvantage; but he
had to meet one problem at a time.
He quickly stripped off his guard's uniform. Underneath he wore the
lightweight coveralls. His needlebeam concealed, a collapsible lunchbox
in his hand, Barrent walked down the corridor to the landing stage. He
hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should leave the weapon on the
ship. He decided not to part with it. An inspection would reveal him
anyhow; with the needlebeam he would have a chance of breaking away from
police.
He took a deep breath and marched out of the ship and down the landing
stage.
There were no guards, no inspection party, no police, no army units and
no customs officials. There was no one at all. Far to one side of the
wide field he could see rows of starcraft glistening in the sun.
Straight ahead of him was a fence, and in it was an open gate.
Barrent walked across the field, quickly but without obvious haste. He
had no idea why it was all so simple. Perhaps the secret police on Earth
had more subtle means of checking on passengers from starships.
He reached the gate. There was no one there except a bald, middle-aged
man and a boy of perhaps ten. They seemed to be waiting for him. Barrent
found it hard to believe that these were government officials; still,
who knew the ways of Earth? He passed through the gate.
The bald man, holding the boy by the hand, walked over to him. "I beg
your pardon," the man said.
"Yes?"
"I saw you come from the starship. Would you mind if I ask you a few
questions?"
"Not at all," Barrent said, his hand near the coverall zipper beneath
which lay his needlebeam. He was certain now that the bald man was a
police agent. The only thing that didn't make sense was the presence of
the child, unless the boy was an agent-in-training.
"The fact of the matter is," the man said, "my boy Ronny here is doing a
thesis for his Tenth Grade Master's Degree. On starships."
"So I wanted to see one," Ronny said. He was an undersized child with a
pinched, intelligent face.
"He wanted to see one," the man explained. "I told him it wasn't
necessary, since all the facts and pictures are in the encyclopedia. But
he wanted to see one."
"It gives me a good opening paragraph," Ronny said.
"Of course," Barrent said, nodding vigorously. He was beginning to
wonder about the man. For a member of the secret police, he was
certainly taking a devious route.
"You work on the ships?" Ronny asked.
"That's right."
"How fast do they go?"
"In real or subspace?" Barrent asked.
This question seemed to throw Ronny off his stride. He pushed out his
lower lip and said, "Gee, I didn't know they went in subspace." He
thought for a moment. "As a matter of fact, I don't think I know what
subspace is."
Barrent and the boy's father smiled understandingly.
"Well," Ronny said, "how fast do they go in real space?"
"A hundred thousand miles an hour," Barrent said, naming the first
figure that came into his head.
The boy nodded, and his father nodded. "Very fast," the father said.
"And much faster in subspace of course," Barrent said.
"Of course," the man said. "Starships are very fast indeed. They have to
be. Quite long distances involved. Isn't that right, sir?"
"Very long distances," Barrent said.
"How is the ship powered?" Ronny asked.
"In the usual way," Barrent told him. "We had triplex boosters installed
last year, but that comes more under the classification of auxiliary
power."
"I've heard about those triplex boosters," the man said. "Tremendous
things."
"They're adequate," Barrent said judiciously. He was certain now that
this man was just what he purported to be: a citizen with no particular
knowledge of spacecraft simply bringing his son to the starport.
"How do you get enough air?" Ronny asked.
"We generate our own," Barrent said. "But air isn't any trouble. Water's
the big problem. Water isn't compressible, you know. It's hard to store
in sufficient quantities. And then there's the navigation problem when
the ship emerges from subspace."
"What _is_ subspace?" Ronny asked.
"In effect," Barrent said, "it's simply a different level of real space.
But you can find all that in your encyclopedia."
"Of course you can, Ronny," the boy's father said. "We mustn't keep the
pilot standing here. I'm sure he has many important things to do."
"I _am_ rather rushed," Barrent said. "Look around all you want. Good
luck on your thesis, Ronny."
Barrent walked for fifty yards, his spine tingling, expecting
momentarily to feel the blow of a needlebeam or a shotgun. But when he
looked back, the father and son were turned away from him, earnestly
studying the great vessel. Barrent hesitated a moment, deeply bothered.
So far, the whole thing had been entirely too easy. Suspiciously easy.
But there was nothing he could do but go on.
The road from the starport led past a row of storage sheds to a section
of woods. Barrent walked until he was out of sight. Then he left the
road and went into the woods. He had had enough contact with people for
his first day on Earth. He didn't want to stretch his luck. He wanted to
think things over, sleep in the woods for the night, and then in the
morning go to a city or town.
He pushed his way past dense underbrush into the forest proper. Here he
walked through shaded groves of giant oaks. All around him was the chirp
and bustle of unseen bird and animal life. Far in front of him was a
large white sign nailed to a tree. Barrent reached it, and read:
FORESTDALE NATIONAL PARK. PICNICKERS AND CAMPERS WELCOME.
Barrent was a little disappointed, even though he realized that there
would be no virgin wilderness so near a starport. In fact, on a planet
as old and as highly developed as Earth, there was probably no virgin
land at all, except what had been preserved in national forests.
The sun was low on the horizon, and there was a chill in the long
shadows thrown across the forest floor. Barrent found a comfortable spot
under a gigantic oak, arranged leaves for a bed, and lay down. He had a
great deal to think about. Why, for example, hadn't guards been posted
at Earth's most important contact point, an interstellar terminus? Did
security measures start later at the towns and cities? Or was he already
under some sort of surveillance, some infinitely subtle spy system that
followed his every movement and apprehended him only when ready? Or was
that too fanciful? Could it be that--?
"Good evening," a voice said, close to his right ear.
Barrent flung himself away from the voice in a spasm of nervous
reaction, his hand diving for his needlebeam.
"And a very pleasant evening it is," the voice continued, "here in
Forestdale National Park. The temperature is seventy-eight point two
degrees Fahrenheit, humidity 23 per cent, barometer steady at
twenty-nine point nine. Old campers, I'm sure, already recognize my
voice. For the new nature-lovers among you, let me introduce myself. I
am Oaky, your friendly oak tree. I'd like to welcome all of you, old
and new, to your friendly national forest."
Sitting upright in the gathering darkness, Barrent peered around,
wondering what kind of a trick this was. The voice really did seem to
come from the giant oak tree.
"The enjoyment of nature," said Oaky, "is now easy and convenient for
everyone. You can enjoy complete seclusion and still be no more than a
ten-minute walk from public transportation. For those who do not desire
seclusion, we have guided tours at nominal cost through these ancient
glades. Remember to tell your friends about your friendly national park.
The full facilities of this park are waiting for all lovers of the great
outdoors."
A panel in the tree opened. Out slid a bedroll, a Thermos bottle, and a
box supper.
"I wish you a pleasant evening," said Oaky, "amid the wild splendor of
nature's wonderland. And now the National Symphony Orchestra under the
direction of Otter Krug brings you 'The Upland Glades,' by Ernesto
Nestrichala, recorded by the National North American Broadcasting
Company. This is your friendly oak tree signing off."
Music emanated from several hidden speakers. Barrent scratched his head;
then, deciding to take matters as they came, he ate the food, drank
coffee from the Thermos, unrolled the bedroll, and lay down.
Sleepily he contemplated the notion of a forest wired for sound,
equipped with food and drink, and none of it more than ten minutes from
public transportation. Earth certainly did a lot for her citizens.
Presumably they liked this sort of thing. Or did they? Could this be
some huge and subtle trap which the authorities had set for him?
He tossed and turned for a while, trying to get used to the music. After
a while it blended into the background of windblown leaves and creaking
branches. Barrent went to sleep.