She wondered absently, for a moment, just what she
did
know, in the part of her mind where the records were kept, the part that was available only to outsiders on presentation of the cue words, and never to her.
But by then the other officers had arrived, and the captain snapped,
“Records,”
and she slumped back. Not quite all the way back—just enough so that the natural tensions in the great muscles of the back and thighs reached a point of equilibrium—and, in the nongravity of the still ship, her sleeping body, moored by the magnets at the feet, floated like Mahomet’s Tomb above the chair.
Ensign Lorch felt the captain’s eyes on him and hastily looked away from the library. Good-looking kid, though, he thought; this strip-down business had its advantages. Too bad the other women in the crew weren’t more like her.
The meeting lasted an hour by the chronometer, as had each meeting of each of the previous eleven days. And it accomplished as much as its eleven predecessors.
“Summing up, then,” the captain said savagely. “One, we can’t jump home because we don’t know the way; two, we can’t jet home through normal space because we don’t have the fuel or air; three, we can’t stay where we are because we’ll roast. Is that it?”
The exec said, “That’s it, sir. We might set down on another planet, though.”
“A planet nearby?” The captain thought that over. “What about it Ciccarelli?”
The navigator shrugged. “If we can find one, sir. I’d say the chances were poor. We’ve got very little in the way of fuel reserve. Every jump uses up a little, and—well, if we come out of a jump within, let’s say, a tenth of a light-year of a habitable planet, pretty nearly at relative rest to it, we might be able to make it. We’ve got maybe one chance in a thousand of that.”
Commander Broderick said, “Sir, this is just a wild notion, but suppose we did one of those things they’re always doing in the movies, you know? Freeze the whole ship’s crew in suspended animation. I believe I could manage something like that out of the medical supplies, if we could only bring the temperature low enough—”
“That’s just what we
can’t
do,” said the captain.
“Yes, sir,” Broderick agreed. “But if we did that, we could valve off a lot of air—maybe enough to cool the ship. Nobody would be breathing, you see. And we could rig up some sort of alarm for when we got there. Wouldn’t matter if it was years—even centuries; there would be a vacuum, and no specimen deterioration—I mean, nothing happening to us.”
Ciccarelli said mulishly, “Impossible. It’s the question of relative rest again. We haven’t got enough fuel to mess around. Suppose we found Sol, and pointed right for it. By the time we got there, where would it be and how fast would it be going, in what direction? Maybe you can tell. I can’t.”
Broderick crouched disconsolately back into his sick bay, and the enlisted man he’d left behind looked up in relief. “It’s Groden, sir,” he said at once. “He’s been acting up.”
Ensign Lorch, behind Broderick, hesitated in the doorway. “Acting up?” demanded Broderick.
“Yes, sir. I gave him another needle, but it didn’t take effect. I guess it was delirium, sir. Took three ampoules—”
The voices trailed off as they went inside. Lorch made himself comfortable—not an easy job in nongravity, that is if you were a commissioned officer and concerned about smart appearance.
The two medics were gone for a long time, and when Commander Broderick came out again he looked worried. “Sorry, Lorch,” he apologized. He felt the pressure-pot of coffee on the little stove and made a face. “Want some?”
Lorch shook his head. “Too much trouble to drink.”
“Don’t blame you.” But Broderick carefully coaxed a couple of ounces of the stuff into a transparent plastic bulb, teased sugar and cream in after it, spun the bulb with his thumb over the opening to stir it, took a sip. “I don’t like it,” he brooded over his coffee. “Groden’s working up real damage, the kind I can’t handle.”
Lorch asked curiously, “What kind is that?”
“Inside his head. I had to tell him that his sight was gone, unless we can get to an eye bank within ten days. The optic nerves, Lorch—you can patch in an eye, but once the nerve has degenerated you can’t replace it. And he took it hard.”
“Yelled and cut up?”
“Worse than that,” said Broderick. “He didn’t say a word. Now, I
know
that man’s in pain; the scars around his eyes are pretty bad. I gave him a couple of pills to knock out the nerve centers, but Conboy found them under his pillow. He wouldn’t take them, and he wouldn’t make a sound—until he fell asleep, and then he damn near woke up the ship. Conboy must have given him fifty ampoules by now—too much of the stuff. But we can’t have him screaming. He’s punishing himself, Lorch.”
“For what?”
“Who knows for what? If I could put him through an E.E.S., I might be able to find out. But how can you run an electroencephaloscope on a tub like this? I’m lucky they let me have an X-ray.”
Lorch said, perhaps a touch too dryly, “What did doctors do before they had those gadgets? Shoot the patients?”
It made Broderick look at him thoughtfully. “No,” he said after a second. “Of course not. With luck, I could run a verbal analysis on him, and I might pick some of the key stuff out of the sludge in, oh, four or five months. That’s what they did before they had the E.E.S. And now let’s get busy, mister.”
The two of them worked over an inventory of Broderick’s medicine chest, because even though the idea of putting the whole ship’s crew in suspended animation was ridiculous and impossible and contra-regs besides—what else was there?
And it kept getting hotter.
Even Groden felt it.
He called reasonably to whoever was near, “Please do what I ask. Put things back the way they were, please. Please do it!” He said it many times, many different ways. But his tongue was black velvet and his mouth an enormous cave; he couldn’t feel the words,
couldn’t feel his tongue against his cheeks or teeth. That was the needles they kept sticking him with, he told himself. “Please,” he said, “no more needles.”
But he wasn’t getting through.
Groden relaxed. He forced himself to relax, and it wasn’t easy. His body was all wrong; it hurt in places, and felt nothing in places, and—were those feelings at his waist and shoulders and legs the touch of restraining belts? He couldn’t tell.
He was lying on his back, he was pretty sure. At least, the voices seemed to come from points in the plane of his body, as well as he could locate them. But if he was lying on his back, he asked himself, why didn’t he feel pressure on his back? Or pressure anywhere? Could the ship be in freefall—all this length of time? Impossible, he told himself.
He went back to relaxing.
The thing was to keep from panic. If you were physically relaxed, you couldn’t panic. That was what they had taught at the academy, and it was true. Only they hadn’t taught the converse, he thought bitterly; they hadn’t said that when you were in panic it was impossible to relax.
No. That’s not the way to go about it, he told himself. Relax. Occupy your mind with—with—well, occupy your mind with
something.
Take inventory, for instance.
One, it’s hot. There was no doubt of that.
Two, something was pressing against his body at various points. It
felt
like restraining belts.
Three, voices came and talked to him. Damned dirty lying voices that—He caught himself just in time.
Four, he said to himself,
four
, somebody keeps sticking needles into me.
It was the needles, he thought wretchedly, that made everything else so bad. Maybe the needles
caused
everything else. With craven hope he told himself: sure, the needles; they’re sticking me full of drugs; naturally I’m having delusions. Who wouldn’t? I’m lucky if I don’t turn into a hophead if I get out of this—
When I
get out of this, he corrected himself, whimpering.
He wondered whether he was crying.
Of course, if those lying voices were, by some chance,
not
lying, then he couldn’t be crying. Because he wouldn’t have any eyes to cry with. And, he told himself reasonably, there wasn’t much doubt that the voices were plausible. He had been injured somewhere around his eyes; he had felt the pain, and it was too intense and specific to be unreal. That was in the old days—how long ago they were, he could not begin to imagine—when there had been only a few needles now and then, and even if he did have a little trouble moving and talking, he was still in perfect possession of his faculties.
All right, he thought. So I was injured around the eyes.
But the rest—that was a damned lie. He had even believed it for a while—when the Broderick-voice said, with hypocritical sympathy, that he wouldn’t be able to see anything, ever, unless they got him new corpse’s eyes out of an eye bank on Earth. It had been a blow, but he believed it. Until, he reminded himself triumphantly, he had
seen
! Seen as clearly as he knew the voices were lying, that was when he began to suspect the existence of the whole horrible, senseless plot.
“No!” he screamed. “Please, please—no!” But they couldn’t be hearing him, because they were going right on with another needle; he could feel it. Furiously he fought to pull back the alien arm, make the marble lips move, the black velvet tongue speak, “Please—”
On the bridge, the captain was staring fixedly at the alien stars. It was a measure of his state of mind that he was on the bridge at all, at a time when the ship was going nowhere and there was nothing to be done beyond the routine.
He leaned forward in his chair, jerking free the little magnets sewn into the waist of his trunks, and walked heel-and-toe across the bridge. The little Recorder Mate, Eklund or whatever her name was, was standing humbly in a corner, waiting for him to tell her why he had sent for her. But, the captain confessed to himself, the trouble was he didn’t exactly know why himself. And, after all, why should he? It was so damned hot—
Belay that kind of talk, he told himself. He said: “Eklund! Index.” The girl’s eyes closed like the snapping of a shutter.
“Take over,” the captain ordered the exec. “Run her through the Riemannian configurations again. We’ll get every bit of dope she has.” And they would, he knew. Because they had already.
And none of it helped.
It was a good thing, Ensign Lorch told himself, sweating, that spaceships were not painted. Otherwise he would surely have been set to commanding a crew chipping paint.
Terra II
being welded of unpainted metal, the color a part of the alloy itself, his crew was defluffing the filter traps in the air circulators. It was a job for idiots, planned by morons; it took six men five hours to disassemble the air trunks and the junction boxes, five minutes to blow out the collected fluff on the static accumulators, five hours to put them back together again. There was an alternative method, which involved burning them clean with a high-voltage arc; that took one man slightly under three seconds. But that, the exec had decreed, meant heat.
And
heat
was the enemy.
Of course, there was still a third alternative, which was to leave the fluff in the filter traps undisturbed. This would have generated no heat at all. But it also would have taken no time and occupied no personnel, which were decisive counts against it in the eyes of the exec. A little fluff in the filters would make no conceivable difference to the operation of the ship, but idle men might make a very great difference indeed.
“Hurry it up,” growled Ensign Lorch. The men didn’t even look at him. Lorch looked around him self-consciously. As an officer, he had made inspection tours in the enlisted women’s quarters before, but he couldn’t help feeling out of place and slightly apprehensive.
That girl, the Recorder Mate—Eklund was her name—was droning all the parts of
Cyrano de Bergerac
to an audience in the far end of the lounge, and parts of Cyrano’s farewell to Roxanne kept mixing in with Lorch’s thoughts.
It didn’t matter; he wasn’t thinking to any purpose, anyhow. Neither he nor anyone else on
Terra II
, he told himself bitterly. Fifteen thousand light-years. The light that came to them from Sol—how weak and faint!—had been bright summer sunlight beating down on the skin tents of Neolithic Man creeping northward after the retreating ice. And the light from the nearest stars beyond
Terra II’
s skin, contrariwise, would fall on an Earth inconceivably advanced, a planet of mental Titans …
“Mister Lorch,” someone was repeating plaintively.
The ensign shook himself and focused on the spaceman wavering before him. “Eh?”
“We’re done,” the man repeated. “It’s all put together again. The filter traps,” he explained.
“Oh,” said Ensign Lorch. He glanced self-consciously at the women at the far end of the lounge, but they were absorbed in Rostand’s love story. There was a murmur of gossip from them—“so all at once I knew there was somebody
looking
at me. Well, I called the duty officer and we searched, but—”