The Seeds of Time (10 page)

Just what Bowman was attempting when he met his end still remained a mystery. He had not confided in Jevons. All that anyone knew about it was the sudden lurch of the ship and the clang of reverberations running up and down the hull. Possibly it was an accident. More likely he had become impatient and laid a small charge to blast an opening.

For the first time for weeks ports were uncovered and faces looked out giddily at the wheeling stars. Bowman came into sight. He was drifting inertly, a dozen yards or more outboard. His suit was deflated, and a large gash showed in the material of the left sleeve.

The consciousness of a corpse floating round and round you like a minor moon is no improver of already lowered morale. Push it away, and it still circles, though at a greater distance. Some day a proper ceremony for the situation would be invented – perhaps a small rocket would launch the poor remains upon their
last, infinite voyage. Meanwhile, lacking a precedent, Captain Winters decided to pay the body the decent respect of having it brought inboard. The refrigeration plant had to be kept going to preserve the small remaining stocks of food, but several sections of it were empty …

A day and a night by the clock had passed since the provisional interment of Bowman when a modest knock came on the control-room door. The Captain laid blotting-paper carefully over his latest entry in the log, and closed the book.

‘Come in,' he said.

The door opened just widely enough to admit Alice Morgan. She slipped in, and shut it behind her. He was somewhat surprised to see her. She had kept sedulously in the background, putting the few requests she had made through the intermediation of her husband. He noticed the changes in her. She was haggard now as they all were, and her eyes anxious. She was also nervous. The fingers of her thin hands sought one another and interlocked themselves for confidence. Clearly she was having to push herself to raise whatever was in her mind. He smiled in order to encourage her.

‘Come and sit down, Mrs Morgan,' he invited, amiably.

She crossed the room with a slight clicking from her magnetic soles, and took the chair he indicated. She seated herself uneasily, and on the forward edge.

It had been sheer cruelty to bring her on this voyage, he reflected again. She had been at least a pretty little thing, now she was no longer that. Why couldn't that fool husband of hers have left her in her proper setting – a nice quiet suburb, a gentle routine, a life where she would be protected from exaction and alarm alike. It surprised him again that she had had the resolution and the stamina to survive conditions on the
Falcon
as long as this. Fate would probably have been kinder to her if it had disallowed that.

He spoke to her quietly, for she perched rather than sat, making him think of a bird ready to take off at any sudden movement.

‘And what can I do for you, Mrs Morgan?'

Alice's fingers twined and intertwined. She watched them doing it. She looked up, opened her mouth to speak, closed it again.

‘It isn't very easy,' she murmured apologetically.

Trying to help her, he said:

‘No need to be nervous, Mrs Morgan. Just tell me what's on your mind. Has one of them been – bothering you?'

She shook her head.

‘Oh, no, Captain Winters. It's nothing like that at all.'

‘What is it, then?'

‘It's – it's the rations, Captain. I'm not getting enough food.'

The kindly concern froze out of his face.

‘None of us is,' he told her, shortly.

‘I know,' she said, hurriedly. ‘I know, but –'

‘But what?' he inquired in a chill tone.

She drew a breath.

‘There's the man who died yesterday. Bowman. I thought if I could have his rations –'

The sentence trailed away as she saw the expression on the Captain's face.

He was not acting. He was feeling just as shocked as he looked. Of all the impudent suggestions that ever had come his way, none had astounded him more. He gazed dumbfounded at the source of the outrageous proposition. Her eyes met his, but, oddly, with less timidity than before. There was no sign of shame in them.

‘I've
got
to have more food,' she said, intensely.

Captain Winters' anger mounted.

‘So you thought you'd just snatch a dead man's share as well as your own! I'd better not tell you in words just where I class that suggestion, young woman. But you can understand this: we share, and we share equally. What Bowman's death means to us is that we can keep on having the same ration for a little longer – that, and only that. And now I think you had better go.'

But Alice Morgan made no move to go. She sat there with her lips pressed together, her eyes a little narrowed, quite still save that her hands trembled. Even through his indignation the Captain felt surprise, as though he had watched a hearth cat suddenly become a hunter. She said stubbornly:

‘I haven't asked for any privilege until now, Captain. I wouldn't ask you now if it weren't absolutely necessary. But that man's death gives us a margin now. And I
must
have more food.'

The Captain controlled himself with an effort.

‘Bowman's death has
not
given us a margin, or a windfall – all it has done is to extend by a day or two the chance of our survival. Do you think that every one of us doesn't ache just as much as you do for more food? In all my considerable experience of effrontery –'

She raised her thin hand to stop him. The hardness of her eyes made him wonder why he had ever thought her timid.

‘Captain. Look at me!' she said, in a harsh tone.

He looked. Presently his expression of anger faded into shocked astonishment. A faint tinge of pink stole into her pale cheeks.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘You see, you've
got
to give me more food. My baby
must
have the chance to live.'

The Captain continued to stare at her as if mesmerized. Presently he shut his eyes, and passed his hand over his brow.

‘God in heaven. This is terrible,' he murmured.

Alice Morgan said seriously, as if she had already considered that very point:

‘No. It isn't terrible – not if my baby lives.' He looked at her helplessly, without speaking. She went on:

‘It wouldn't be robbing anyone, you see. Bowman doesn't need his rations any more – but my baby does. It's quite simple, really.' She looked questioningly at the Captain. He had no comment ready. She continued: ‘So you couldn't call it unfair. After all, I'm two people now, really, aren't I? I
need
more food. If you
don't let me have it you will be murdering my baby. So you
must
…
must
… My baby has
got
to live – he's got to …'

When she had gone Captain Winters mopped his forehead, unlocked his private drawer, and took out one of his carefully hoarded bottles of whisky. He had the self-restraint to take only a small pull on the drinking-tube and then put it back. It revived him a little, but his eyes were still shocked and worried.

Would it not have been kinder in the end to tell the woman that her baby had no chance at all of being born? That would have been honest; but he doubted whether the coiner of the phrase about honesty being the best policy had known a great deal about group-morale. Had he told her that, it would have been impossible to avoid telling her why, and once she knew why it would have been impossible for her not to confide it, if only to her husband. And then it would be too late.

The Captain opened the top drawer, and regarded the pistol within. There was always that. He was tempted to take hold of it now and use it. There wasn't much use in playing the silly game out. Sooner or later it would have to come to that, anyway.

He frowned at it, hesitating. Then he put out his right hand and gave the thing a flip with his finger, sending it floating to the back of the drawer, out of sight. He closed the drawer. Not yet …

But perhaps he had better begin to carry it soon. So far, his authority had held. There had been nothing worse than safety-valve grumbling. But a time would come when he was going to need the pistol either for them or for himself.

If they should begin to suspect that the encouraging bulletins that he pinned up on the board from time to time were fakes: if they should somehow find out that the rescue ship which they believed to be hurtling through space towards them had not, in fact, even yet been able to take off from Earth – that was when hell would start breaking loose.

It might be safer if there were to be an accident with the radio equipment before long …

‘Taken your time, haven't you?' Captain Winters asked. He spoke shortly because he was irritable, not because it mattered in the least how long anyone took over anything now.

The Navigating Officer made no reply. His boots clicked across the floor. A key and an identity bracelet drifted towards the Captain, an inch or so above the surface of his desk. He put out a hand to check them.

‘I –' he began. Then he caught sight of the other's face. ‘Good God, man, what's the matter with you?'

He felt some compunction. He wanted Bowman's identity bracelet for the record, but there had been no real need to send Carter for it. A man who had died Bowman's death would be a piteous sight. That was why they had left him still in his spacesuit instead of undressing him. All the same, he had thought that Carter was tougher stuff. He brought out a bottle. The last bottle.

‘Better have a shot of this,' he said.

The navigator did, and put his head in his hands. The Captain carefully rescued the bottle from its mid-air drift, and put it away. Presently the Navigating Officer said, without looking up:

‘I'm sorry, sir.'

‘That's okay, Carter. Nasty job. Should have done it myself.'

The other shuddered slightly. A minute passed in silence while he got a grip on himself. Then he looked up and met the Captain's eyes.

‘It – it wasn't just that, sir.'

The Captain looked puzzled.

‘How do you mean?' he asked.

The officer's lips trembled. He did not form his words properly, and he stammered.

‘Pull yourself together. What are you trying to say?' The Captain spoke sharply to stiffen him.

Carter jerked his head slightly. His lips stopped trembling.

‘He – he –' he floundered; then he tried again, in a rush. ‘He – hasn't any legs, sir.'

‘Who? What
is
this? You mean Bowman hasn't any legs?'

‘Y – yes, sir.'

‘Nonsense, man. I was there when he was brought in. So were you. He had legs, all right.'

‘Yes, sir. He did have legs then – but he hasn't now!'

The Captain sat very still. For some seconds there was no sound in the control-room but the clicking of the chronometer. Then he spoke with difficulty, getting no further than two words:

‘You mean – ?'

‘What else could it be, sir?'

‘
God in heaven
!' gasped the Captain.

He sat staring with eyes that had taken on the horror that lay in the other man's …

Two men moved silently, with socks over their magnetic soles. They stopped opposite the door of one of the refrigeration compartments. One of them produced a slender key. He slipped it into the lock, felt delicately with it among the wards for a moment, and then turned it with a click. As the door swung open a pistol fired twice from within the refrigerator. The man who was pulling the door sagged at the knees, and hung in mid-air.

The other man was still behind the half-opened door. He snatched a pistol from his pocket and slid it swiftly round the corner of the door, pointing into the refrigerator. He pulled the trigger twice.

A figure in a spacesuit launched itself out of the refrigerator, sailing uncannily across the room. The other man shot at it as it swept past him. The spacesuited figure collided with the opposite wall, recoiled slightly, and hung there. Before it could turn and use the pistol in its hand, the other man fired again. The figure jerked, and floated back against the wall. The man kept his pistol trained, but the spacesuit swayed there, flaccid and inert.

The door by which the men had entered opened with a sudden
clang. The Navigating Officer on the threshold did not hesitate. He fired slightly after the other, but he kept on firing …

When his pistol was empty the man in front of him swayed queerly, anchored by his boots; there was no other movement in him. The Navigating Officer put out a hand and steadied himself by the doorframe. Then, slowly and painfully, he made his way across to the figure in the space-suit. There were gashes in the suit. He managed to unlock the helmet and pull it away.

The Captain's face looked somewhat greyer than undernourishment had made it. His eyes opened slowly. He said in a whisper:

‘Your job now, Carter. Good luck!'

The Navigating Officer tried to answer, but there were no words, only a bubbling of blood in his throat. His hands relaxed. There was a dark stain still spreading on his uniform. Presently his body hung listlessly swaying beside his Captain's.

‘I figured they were going to last a lot longer than this,' said the small man with the sandy moustache.

The man with the drawl looked at him steadily.

‘Oh, you did, did you? And do you reckon your figuring's reliable?'

The smaller man shifted awkwardly. He ran the tip of his tongue along his lips.

‘Well, there was Bowman. Then those four. Then the two that died. That's seven.'

‘Sure. That's seven. Well?' inquired the big man softly. He was not as big as he had been, but he still had a large frame. Under his intent regard the emaciated small man seemed to shrivel a little more.

‘Er – nothing. Maybe my figuring was kind of hopeful,' he said.

‘Maybe. My advice to you is to quit figuring and keep on hoping. Huh?'