They are all very helpful and they think it is cute of me to be so dead serious about it. But, in truth, practical astrogation is much harder than I had ever dreamed.
I had guessed that part of the resentment I sensed—resentment that I could not fail to notice despite my cheery “Good mornings!”—lay in the fact that we were at the Captain’s table. To be sure, the Welcome in the Tricorn! booklet in each stateroom states plainly that new seating arrangements are made at each port and that it is the ship’s custom to change the guests at the Captain’s table each time, making the selections from the new passengers.
But I don’t suppose that warning makes it any pleasanter to be bumped, because I don’t expect to like it when I’m bumped off the Captain’s table at Venus.
But that is only part—
Only three of the passengers were really friendly to me: Mrs. Grew, Girdie, and Mrs. Royer. Mrs. Royer I met first, and at first I thought that I was going to like her, in a bored sort of way, as she was awfully friendly and I have great capacity for enduring boredom if it suits my purpose. I met her in the lounge the first day and she immediately caught my eye, smiled, invited me to sit by her, and quizzed me about myself.
I answered her questions, mostly. I told her that Daddy was a teacher and that Mother was raising babies and that my brother and I were traveling with our uncle. I didn’t boast about our family; boasting is not polite and it often is not believed—far better to let people find out nice things on their own and hope they won’t notice any unnice things. Not that there is anything unnice about Daddy and Mother.
I told her that my name was Poddy Fries.
“ ‘Poddy’?” she said. “I thought I saw something else on the passenger list.”
“Oh. It’s really ‘Podkayne,’ ” I explained. “For the Martian saint, you know.”
But she didn’t know. She answered, “It seems very odd to give a girl a man’s name.”
Well, my name is odd, even among Marsmen. But not for that reason. “Possibly,” I agreed. “But with Martians gender is rather a matter of opinion, wouldn’t you say?”
She blinked, “You’re jesting.”
I started to explain—how a Martian doesn’t select which of three sexes to be until just before it matures . . . and how, even so, the decision is operative only during a relatively short period of its life.
But I gave up, as I could see that I was talking to a blank wall. Mrs. Royer simply could not imagine any pattern other than her own. So I shifted quickly. “Saint Podkayne lived a very long time ago. Nobody actually knows whether the saint was male or female. There are just traditions.”
Of course the traditions are pretty explicit and many living Martians claim descent from Saint Podkayne. Daddy says that we know Martian history of millions of years ago much more accurately than we know human history a mere two thousand years ago. In any case, most Martians include “Podkayne” in their long lists of names (practically genealogies in synopsis) because of the tradition that anyone named for Saint Podkayne can call on him (or “her”—or “it”) in time of trouble.
As I have said, Daddy is romantic and he thought it would be nice to give a baby the luck, if any, that is attached to the saint’s name. I am neither romantic nor superstitious, but it suits me just fine to have a name that belongs to me and to no other human. I like being Podkayne “Poddy” Fries—It’s better than being one of a multitude of Elizabeths, or Dorothys, or such.
But I could see that it simply puzzled Mrs. Royer, so we passed to other matters, speaking from her seniority as an “old space hand,” based on her one just-completed trip out from Earth, she told me a great many things about ships and space travel, most of which weren’t so, but I indulged her. She introduced me to a number of people and handed me a large quantity of gossip about passengers, ship’s officers, et cetera. Between times she filled me in on her aches, pains, and symptoms, what an important executive her son was, what a very important person her late husband had been, and how, when I reached Earth, she really must see to it that I met the Right People. “Perhaps such things don’t matter in an outpost like Mars, my dear child, but it is Terribly Important to get Started Right in New York.”
I tabbed her as garrulous, stupid, and well intentioned.
But I soon found that I couldn’t get rid of her. If I passed through the lounge—which I had to do in order to reach the control room—she would snag me, and I couldn’t get away short of abrupt rudeness or flat lies.
She quickly started using me for chores. “Podkayne darling, would you mind just slipping around to my stateroom and fetching my mauve wrap? I feel a tiny chill. It’s on the bed, I think—or perhaps in the wardrobe—that’s dear.” Or, “Poddy child, I’ve rung and I’ve rung and the stewardess simply won’t answer. Would you get my book and my knitting? Oh, and while you’re at it, you might bring me a nice cup of tea from the pantry.”
Those things aren’t too bad; she is probably creaky in the knees and I’m not. But it went on endlessly . . . and shortly, in addition to being her personal stewardess, I was her private nurse. First she asked me to read her to sleep. “Such a blinding headache and your voice is so soothing, my sweet.”
I read to her for an hour and then found myself rubbing her head and temples for almost as long. Oh well, a person ought to manage a little kindness now and then, just for practice—and Mother sometimes has dreadful headaches when she has been working too hard; I know that a rub does help.
That time she tried to tip me. I refused it. She insisted, “Now, now, child, don’t argue with your Aunt Flossie.”
I said, “No, really, Mrs. Royer. If you want to give it to the fund for disabled spacemen as a thank-you, that’s all right. But I can’t take it.”
She said pish and tosh and tried to shove it into my pocket. So I slid out and went to bed.
I didn’t see her at breakfast; she always has a tray in her room. But about midmorning a stewardess told me that Mrs. Royer wanted to see me in her room. I was hardly gruntled at the summons, as Mr. Savvonavong had told me that if I showed up just before ten during his watch, I could watch the whole process of a ballistic correction and he would explain the steps to me. If she wasted more than five minutes of my time, I would be late.
But I called on her. She was as cheery as ever. “Oh, there you are darling! I’ve been waiting ever so long! That stupid stewardess—Poddy dear, you did such wonders for my head last night . . . and this morning I find that I’m positively crippled with my back. You can’t imagine, dear; it’s ghastly! Now if you’ll just be an angel and give me a few minutes massage—oh, say a half hour—I’m sure it’ll do wonders for me. You’ll find the cream for it over there on the dressing table, I think . . . And now, if you’ll just help me slide out of this robe . . .”
“Mrs. Royer—”
“Yes, dear? The cream is in that big pink tube. Use just—”
“Mrs. Royer, I can’t do it. I have an appointment.”
“What, dear? Oh, tosh, let them wait. No one is ever on time aboard ship. Perhaps you had better warm your hands before—”
“Mrs. Royer, I am not going to do it. If something is wrong with your back, I shouldn’t touch it; I might injure you. But I’ll take a message to the Surgeon if you like and ask him to come see you.”
Suddenly she wasn’t at all cheery. “You mean you won’t do it!”
“Have it your way. Shall I tell the Surgeon?”
“Why, you impertinent—Get out of here!”
I got.
I met her in a passageway on my way to lunch. She stared straight through me, so I didn’t speak either. She was walking as nimbly as I was; I guess her back had taken a turn for the better. I saw her twice more that day and twice more she simply couldn’t see me.
The following morning I was using the viewer in the lounge to scan one of Mr. Clancy’s study tapes, one on radar approach and contact. The viewer is off in a corner, behind a screen of fake potted palms, and perhaps they didn’t n
otice me. Or perhaps they didn’t care.
I stopped the scan to give my eyes and ears a rest, and heard Mrs. Garcia talking to Mrs. Royer:
“. . . that I simply can’t stand about Mars is that it is so commercialized. Why couldn’t they have left it primitive and beautiful?”
MRS. ROYER: “What can you expect? Those dreadful people!”
The ship’s official language is Ortho but many passengers talk English among themselves—and often act as if no one else could possibly understand it. These two weren’t keeping their voices down. I went on listening.
MRS. GARCIA: “Just what I was saying to Mrs. Rimski. After all, they’re all criminals.”
MRS. ROYER: “Or worse. Have you noticed that little Martian girl? The niece—or so they claim—of that big black savage?”
I counted ten backwards in Old Martian and reminded myself of the penalty for murder. I didn’t mind being called a “Martian.” They didn’t know any better, and anyhow, it’s no insult; the Martians were civilized before humans learned to walk. But “big black savage”!—Uncle Tom is as dark as I am blond; his Maori blood and desert tan make him the color of beautiful old leather . . . and I love the way he looks. As for the rest—he is learned and civilized and gentle . . . and highly honored wherever he goes.
MRS. GARCIA: “I’ve seen her. Common, I would say, Flashy but cheap. A type that attracts a certain sort of man.”
MRS. ROYER: “My dear, you don’t know the half of it. I’ve tried to help her—I really felt sorry for her, and I always believe in being gracious, especially to one’s social inferiors.”
MRS. GARCIA: “Of course, dear.”
MRS. ROYER: “I tried to give her a few hints as to proper conduct among gentle people. Why, I was even paying her for little trifles, so that she wouldn’t be uneasy among her betters. But she’s an utterly ungrateful little snip—she thought she could squeeze more money out of me. She was rude about it, so rude that I feared for my safety. I had to order her out of my room, actually.”
MRS. GARCIA: “You were wise to drop her. Blood will tell—bad blood or good blood—blood will always tell. And mixed blood is the Very Worst Sort. Criminals to start with . . . and then that Shameless Mixing of Races. You can see it right in that family. The boy doesn’t look a bit like his sister, and as for the uncle—hmmm—My dear, you halfway hinted at something. Do you suppose that she is not his niece but something, shall we say, a bit closer?”
MRS. ROYER: “I wouldn’t put it past either one of them!”
MRS. GARCIA: “Oh, come, ’fess up, Flossie. Tell me what you found out.”
MRS. ROYER: “I didn’t say a word. But I have eyes—and so have you.”
MRS. GARCIA: “Right in front of everyone!”
MRS. ROYER: “What I can’t understand is why the Line permits them to mix with us. Perhaps they have to sell them passage—treaties or some such nonsense—but we shouldn’t be forced to associate with them . . . and certainly not to eat with them!”
MRS. GARCIA: “I know. I’m going to write a very strong letter about it as soon as I get home. There are limits. You know, I had thought that Captain Darling was a gentleman . . . but when I saw those creatures actually seated at the Captain’s table . . . well, I didn’t believe my eyes. I thought I would faint.”
MRS. ROYER: “I know. But after all, the Captain does come from Venus.”
MRS. GARCIA: “Yes, but Venus was never a prison colony. That boy . . . he sits in the very chair I used to sit in, right across from the Captain.”
(I made a mental note to ask the Chief Steward for a different chair for Clark; I didn’t want him contaminated.)
After that they dropped us “Martians” and started dissecting Girdie and complaining about the food and the service, and even stuck pins in some of their shipboard coven who weren’t present. But I didn’t listen: I simply kept quiet and prayed for strength to go on doing so, because if I had made my presence known I feel sure that I would have stabbed them both with their own knitting needles.
Eventually they left—to rest a while to fortify themselves for lunch—and I rushed out and changed into my gym suit and hurried to the gymnasium to work up a good sweat instead of engaging in violent crime.
It was there that I found Clark and told him just enough—or maybe too much.
SEVEN
Mr. Savvonavong tells me that we are likely to have a radiation storm almost any time now and that we’ll have an emergency drill today to practice for it. The solar weather station on Mercury reports that “flare” weather is shaping up and has warned all ships in space and all manned satellites to be ready for it. The flares are expected to continue for about—
Wups! The emergency alarm caught me in the middle of a sentence. We’ve had our drill and I think the Captain has all the passengers properly scared now. Some ignored the alarm, or tried to, whereupon crewmen in heavy armor fetched them. Clark got fetched. He was the very last they tracked down, and Captain Darling gave him a public scolding that was a work of art and finished by warning Clark that if he failed to be the first passenger to reach shelter the next time the alarm sounded, Clark could expect to spend the rest of the trip in the shelter, twenty-four hours of the day, instead of having free run of passenger country.
Clark took it with his usual wooden face, but I think it hit home, especially the threat to confine him. I’m sure the speech impressed the other passengers; it was the sort that raises blisters at twenty paces. Perhaps the Captain intended it mostly for their benefit.
Then the Captain changed his tone to that of a patient teacher and explained in simple words what we could expect, why it was necessary to reach shelter at once even if one were taking a bath, why we would be perfectly safe if we did.
The solar flares trigger radiation, he told us, quite ordinary radiation, much like X-rays (“and other sorts,” I mentally added), the sort of radiation which is found in space at all times. But the intensity reaches levels from a thousand to ten thousand times as high as “normal” space radiation—and, since we are already inside the orbit of Earth, this is bad medicine indeed; it would kill an unprotected man about as quickly as shooting him through the head.
Then he explained why we would not require a thousand to ten thousand times as much shielding in order to be safe. It’s the cascade principle. The outer hull stops over 90 percent of any radiation; then comes the “cofferdam” (cargo holds and water tanks) which absorbs some more; then comes the inner hull which is actually the floor of the cylinder which is first-class passenger country.
This much shielding is plenty for all normal conditions; the radiation level in our staterooms is lower than it is at home, quite a lot lower than it is most places on Earth, especially in the mountains. (I’m looking forward to seeing real mountains. Scary!)
Then one day comes a really bad storm on the Sun and the radiation level jumps suddenly to 10,000 times normal—and you could get a killing dose right in your own bed and wake up dying.
No trouble. The emergency shelter is at the center of the ship, four shells farther in, each of which stops more than 90 percent of what hits it. Like this:
But actually the shielding is better than that and it is safer to be in the ship’s shelter during a bad solar storm than it is to be in Marsopolis.
The only trouble is—and no small matter—the shelter space is the geometrical core of the ship, just abaft the control room and not a whole lot bigger; passengers and crew are stacked into it about as intimately as puppies in a basket. My billet is a shelf space half a meter wide, half a meter deep, and just a trifle longer than I am—with other females brushing my elbows on each side of me. I am not a claustrophobe, but a coffin would be roomier.
Rations are canned ones, kept there against emergencies; sanitary facilities can only be described as “dreadful.” I hope this storm is only a solar squall and is followed by good weather on the Sun. To finish the trip to Venus in the shelter would turn a wonderful experience into a nightmare. br />
The Captain finished by saying, “We will probably have five to ten minutes’ warning from Hermes Station. But don’t take five minutes getting here. The instant the alarm sounds head for the shelter at once as fast as possible. If you are not dressed, be sure you have clothes ready to grab—and dress when you get here. If you stop to worry about anything, it may kill you.
“Crewmen will search all passenger spaces the moment the alarm sounds—and each one is ordered to use force to send to shelter any passenger who fails to move fast. He won’t argue with you—he’ll hit you, kick you, drag you—and I’ll back him up.
“One last word. Some of you have not been wearing your personal radiation meters. The law permits me to levy a stiff fine for such failure. Ordinarily I overlook such technical offenses—it’s your health, not mine. But during this emergency, this regulation will be enforced. Fresh personal meters are now being passed out to each of you; old ones will be turned over to the Surgeon, examined, and exposures entered in your records for future guidance.”
He gave the “all clear” order then and we all went back down to passenger country, sweaty and mussed—at least I was. I was just washing my face when the alarm sounded again, and I swarmed up those four decks like a frightened cat.
But I was only a close second. Clark passed me on the way.
It was just another drill. This time all passengers were in the shelter within four minutes. The Captain seemed pleased.
I’ve been sleeping raw, but I’m going to wear pajamas tonight and all nights until this is over, and leave a robe where I can grab it. Captain Darling is a darling, but I think he means exactly what he says—and I won’t play Lady Godiva; there isn’t a horse in the whole ship.
Neither Mrs. Royer nor Mrs. Garcia were at dinner this evening, although they were both amazingly agile both times the alarm sounded. They weren’t in the lounge after dinner; their doors are closed, and I saw the Surgeon coming out of Mrs. Garcia’s room.
I wonder. Surely Clark wouldn’t poison them? Or would he? I don’t dare ask him because of the remote possibility that he might tell me.