Time for the Stars

  I was going to suggest that he go outside while he was about it when a ship’s officer came through, checking the rooms. “In you get, son,” he said briskly, using the no-nonsense tone in which you tell a dog to heel. Dusty opened his mouth, closed it, and climbed in. Then the officer “baby-strapped” him, pulling the buckles around so that they could not be reached by the person in the bunk. He even put the chest strap around Dusty’s arms.

  He then checked my belts. I had my arms outside the straps but all he said was, “Keep your arms on the mattress during boost,” and left.

  A female voice said, “All special communicators link with your telepartners.”

  I had been checking with Pat ever since I woke up and had described the Lewis and Clark to him when we first sighted her and then inside as well. Nevertheless I said, (“Are you there, Pat?”)

  “Naturally. I’m not going anyplace. What’s the word?”

  (“Boost in about ten minutes. They just told us to link with our partners during boost.”)

  “You had better stay linked, or I’ll beat your ears off! I don’t want to miss anything.”

  (“Okay, okay, don’t race your engine. Pat? This isn’t quite the way I thought it would be.”)

  “Huh? How?”

  (“I don’t know. I guess I expected brass bands and speeches and such. After all, this is a big day. But aside from pictures they took of us last night at Canton Atoll, there was more fuss made when we started for Scout camp.”)

  Pat chuckled. “Brass bands would get wet where you are—not to mention soaked with neutrons.”

  (“Sure, sure.”) I didn’t have to be told that a torchship needs elbow room for a boost. Even when they perfected a way to let them make direct boost from Earth-zero instead of from a space station, they still needed a few thousand square miles of ocean—and at that you heard ignorant prattle about how the back wash was changing the climate and the government ought to do something.

  “Anyhow, there are plenty of brass bands and speeches. We are watching one by the Honorable J. Dillberry Egghead…shall I read it back?”

  (“Uh, don’t bother. Who’s ‘we’?”)

  “All of us. Faith and Frank just came in.”

  I was about to ask about Maudie when a new voice came over the system: “Welcome aboard, friends. This is the Captain. We will break loose at an easy three gravities; nevertheless, I want to warn you to relax and keep your arms inside your couches. The triple boost will last only six minutes, then you will be allowed to get up. We take off in number two position, just after the Henry Hudson.”

  I repeated to Pat what the Captain was saying practically as fast as he said it; this was one of the things we had practiced while he was at the training center: letting your directed thoughts echo what somebody else was saying so that a telepair acted almost like a microphone and a speaker. I suppose he was doing the same at the other end, echoing the Captain’s words to the family a split second behind me—it’s not hard with practice.

  The Captain said, “The Henry is on her final run-down…ten seconds…five seconds…now!”

  I saw something like heat lightning even though I was in a closed room. For a few seconds there was a sound over the speaker like sleet on a window, soft and sibilant and far away. Pat said, “Boy!”

  (“What is it, Pat?”)

  “She got up out of there as if she had sat on a bee. Just a hole in the water and a flash of light. Wait a sec—they’re shifting the view pick-up from the space station to Luna.”

  (“You’ve got a lot better view than I have. All I can see is the ceiling of this room.”)

  The female voice said, “Mr. Warner! Miss Furtney! Tween-ships telepairs start recording.”

  The Captain said, “All hands, ready for boost. Stand by for count down,” and another voice started in, “Sixty seconds…fifty-five…fifty…forty-five…holding on-forty-five…holding forty-five…holding…holding…”—until I was ready to scream.

  “Tom, what’s wrong?”

  (“How should I know?”)

  “Forty…thirty-five…thirty…”

  “Tom, Mum wants me to tell you to be very careful.”

  (“What does she think I can do? I’m just lying here, strapped down.”)

  “I know.” Pat chuckled. “Hang on tight to the brush, you lucky stiff; they are about to take away the ladder.”

  “…four!… Three!… Two!… ONE!”

  I didn’t see a flash, I didn’t hear anything. I simply got very heavy—like being on the bottom of a football pile-up.

  “There’s nothing but steam where you were.”

  I didn’t answer, I was having trouble breathing.

  “They’ve shifted the pick-up. They’re following you with a telephoto now. Tom, you ought to see this…you look just like a sun. It burns the rest of the picture right out of the tank.”

  (“How can I see it?”) I said crossly. (“I’m in it.”)

  “You sound choked up. Are you all right?”

  (“You’d sound choked, too, if you had sand bags piled across your chest.”)

  “Is it bad?”

  (“It’s not good. But it’s all right, I guess.”)

  Pat let up on me and did a right good job of describing what he was seeing by television. The Richard E. Byrd took off just after we did, before we had finished the high boost to get escape velocity from Earth; he told me all about it. I didn’t have anything to say anyhow; I couldn’t see anything and I didn’t feel like chattering. I just wanted to hold still and feel miserable.

  I suppose it was only six minutes but it felt more like an hour. After a long, long time, when I had decided the controls were jammed and we were going to keep on at high boost until we passed the speed of light, the pressure suddenly relaxed and I felt light as a snowflake…if it hadn’t been for the straps I would have floated up to the ceiling.

  “We have reduced to one hundred and ten per cent of one gravity,” the Captain said cheerfully. “Our cruising boost will be higher, but we will give the newcomers among us a while to get used to it.” His tone changed and he said briskly, “All stations, secure from blast-off and set space watches, third section.”

  I loosened my straps and sat up and then stood up. Maybe we were ten per cent heavy, but it did not feel like it; I felt fine. I started for the door, intending to look around more than I had been able to when I came aboard.

  Dusty Rhodes yelled at me. “Hey! Come back here and unstrap me! That moron fastened the buckles out of my reach.”

  I turned and looked at him. “Say ‘please.’”

  What Dusty answered was not “please.” Nevertheless I let him loose. I should have made him say it; it might have saved trouble later.

  CHAPTER VII

  19,900 WAYS

  The first thing that happened in the L.C. made me think I was dreaming—I ran into Uncle Steve.

  I was walking along the circular passageway that joined the staterooms on my deck and looking for the passage inboard, toward the axis of the ship. As I turned the corner I bumped into someone. I said, “Excuse me,” and started to go past when the other person grabbed my arm and clapped me on the shoulder. I looked up and it was Uncle Steve, grinning and shouting at me. “Hi, shipmate! Welcome aboard!”

  “Uncle Steve! What are you doing here?”

  “Special assignment from the General Staff…to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Huh?”

  There was no mystery when he explained. Uncle Steve had known for a month that his application for special discharge to take service with the LRF for Project Lebensraum had been approved; he had not told the family but had spent the time working a swap to permit him to be in the same ship as Pat—or, as it turned out, the one I was in.

  “I thought your mother might take it easier if she knew I was keeping an eye on her boy. You can tell her about it the next time you are hooked in with your twin.”

  “I’ll tell her now,” I answered and gave a yell in my mind for Pat. He di
d not seem terribly interested; I guess a reaction was setting in and he was sore at me for being where he had expected to be. But Mother was there and he said he would tell her. “Okay, she knows.”

  Uncle Steve looked at me oddly. “Is it as easy as that?”

  I explained that it was just like talking…a little faster, maybe, since you can think words faster than you can talk, once you are used to it. But he stopped me. “Never mind. You’re trying to explain color to a blind man. I just wanted Sis to know.”

  “Well, okay.” Then I noticed that his uniform was different. The ribbons were the same and it was an LRF company uniform, like my own, which did not surprise me—but his chevrons were gone: “Uncle Steve…you’re wearing major’s leaves!”

  He nodded. “Home town boy makes good. Hard work, clean living, and so on.”

  “Gee, that’s swell!”

  “They transferred me at my reserve rank, son, plus one bump for exceptionally neat test papers. Fact is, if I had stayed with the Corps, I would have retired as a ship’s sergeant at best—there’s no promotion in peacetime. But the Project was looking for certain men, not certain ranks, and I happened to have the right number of hands and feet for the job.”

  “Just what is your job, Uncle?”

  “Commander of the ship’s guard.”

  “Huh? What have you got to guard?”

  “That’s a good question. Ask me in a year or two and I can give you a better answer. Actually, ‘Commander Landing Force’ would be a better title. When we locate a likely looking planet—‘when and if,’ I mean—I’m the laddie who gets to go out and check the lay of the land and whether the natives are friendly while you valuable types stay safe and snug in the ship.” He glanced at his wrist. “Let’s go to chow.”

  I wasn’t hungry and wanted to look around, but Uncle Steve took me firmly by the arm and headed for the mess room. “When you have soldiered as long as I have, lad, you will learn that you sleep when you get a chance and that you are never late for chow line.”

  It actually was a chow line, cafeteria style. The L.C. did not run to table waiters nor to personal service of any sort, except for the Captain and people on watch. We went through the line and I found that I was hungry after all. That meal only, Uncle Steve took me ever to the heads-of-departments table. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is my nephew with two heads, Tom Bartlett. He left his other head dirtside—he’s a telepair twin. If he does anything he shouldn’t, don’t tell me, just clobber him.” He glanced at me; I was turning red. “Say ‘howdy,’ son…or just nod if you can’t talk.”

  I nodded and sat down. A sweet old girl with the sort of lap babies like to sit on was next to me. She smiled and said, “Glad to have you with us, Tom.” I learned that she was the Chief Ecologist. Her name was Dr. O’Toole, only nobody called her that, and she was married to one of the relativists.

  Uncle Steve went around the table, pointing out who was who and what they did: the Chief Engineer, the Relativist (Uncle Steve called him the “Astrogator” as the job would be called in an ordinary ship), Chief Planetologist Harry Gates and the Staff Xenologist, and so forth—I couldn’t remember the names at the time—and Reserve Captain Urqhardt. I didn’t catch the word “reserve” and was surprised at how young he was. But Uncle Steve corrected me: “No, no! He’s not the Captain. He’s the man who will be captain if it turns out we need a spare. Across from you is the Surgeon—don’t let that fool you, either; he never does surgery himself. Dr. Devereaux is the boss head-shrinker.”

  I looked puzzled and Uncle Steve went on, “You don’t savvy? Psychiatrist. Doc Dev is watching every move we make, trying to decide how quick he will have to be with the straitjacket and the needle. Correct, Doc?”

  Dr. Devereaux buttered a roll. “Essentially, Major. But finish your meal; we’re not coming for you until later in the day.” He was a fat little toad, ugly as could be, and with a placid, unbreakable calm. He went on, “I just had an upsetting thought, Major.”

  “I thought that thoughts never upset you?”

  “Consider. Here I am charged with keeping quaint characters like you sane…but they forgot to assign anybody to keep me sane. What should I do?”

  “Mmm…” Uncle Steve seemed to study it. “I didn’t know that head-shrinkers were supposed to be sane, themselves.”

  Dr. Devereaux nodded. “You’ve put your finger on it. As in your profession, Major, being crazy is an asset. Pass the salt, please.”

  Uncle Steve shut up and pretended to wipe off blood.

  A man came in and sat down; Uncle Steve introduced me and said, “Staff Commander Frick, the Communications Officer. Your boss, Tom.”

  Commander Frick nodded and said, “Aren’t you third section, young man?”

  “Uh, I don’t know, sir.”

  “I do…and you should have known. Report to the communications office.”

  “Uh, you mean now, sir?”

  “Right away. You are a half hour late.”

  I said, “Excuse me,” and got up in a hurry, feeling silly. I glanced at Uncle Steve but he wasn’t looking my way; he seemed not to have heard it.

  The communications office was two decks up, right under the control room; I had trouble finding it. Van Houten was there and Mei-Ling and a man whose name was Travers, who was communicator-of-the-watch. Mei-Ling was reading a sheaf of papers and did not look up; I knew that she was telepathing. Van said, “Where the deuce have you been? I’m hungry.”

  “I didn’t know,” I protested.

  “You’re supposed to know.”

  He left and I turned to Mr. Travers. “What do you want me to do?”

  He was threading a roll of tape into an autotransmitter; he finished before he answered me. “Take that stack of traffic as she finishes it, and do whatever it is you do with it. Not that it matters.”

  “You mean read it to my twin?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Do you want him to record?”

  “Traffic is always recorded. Didn’t they teach you anything?”

  I thought about explaining that they really hadn’t because there had not been time, when I thought, oh what’s the use? He probably thought I was Pat and assumed that I had had the full course. I picked up papers Mei-Ling was through with and sat down.

  But Travers went on talking. “I don’t know what you freaks are up here for now anyhow. You’re not needed; we’re still in radio range.”

  I put the papers down and stood up: “Don’t call us ‘freaks.’”

  He glanced at me and said, “my, how tall you’ve grown. Sit down and get to work.”

  We were about the same height but he was ten years older and maybe thirty pounds heavier. I might have passed it by if we had been alone, but not with Mei-Ling present. “I said not to call us ‘freaks.’ It’s not polite.”

  He looked tired and not amused but he didn’t stand up. I decided he didn’t want a fight and felt relieved. “All right, all right,” he answered. “Don’t be so touchy. Get busy on that traffic.”

  I sat down and looked over the stuff I had to send, then called Pat and told him to start his recorder; this was not a practice message.

  He answered, “Call back in half an hour. I’m eating dinner.”

  (“I was eating lunch but I didn’t get to finish. Quit stalling, Pat. Take a look at that contract you were so anxious to sign.”)

  “You were just as anxious. What’s the matter, kid? Cold feet already?”

  (“Maybe, maybe not. I’ve got a hunch that this isn’t going to be one long happy picnic. But I’ve learned one thing already; when the Captain sends for a bucket of paint, he wants a full bucket and no excuses. So switch on that recorder and stand by to take down figures.”)

  Pat muttered and gave in, then announced that he was ready after a delay that was almost certainly caused by Mother insisting that he finish dinner. “Ready.”

  The traffic was almost entirely figures (concerning the take-off, I suppose) and code. Be
ing such, I had to have Pat repeat back everything. It was not hard, but it was tedious. The only message in clear was one from the Captain, ordering roses sent to a Mrs. Detweiler in Brisbane and charged to his LRF account, with a message: “Thanks for a wonderful farewell dinner.”

  Nobody else sent personal messages; I guess they had left no loose ends back on Earth.

  I thought about sending some roses to Maudie, but I didn’t want to do it through Pat. It occurred to me that I could do it through Mei-Ling, then I remembered that, while I had money in the bank, I had appointed Pat my attorney; if I ordered them, he would have to okay the bill.

  I decided not to cross any bridges I had burned behind me.

  * * *

  Life aboard the L.C., or the Elsie as we called her, settled into a routine. The boost built up another fifteen per cent which made me weigh a hundred and fifty-eight pounds; my legs ached until I got used to it—but I soon did; there are advantages in being kind of skinny. We freaks stood a watch in five, two at a time—Miss Gamma and Cas Warner were not on our list because they hooked sidewise with other ships. At first we had a lot of spare time, but the Captain put a stop to that.

  Knowing that the LRF did not really expect us to return, I had not thought much about that clause in the contract which provided for tutoring during the trip but I found out that the Captain did not intend to forget it. There was school for everybody, not just for us telepaths who were still of school age. He appointed Dr. Devereaux, Mrs. O’Toole, and Mr. Krishnamurti a school board and courses were offered in practically everything, from life drawing to ancient history. The Captain himself taught that last one; it turned out he knew Sargon the Second and Socrates like brothers.

  Uncle Alfred tried to sign up for everything, which was impossible, even if he didn’t eat, sleep, nor stand watch. He had never, he told me, had time for all the schooling he wanted and now at last he was going to get it. Even my real uncle, Steve, signed up for a couple of courses. I guess I showed surprise at this, for he said, “Look, Tom, I found out my first cruise that the only way to make space bearable is to have something to learn and learn it. I used to take correspondence courses. But this bucket has the finest assemblage of really bright minds you are ever likely to see. If you don’t take advantage of it, you are an idiot. Mama O’Toole’s cooking course, for example: where else can you find a Cordon Bleu graduate willing to teach you her high art free? I ask you!”