She was bewildered. “Whatever on earth for?”
“As your captain I could tell you to shut up and obey my order. I won’t because you’d be resentful. Let’s just say it’s something the psychologists learned in 2000 A.D. It would defeat the purpose of the test if I told you what it was all about.
“Everybody else will have to be x-rayed, too. You have the honor of being the first.”
“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “But I’ll do it, of course.”
She rose. “Thank you.”
“No thanks necessary. Now get your tail down to Doc Graves.”
When she arrived at the doctor’s office, she found him talking on the phone. He was frowning and chewing his cigar savagely.
“All right, Milt. I’ll do it. But I don’t like it that you won’t confide in me.”
He hung the phone up and turned to her. “Hello, Jill. You’ll have to wait until Ensign Smithers gets here. He’ll pick up the X-ray photos as soon as they’re made and run them up to Firebrass.”
“He has a darkroom?”
“No. They don’t need developing. Didn’t you know? They’re just like other photographs, electronically processed at the moment they’re taken. Firebrass himself designed the equipment. It’s a process developed about 1998, he said.”
Graves began striding back and forth, biting hard on the cigar.
“Damn it! He won’t even let me see the X-rays! Why?”
“He said he didn’t want anyone but himself to see the X-rays. It’s part of the psychological evaluation tests.”
“How in the hell could X-rays of the head tell you anything about a man’s psyche? Is he nuts?”
“I suppose he’ll tell us all about it when he’s seen all the photos. By the way, speaking of a man’s psyche, I’m not a man.”
“I was speaking in the abstract.”
He stopped and scowled even more fiercely. “I won’t be able to sleep nights worrying about this. Man, I wish I’d lived longer. I shuffled off this mortal coil in 1980, so I didn’t get to see the later developments in medical science. Just as well, I suppose. I couldn’t keep up with the deluge of new stuff as it was.”
Turning to Jill, and stabbing the cigar at her, he said, “Something I’d like to ask you, Jill. Something that’s been bothering me. Firebrass is the only one I’ve ever met who lived beyond 1983. Have you ever met anyone who did?”
She blinked with surprise. “No-o-o. No, I haven’t, now I think about it. Firebrass excepted.”
For a moment, she had been about to tell him about Stern. That was going to be a hard secret to keep.
“Neither have I. Damn peculiar.”
“Not really,” she said. “Of course, I haven’t been all over The River, but I have traveled several hundred thousand kilometers and talked to thousands of people. The twentieth-century people seem to have been scattered thinly everywhere. If they were resurrected in clumps, as it were, I never heard of any. So that means that anywhere in the Valley you’ll likely find a few, but most of the population segments will be from other centuries.
“So there’s nothing remarkable in the rarity of people born after 1983.”
“Yeah? Maybe so. Ah, here comes Smithers and two other thugs. Step into my X-rated parlor, my dear, as the spider said to the fly.”
Extracts from various editions of The Daily Leak:
Dmitri “Mitya” Ivanovitch Nikitin is pro tempore pilot third officer of the Parseval. He was born in 1885 in Gomel, Russia, of middle-class parents. His father was a harness-factory owner; his mother taught piano. His qualifications for candidacy were based on his experience as chief steersman of the Russie, a French airship built by the Lebaudy-Juillot Company in 1909 for the Russian government.
Ms. Jill Gulbirra, chief airship instructor, says that Mitya’s experience was rather limited from her viewpoint, but he has shown excellent ability. However, according to rumors, he is too fond of skull-bloom. Take a tip from us, Mitya. Lay off the booze.
… Charges will not be brought by the editor against Pilot Nikitin. During a necessarily brief interview in the hospital, Mr. Bagg said, “I’ve been laid out by better men than that big slob. The next time he comes charging into my office, I’ll be prepared. The reason I’m not having him arrested isn’t just because I have a big heart, however. I just want a chance to personally knock his brains out. Speak softly and carry a big stick.”
… Ettore Arduino is Italian (what else?), but he is blond and blue-eyed and can pass for a Swede as long as he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t eat garlic. As all but new citizens know, he entered Parolando two months ago and was immediately signed up for training. He has an illustrious though tragic history, having been chief motor engineer on the airship Norge and then on the Italia under Umberto Nobile. (See page 6 for a minibiography of this son of Rome.) The Norge accomplished its primary mission to fly over the North Pole on May 12, 1926. It also established that there was no large land mass between the North Pole and Alaska as reported by that great explorer, Commodore Robert E. Peary (1856–1920), the first man to reach the North Pole (1909). (Though Peary was accompanied by a Negro, Matthew Henson, and four Eskimos whose names we don’t remember, actually Henson was the first man to stand on the North Pole.)
The Italia, after passing over the Pole, found itself bucking a very strong headwind on its way to King’s Bay. The controls jammed from heavy icing; a crash seemed assured. However, the ice melted, and the airship proceeded. Some time later, the vessel began to fall slowly. The helpless crew was forced to stand by while the queen of the skies struck the surface ice. The control gondola was torn off, a fortuitous event for those in it. These scrambled out and then looked up in shock as the dirigible, freed of the weight of the gondola, rose again.
Ettore Arduino was last seen standing on the gangway to the starboard engine gondola. As reported by a crew member, Dr. Francis Behounek of the Wireless Institute of Prague, Czechoslovakia, Arduino’s face was a mask of utter disbelief. The Italia floated away, and nothing of it or the men still aboard was ever seen again. On Earth, that is.
Arduino relates that he perished of the cold after the Italia fell for the second and last time on the ice. His complete account of this horrendous experience will be printed in next Thursday’s issue. After this blood-chilling event, no reasonable person could expect Ettore to volunteer again for airship travel. But he is undaunted by this and expresses eagerness for another polar expedition. We don’t care what people say about Italians, and we have nothing but contempt for the attitude prevalent in Tombstone, where it was stated as a fact that all wops were yellow. We personally know that they have more guts than brains, and we are sure that Ettore will be a shining adornment to the crew.
… last seen paddling desperately toward the middle of The River while Mr. Arduino fired shots at him with the new Mark IV pistol. Either this weapon is not what it’s cracked up to be, or Mr. Arduino’s marksmanship was below normal that day.
… your new editor accepts the suggestion of President Firebrass that this journal temper the privilege of free speech with discretion.
… Mr. Arduino was released after promising that he would no longer settle grievances, justified or unjustified, by violent means. The newly created Board of Civil Disputes will handle such matters from now on with President Firebrass as the court of last appeal. Though we will miss S.C. Bagg, we must confess that…
… Metzing had been chief of the Naval Airship Division of Imperial Germany in 1913. He was Korvettenkapitan of the Zeppelin L-1 when it went down on September 9, 1913, during maneuvers. This was the first naval Zeppelin to be lost. The crash was not due to any deficiency on the part of crew or vessel but to the ignorance at that time of meteorological conditions in the upper air. In other words, weather forecasting was then a primitive science. A violent line squall lifted the L-1 up past her pressure height and then dashed her down. With propellers still spinning and ballast ejecting, the ship smashed into the sea off Heligoland.
Metzing died with most of his crew… We welcome this experienced officer and likable gentleman to Parolando but hope he brings no bad luck with him.
… Flash! Just arrived! Another airship veteran, Anna Karlovna Obrenova from upRiver some 40,000 kilometers. In the brief interview allowed before Ms. Obrenova was taken to President Firebrass’ HQ, we learned that she had been captain of the USSR freighter-dirigible Lermontov, logging 8584 hours of flight time in this and other airships. This exceeds Ms. Gulbirra’s 8342 hours and Mr. Thorn’s 8452 hours. A complete account of Obrenova should be in tomorrow’s issue. All we can say at the moment is that she is a peach, a real pipperoo!
It was funny, though not laughing-funny.
She had been worried that a man with more airtime than herself would show up. One had, but he had not been aggressive. His only ambition was to be on the ship, and he did not seem to care what rank he got.
Somehow, she had never thought of being displaced by a woman. There were so few female officers in her time. And so few people who had lived past 1983 had come by—only one, in fact—that she had not worried about dirigibilists of that era. From what Firebrass said, post-1983 had been the great age of the large rigid airships. But the odds against aeronauts of that era showing were high.
Chance had thrown its dice, and so here was Obrenova, a woman who had 860 hours flight time as captain of a giant Soviet airship.
So far, the officers’ positions had not been announced. No matter. Jill knew that the little blond newcomer would be first mate. Realistically, she should be. If Jill were in Firebrass’ place, she would have had to appoint Obrenova as first mate.
On the other hand, there were only two months left before the Parseval took off for the polar voyage. The Russian might need more retraining than that. After thirty-four years of ground life, she would be rusty. She would have a month reacquainting herself with the gasbags in the Minerva. Then she would have a month of training in the big ship with everybody else.
Could she do it? Of course, she could. Jill would have been able to do it in that time.
She had been in the conference room with the officer candidates when Anna Obrenova was brought in by Agatha. On seeing her, Jill’s heart had seemed to turn over like a sluggish motor. Before she heard Agatha’s excited announcement of the newcomer’s identity, she had known what it would be.
Anna Obrenova was short and slim but long legged and full breasted. She had long, shining yellow hair and large, dark blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, a cupid’s-bow mouth, and a deep tan. She was, to quote another newspaper article, a “beaut.”
Disgustingly delicate and feminine. Unfairly so.
Just the type that men simultaneously wanted to protect and to bed.
Firebrass was on his feet, advancing toward her, his face aglow, his eyes seeming to drip male hormones.
But it was Thorn’s reaction that surprised Jill. On seeing Obrenova enter, he had jumped to his feet and opened his mouth, closed it, opened it, then closed it again. His ruddy skin was pale.
“Do you know her?” Jill said softly.
He sat down and covered his face with his hands for a moment.
When he took them away, he said, “No! For a second I thought I did! She looks so much like my first wife! I still can’t believe it.”
Thorn remained shaking in his chair while others crowded around Obrenova. Not until the others had been introduced did he get up and shake her hand. He told her then how remarkably she resembled his wife. She smiled—“dazzlingly” was a cliché, but it was the only adverb appropriate—and she said, in heavily accented English, “Did you love your wife?”
That was a strange thing to say. Thorn stepped back a pace and said, “Yes, very much. But she left me.”
“I am sorry,” Obrenova said, and they did not exchange another word while in the room.
Firebrass sat her down and offered her food, cigarettes, and liquor. She accepted the former but declined the rest.
“Does that mean you have no vices?” Firebrass said. “I was hoping you’d have at least one.”
Obrenova ignored this. Firebrass shrugged and began questioning her. Jill got depressed while listening to the account of her experience. She had been born in Smolensk in 1970, had been educated as an aeronautical engineer, and in 1984 had become an airship trainee. In 2001 she had been made captain of the passenger freighter Lermontov.
Finally, Firebrass said that she must be tired. She should go with Agatha, who’d find quarters for her.
“Preferably in this building,” he said.
Agatha replied that no rooms were available. She would have to be satisfied with a hut near those of Ms. Gulbirra and Mr. Thorn.
Firebrass, looking disappointed, said, “Well, maybe we can find a place here for her later. Meantime, I’ll go with you, Anna, and make sure you’re not given a dump.”
Jill felt even lower. How could she expect objectivity from him, when he was so obviously smitten by the Russian?
For a while, she indulged in some fantasies. How about abducting the little Russian and tying her up in a hidden place just before the Parseval was to take off? Firebrass would not hold up the flight until she was found. Jill Gulbirra would then become first mate.
If she could do that to Obrenova, why not to Firebrass? Then she would be the captain.
The images evoked were pleasing, but she could not do that to anyone, no matter how strongly she felt. To violate their human rights and dignities would be to violate, to destroy herself.
During the week that followed she sometimes beat her fists on the table or wept. Or both. The next week she told herself that she was being immature. Accept what was unavoidable and enjoy what was left. Was it so important that she should finally be captain of an airship?
To her, yes. To anyone else in the world, no.
So she swallowed her resentment and disgust.
Piscator must have known how she felt. Frequently, she caught him looking at her. He would smile or else just look away. But he knew, he knew!
Six months passed. Firebrass gave up trying to get Obrenova to move into his apartment. He made no secret of his desire nor did he hide the fact that she had finally rejected him.
“You win some, you lose some,” he said to Jill with a wry smile. “Maybe she doesn’t go for men. I know a score or more who’ve been panting for her, and she’s as cool to them as if she were the Venus de Milo.”
“I’m sure she isn’t a lesbian,” Jill said.
“Takes one to know one, heh? Haw, haw!”
“Damn it, you know I’m ambivalent,” she said angrily, and she walked away.
“Indecisive is the right word!” he had shouted after her.
At that time Jill was living with Abel Park, a tall, muscular, handsome, and intelligent man. He was a Rivertad, one of the many millions of children who had died on Earth after the age of five. Abel did not remember what country he had been born in or what his native language had been. Though resurrected in an area the majority of whom were medieval Hindus, he had been adopted and raised by a Scots couple. These were eighteenth-century Lowlanders of peasant origin. Despite his poverty, the foster father had managed to become a medical doctor in Edinburgh.
Abel had left his area after his parents had been killed and had wandered downRiver until he came to Parolando. Jill had liked him very much and had asked him to be her hutmate. The big fellow had gladly moved in, and they had had some idyllic months. But, though he was intelligent, he was ignorant. Jill taught him everything she could; history, philosophy, poetry, and even some arithmetic. He was eager to learn, but eventually he accused her of patronizing him.
Shocked, Jill had denied this.
“I just want to educate you, to give you knowledge denied you because you died so early.”
“Yes, but you get so impatient. You keep forgetting that I don’t have your background. Things which seem simple to you, because you were raised among them, are bewildering to me. I don’t have yo
ur referents.”
He had paused, then said, “You’re a knowledge-chauvinist. In short, a… what’s the word?… a snob.”
Jill was even more shocked. She denied this, too, though reflection showed her that he was perhaps right. By then it was too late to make reparations. He had left her for another woman.
She consoled herself by telling herself that he was too used to the idea of the man being the boss. He found it difficult to accept her as an equal.
Later, she realized that that was only partly true. Actually, she had, deep down, a contempt for him because he was not, and never would be, her mental equal. That had been an unconscious attitude, and now that she was aware of it, she regretted having it. In fact, she felt ashamed of it.
After that, she made no effort to have anything but the most impermanent liaisons. Her partners were men and women who, like her, wanted only sexual satisfaction. Usually, she and they got it, but she always felt frustrated afterward. She needed a genuine affection and companionship.
Obrenova and Thorn, she observed, must be doing the same thing as she. At least, no one moved into their huts. For that matter, though, she never observed them taking any interest in anybody which could be interpreted as sexual. As far as she knew, they were not even having one-night stands.
Thorn did, however, seem to like Obrenova’s company. Jill often saw them talking earnestly together. Perhaps Thorn was trying to get her to be his lover. And perhaps the Russian refused because she thought she would only be a substitute for his first wife.
Three days before the final liftoff, a holiday was declared. Jill left the plains area because it was so crowded and noisy with people from up and down The River. She estimated that there were already several hundred thousands camping in Parolando and that there would be over twice that number by the time the Parseval left. She retired to her hut, leaving it only for a little fishing. The second day, as she was sitting on the edge of the little lake, looking emptily into the water, she heard someone approaching.