after this long, it must be theship. Not navigable, of course?"
"Not in subspace, and only so-so in normal. The Chaytors are O. K., butthe whole Top is spun out and the rest of her won't hold air--air, hell!She won't hold shipping crates! All the Wesleys are shot, and all theQ-converters. Half the Grahams are leaking like sieves, and----"
"Skip that, too. Just a sec--I'll cut in the downstairs recorder. Nowstart in at your last check and tell us what's happened since."
"It's a long story."
"Unwind it, Runt, I don't give a damn how long it is. Not afull-detailed report, just hit the high spots--but don't leave outanything really important."
"Wow!" Jones remarked, audibly. "Wottaman Frenchy! Like the ex-urbanitesaid to the gardener: 'I don't want you to work hard--just take bigshovelfulls and lots of 'em per minute'."
"That's enough out of you, Herc my boy. You'll be next. Go ahead, Babe."
Deston went ahead, and spoke almost steadily for thirty minutes. He didnot mention the gangsters; nor any personal matters. Otherwise, hisreport was accurate and complete. He had no idea that everything hesaid was going out on an Earth-wide hookup; or that many other planets,monitoring constantly all subspace channels, were hooking on. When hewas finally released Captain French said, with a chuckle:
"Off the air for a minute. You've no idea what an uproar this hasstirred up already. They let them have all your stuff, but we aren'tputting out a thing until some Brass gets out there and gets the realstory----"
"That _is_ the real story, damn it!"
"Oh, sure, and a very nice job, too, for an extemporaneous effort--if itwas. Semantics says, though, that in a couple of spots it smells likeslightly rancid cheese, and ... no-no, keep still! Too many planetslistening in--_verbum sap_. Anyway, THE PRESS smells something, too, andthey're screaming their lungs out, especially the sob-sisters. Now,Herc, on the air, you're orbiting the fourth planet of a sun. What sun?Where?"
"I don't know. Unlisted. We're in completely unexplored territory.Standard reference angles are as follows"--and Jones read off a longlist of observations, not only of the brightest stars of the galaxy, butalso of the standard reference points, such as S-Doradus, lying outsideit. "When you get that stuff all plotted, you'll find a hell of a bigconfusion; but I _hope_ there aren't enough stars in it but what you canfind us sometime."
"Off the air--for good, I hope. Don't make me laugh, Buster, Yourprobable center will spear it. If there's ever more than one star in anyconfusion _you_ set up, I'll eat all the extras. But there's a dozen BigBrains here, gnawing their nails off up to the wrist to talk to Adamsall the rest of the night, so put him on and let's get back to sleep,huh? They're cutting this mike now."
"Just a minute!" Deston snapped. "What's your time?"
"Three, fourteen, thirty-seven. So go back to bed, you night-prowlingowl."
"Of what day, month, and year?" Deston insisted.
"Friday, Sep----" French's voice was replaced by a much older one; veryevidently that of a Fellow of the College.
After listening for a moment to the newcomer and Adams, Barbara tookDeston by the arm and led him away. "Just a little bit of _that_gibberish is a bountiful sufficiency, husband mine. So I think we'dbetter take Captain French's advice, don't you?"
* * * * *
Since there was only one star in Jones' "Confusion" (by the book,"Volume of Uncertainty") finding the _Procyon_ was no problem at all.High Brass came in quantity and the entire story--except for one bit ofbiology--was told. Two huge subspace-going machine shops also came, anda thousand mechanics, who worked on the crippled liner for almost threeweeks.
Then the _Procyon_ started back for Earth under her own subspace drive,under the command of Captain Theodore Jones. His first, last, and onlysubspace command, of course, since he was now a married man. Deston hadwanted to resign while still a First Officer, but his superiors wouldnot accept his resignation until his promotion "for outstandingservices" came through. Thus, Ex-Captain Carlyle Deston and his wifewere dead-heading, not quite back to Earth, but to the transfer-pointfor the planet Newmars.
"Theodore Warner Deston is going to be born on Newmars, where he shouldbe," Barbara had said, and Deston had agreed.
"But suppose she's Theodora?" Bernice had twitted her.
"Uh-uh," Barbara had said, calmly. "I just _know_ he's Theodore."
"Uh-huh, I know." Bernice had nodded her spectacular head. "And wewanted a girl, so she is. Barbara Bernice Jones, her name is. A livingdoll."
Although both pregnancies were well advanced, neither was very near fullterm. Thus it was clear that both periods of gestation were going to bewell over a year in length; but none of the five persons who knew it somuch as mentioned the fact. To Adams it was only one tiny datum in anincredibly huge and complex mathematical structure. The parents did notwant to be pilloried as crackpots, as publicity-seeking liars, or asbeing unable to count; and they knew that nobody would believe them ifthey told the truth; even--or especially?--no medical doctor. The moreany doctor knew about gynecology and obstetrics, in fact, the less hewould believe any such story as theirs.
Of what use is it to pit such puny and trivial things as _facts_ againstrock-ribbed, iron-bound, entrenched AUTHORITY?
The five, however, _knew_; and Deston and Jones had several long andhighly unsatisfactory discussions; at first with Adams, and laterbetween themselves. At the end of the last such discussion, a couple ofhours out from the transfer point, Jones lit a cigarette savagely andrasped:
"Wherever you start or whatever your angle of approach, he _always_boils it down to this: 'Subjective time is measured by the number oflearning events experienced.' I ask you, Babe, what does that mean? Ifanything?"
"It sounds like it ought to mean _something_, but I'll be damned if Iknow what." Deston gazed thoughtfully at the incandescent tip of hisfriend's cigarette. "However, if it makes the old boy happy and givesthe College a toehold on subspace, what do _we_ care?"
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