Starman's Quest Page 3

  _Chapter Two_

  Alan dumped his breakfast dishes into the hopper and walked briskly outof the mess hall. His destination was the Central Control Room, thatlong and broad chamber that was the nerve-center of the ship'sactivities just as the Common Recreation Room was the center of off-dutysocializing for the Crew.

  He found the big board where the assignments for the day were chalked,and searched down the long lists for his own name.

  "You're working with me today, Alan," a quiet voice said.

  He turned at the sound of the voice and saw the short, wiry figure ofDan Kelleher, the cargo chief. He frowned. "I guess we'll be cratingfrom now till tonight without a stop," he said unhappily.

  Kelleher shook his head. "Wrong. There's really not very much work. Butit's going to be cold going. All those chunks of dinosaur meat in thepreserving hold are going to get packed up. It won't be fun."

  Alan agreed.

  He scanned the board, looking down the rows for the list of cargo crew.Sure enough, there was his name: _Donnell, Alan_, chalked in under thebig double C. As an Unspecialized Crewman he was shifted from post topost, filling in wherever he was needed.

  "I figure it'll take four hours to get the whole batch crated," Kellehersaid. "You can take some time off now, if you want to. You'll be workingto make up for it soon enough."

  "I won't debate the point. Suppose I report to you at 0900?"

  "Suits me."

  "In case you need me before then, I'll be in my cabin. Just ring me."

  Once back in his cabin, a square cubicle in the beehive of single men'srooms in the big ship's fore section, Alan unslung his pack and took outthe dog-eared book he knew so well. He riffled through its pages. _TheCavour Theory_, it said in worn gold letters on the spine. He had readthe volume end-to-end at least a hundred times.

  "I still can't see why you're so wild on Cavour," Rat grumbled, lookingup from his doll-sized sleeping-cradle in the corner of Alan's cabin."If you ever do manage to solve Cavour's equations you're just going toput yourself and your family right out of business. Hand me mynibbling-stick, like a good fellow."

  Alan gave Rat the much-gnawed stick of Jovian oak which the Bellatricianused to keep his tiny teeth sharp.

  "You don't understand," Alan said. "If we can solve Cavour's work anddevelop the hyperdrive, we won't be handicapped by the FitzgeraldContraction. What difference does it make in the long run if the_Valhalla_ becomes obsolete? We can always convert it to the new drive.The way I see it, if we could only work out the secret of Cavour'shyperspace drive, we'd----"

  "I've heard it all before," Rat said, with a note of boredom in hisreedy voice. "Why, with hyperspace drive you'd be able to flit all overthe galaxy without suffering the time-lag you experience with regulardrive. And then you'd accomplish your pet dream of going everywhere andseeing everything. Ah! Look at the eyes light up! Look at the radiantexpression! You get starry-eyed every time you start talking about thehyperdrive!"

  Alan opened the book to a dog-eared page. "I know it can be doneeventually. I'm sure of it. I'm even sure Cavour himself actuallysucceeded in building a hyperspace vessel."

  "Sure," Rat said drily, switching his long tail from side to side. "Surehe built one. That explains his strange disappearance. Went out like asnuffed candle, soon as he turned on his drive. Okay, go ahead and buildone--if you can. But don't bother booking passage for me."

  "You mean you'd stay behind if I built a hyperspace ship?"

  "Sure I would." There was no hesitation in Rat's voice. "I like thisparticular space-time continuum very much. I don't care at all to windup seventeen dimensions north of here with no way back."

  "You're just an old stick-in-the mud." Alan glanced at his wristchron.It read 0852. "Time for me to get to work. Kelleher and I are packingfrozen dinosaur today. Want to come along?"

  Rat wiggled the tip of his nose in a negative gesture. "Thanks all thesame, but the idea doesn't appeal. It's nice and warm here. Run along,boy; I'm sleepy." He curled up in his cradle, wrapped his tail firmlyaround his body, and closed his eyes.

  * * * * *

  There was a line waiting at the entrance to the freezer section, andAlan took his place on it. One by one they climbed into the spacesuitswhich the boy in charge provided, and entered the airlock.

  For transporting perishable goods--such as the dinosaur meat broughtback from the colony on Alpha C IV to satisfy the heavy demand for thatodd-tasting delicacy on Earth--the _Valhalla_ used the most efficientfreezing system of all: a compartment which opened out into the vacuumof space. The meat was packed in huge open receptacles which wereflooded just before blastoff; before the meat had any chance to spoil,the lock was opened, the air fled into space and the compartment's heatradiated outward. The water froze solid, preserving the meat. It wasjust as efficient as building elaborate refrigeration coils, and a gooddeal simpler.

  The job now was to hew the frozen meat out of the receptacles and get itpacked in manageable crates for shipping. The job was a difficult one.It called for more muscle than brain.

  As soon as all members of the cargo crew were in the airlock, Kelleherswung the hatch closed and threw the lever that opened the other doorinto the freezer section. Photonic relays clicked; the metal door swunglightly out and they headed through it after Kelleher gave the go-ahead.

  Alan and the others set grimly about their work, chopping away at theice. They fell to vigorously. After a while, they started to getsomewhere. Alan grappled with a huge leg of meat while two fellowstarmen helped him ease it into a crate. Their hammers pounded down asthey nailed the crate together, but not a sound could be heard in theairless vault.

  After what seemed to be three or four centuries to Alan, but which wasactually only two hours, the job was done. Somehow Alan got himself tothe recreation room; he sank down gratefully on a webfoam pneumochair.

  He snapped on a spool of light music and stretched back, completelyexhausted. I don't ever want to see or taste a dinosaur steak again, hethought. Not ever.

  He watched the figures of his crewmates dashing through the ship, eachgoing about some last-minute job that had to be handled before the shiptouched down. In a way he was glad he had drawn the assignment he had:it was difficult, gruelingly heavy labor, carried out under nastycircumstances--it was never fun to spend any length of time doing manuallabor inside a spacesuit, because the sweat-swabbers and theair-conditioners in the suit were generally always one step behind onthe job--but at least the work came to a definite end. Once all the meatwas packed, the job was done.

  The same couldn't be said for the unfortunates who swabbed the floors,scraped out the jets, realigned the drive mechanism, or did any othertidying work. Their jobs were _never_ done; they always suffered fromthe nagging thought that just a little more work might bring theinspection rating up a decimal or two.

  Every starship had to undergo a rigorous inspection whenever it toucheddown on Earth. The _Valhalla_ probably wouldn't have any difficulties,since it had been gone only nine years Earthtime. But ships makinglonger voyages often had troubles with the inspectors. Procedure whichpassed inspection on a ship bound out for Rigel or one of the other farstars might have become a violation in the hundreds of years that wouldhave passed before its return.

  Alan wondered if the _Valhalla_ would run into any inspection problems.The schedule called for departure for Procyon in six days, and the shipwould as usual be carrying a party of colonists.

  The schedule was pretty much of a sacred thing. But Alan had notforgotten his brother Steve. If he only had a few days to get out thereand maybe find him----

  Well, I'll see, he thought. He relaxed.

  But relaxation was brief. A familiar high-pitched voice cut suddenlyinto his consciousness. _Oh, oh_, he thought. _Here comes trouble._

  "How come you've cut jets, spaceman?"

  Alan opened one eye and stared balefully at the skinny figure of JudyCollier. "I've finished my job, that's how come. And I've been try
ing toget a little rest. Any objections?"

  She held up her hands and looked around the big recreation roomnervously. "Okay, don't shoot. Where's that animal of yours?"

  "Rat? Don't worry about him. He's in my cabin, chewing hisnibbling-stick. I can assure you it tastes a lot better to him than yourbony ankles." Alan yawned deliberately. "Now how about letting me rest?"

  She looked wounded. "If you _want_ it that way. I just thought I'd tellyou about the doings in the Enclave when we land. There's been a changein the regulations since the last time we were here. But you wouldn't beinterested, of course." She started to mince away.

  "Hey, wait a minute!" Judy's father was the _Valhalla's_ Chief SignalOfficer, and she generally had news from a planet they were landing ona lot quicker than anyone else. "What's this all about?"

  "A new quarantine regulation. They passed it two years ago when a shipback from Altair landed and the crew turned out to be loaded with somesort of weird disease. We have to stay isolated even from the otherstarmen in the Enclave until we've all had medical checkups."

  "Do they require every ship landing to go through this?"

  "Yep. Nuisance, isn't it? So the word has come from your father thatsince we can't go round visiting until we've been checked, the Crew'sgoing to have a dance tonight when we touch down."

  "A dance?"

  "You heard me. He thought it might be a nice idea--just to keep ourspirits up until the quarantine's lifted. That nasty Roger Bond hasinvited me," she added, with a raised eyebrow that was supposed to besophisticated-looking.

  "What's wrong with Roger? I just spent a whole afternoon cratingdinosaur meat with him."

  "Oh, he's--well--he just doesn't _do_ anything to me."

  I'd like to do something to you, Alan thought. Something lingering, withboiling oil in it.

  "Did you accept?" he asked, just to be polite.

  "Of course not! Not _yet_, that is. I just thought I might get some moreinteresting offers, that's all," she said archly.

  _Oh, I see the game_, Alan thought. _She's looking for an invitation._He stretched way back and slowly let his eyes droop closed. "I wish youluck," he said.

  She gaped at him. "Oh--you're _horrible_!"

  "I know," he admitted coolly. "I'm actually a Neptunian mudworm,completely devoid of emotions. I'm here in disguise to destroy theEarth, and if you reveal my secret I'll eat you alive."

  She ignored his sally and shook her head. "But why do I always have togo to dances with Roger Bond?" she asked plaintively. "Oh, well. Nevermind," she said, and turned away.

  He watched her as she crossed the recreation room floor and steppedthrough the exit sphincter. She was just a silly girl, of course, butshe had pointed up a very real problem of starship life when she asked,"_Why do I always have to go to dances with Roger Bond?_"

  The _Valhalla_ was practically a self-contained universe. The Crew waspermanent; no one ever left, unless it was to jump ship the way Stevehad--and Steve was the only Crewman in the _Valhalla's_ history to dothat. And no one new ever came aboard, except in the case of theinfrequent changes of personnel. Judy Collier herself was one of thenewest members of the Crew, and her family had come aboard five shipyears ago, because a replacement signal officer had been needed.

  Otherwise, things remained the same. Two or three dozen families, a fewhundred people, living together year in and year out. No wonder JudyCollier always had to go to dances with Roger Bond. The actual range ofeligibles was terribly limited.

  That was why Steve had gone over the hill. What was it he had said? _Ifeel the walls of the ship holding me in like the bars of a cell._ Outthere was Earth, population approximately eight billion or so. And uphere is the _Valhalla_, current population precisely 176.

  He knew all 176 of them like members of his own family--which theywere, in a sense. There was nothing mysterious about anyone, nothingnew.

  And that was what Steve had wanted: something new. So he had jumpedship. Well, Alan thought, development of a hyperdrive would change thewhole setup, if--if----

  He hardly found the quarantine to his liking either. The starmen hadonly a brief stay on Earth, with just the shortest opportunity to godown to the Enclave, mingle with starmen from other ships, see a newface, trade news of the starways. It was almost criminal to deprive themof even a few hours of it.

  Well, a dance was the second best thing. But it was a pretty distantsecond, he thought, as he pushed himself up out of the pneumochair.

  He looked across the recreation room. _Speak of the devil_, he thought.There was Roger Bond now, stretched out and resting too under aradiotherm lamp. Alan walked over to him.

  "Heard the sad news, Rog?"

  "About the quarantine? Yeah." Roger glanced at his wristchron. "GuessI'd better start getting spruced up for the dance," he said, getting tohis feet. He was a short, good-looking, dark-haired boy a year youngerthan Alan.

  "Going with anyone special?"

  Roger shook his head. "Who, special? Who, I ask you? I'm going to takeskinny Judy Collier, I guess. There's not much choice, is there?"

  "No," Alan agreed sadly, "Not much choice at all."

  Together they left the recreation room. Alan felt a strange sort ofhopeless boredom spreading over him, as if he had entered a gray fog. Itworried him.

  "See you tonight," Roger said.

  "I suppose so," Alan returned dully. He was frowning.