Short Fiction, Poul Anderson [simple e reader .TXT] 📗

in the teeth of annihilation. Valeria’s image swayed before him.

Lundgard was moving around, peering over the shadowy tumble of blackened rock in search of any trace. There was a magnetic rifle in his hands. Bo strained his helmet to the crater floor, trying to hear ground vibrations, but there was nothing. He didn’t know where Lundgard was, only that he was very near.

Blindly, he bundled his legs and sprang out of the pit.

They found the asteroid where Valeria had left her recording instruments. It was a tiny drifting fragment of a world which had never been born, turning endlessly between the constellations; the Sirius moored fast with grapples, and Valeria donned a spacesuit and went out to get her apparatus. Lundgard accompanied her. As there was only work for two, Bo stayed behind.

He slumped for a while in the pilot chair, letting his mind pace through a circle of futility. Valeria, Valeria, Valeria⁠—O strong and fair and never to be forgotten, would he ever see her again after they made Luna?

This won’t do, he told himself dully. I should at least keep busy. Thank God for work.

He wasn’t much of a thinker, he knew that, but he had cleverness in his hands. It was satisfying to watch a machine come right under his tools. Working, he could see the falseness of Lundgard’s philosophy. The man could quote history all he wanted; weave a glittering circle of logic around Bo’s awkward brain, but it didn’t change facts. Maybe this century was headed for trouble; maybe psychotechnic government was only another human self-limitation and should be changed for something else; nevertheless, the truth remained that most men were workers who wished no more than peace in which to create as best they could. All the high ideals in the universe weren’t worth breaking the Union for and smashing the work of human hands in a single burst of annihilating flame.

I can feel it, down inside me. But why can’t I say it?

He got up and went over to the baggage rack, remembering that Lundgard had dozens of book-reels along and that reading would help him not to think about what he could never have.

On a planet Bo would not have dreamed of helping himself without asking first. But custom is different in space, where there is no privacy and men must be a unit if they are to survive. He was faintly surprised to see that Lundgard’s personal suitcase was locked; but it would be hours, probably, before the owner got back: dismantling a recorder setup took time. A long time, in which to talk and laugh with Valeria. In the chill spatial radiance, her hair would be like frosty fire.

Casually, Bo stooped across to Lundgard’s sack-hammock and took his key ring off the hook. He opened the suitcase and lifted out some of the reels in search of a promising title.

Underneath them were neatly folded clothes, Fireball uniforms and fancy dress pajamas. A tartan edge stuck out from below, and Bo lifted a coat to see what clan that was. Probably a souvenir of Lundgard’s Venusian stay⁠—

Next to the kilt was a box which he recognized. L-masks came in such boxes.

How the idea came to him, he did not know. He stood there for minutes, looking at the box without seeing it. The ship was very quiet around him. He had a sudden feeling that the walls were closing in.

When he opened the box, his hands shook, and there was sweat trickling along his ribs.

The mask was of the latest type, meant to fit over the head, snug around the cheeks and mouth and jaws. It was like a second skin, reflecting expression, not to be told from a real face. Bo saw the craggy nose and the shock of dark hair, limp now, but⁠—

Suddenly he was back on Achilles, with riot roaring around him and Johnny Malone’s body in his arms.

No wonder they never found that Venusian. There never was any.

Bo felt a dim shock when he looked at the chronometer. Only five minutes had gone by while he stood there. Only five minutes to turn the cosmos inside out.

Very slowly and carefully he repacked the suitcase and put it in the rack and sat down to think.

What to do?

Accuse Lundgard to his face⁠—no, the man undoubtedly carried that needler. And there was Valeria to think of. A ricocheting dart, a scratch on her, no! It took Bo a long time to decide; his brain seemed viscous. When he looked out of a port to the indifferent stars, he shuddered.

They came back, shedding their spacesuits in the airlock; frost whitened the armor as moisture condensed on chilled surfaces. The metal seemed to breathe cold. Valeria went efficiently to work, stowing the boxed instruments as carefully as if they were her children. There was a laughter on her lips which turned Bo’s heart around inside him.

Lundgard leaned over the tiny desk where he sat. “What y’ doing?” he asked.

“Recalculating our orbit to Luna,” said Bo. “I want to go slow for a few million miles before going up to hyperbolic speed.”

“Why? It’ll add days to the trip, and the fuel⁠—”

“I⁠ ⁠… I’m afraid we might barge into Swarm 770. It’s supposed to be near here now and, uh, the positions of those things are never known for sure⁠ ⁠… perturbations.⁠ ⁠…” Bo’s mouth felt dry.

“You’ve got a megamile of safety margin or your orbit would never have been approved,” argued Lundgard.

“Hell damn it, I’m the captain!” yelled Bo.

“All right, all right⁠ ⁠… take it easy, skipper.” Lundgard shot a humorous glance at Valeria. “I certainly don’t mind a few extra days in⁠ ⁠… the present company.”

She smiled at him. Bo felt ill.

His excuse was thin; if Lundgard thought to check the ephemeris, it would fall to ruin. But he couldn’t tell the real reason.

An iron-drive ship does not need to drift along the economical Hohmann “A” orbit of the big freighters; it can build up such furious speed that the sun will swing it along