The Fifth Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK ®: Lester del Rey. Lester Del Rey
arm. “I know what this all means to you, but—”
Pietro shook her off. “It means the captain’s trying to get out of the expedition, again. It’s five months back to Earth—more, by the time we kill velocity. It’s the same to Saturn. And either way, in five months we’ve got this fixed up, or we’re helpless. Permission to return refused, Captain Muller.”
“Then if you’ll be so good as to return to your own quarters,” Muller said, holding himself back with an effort that turned his face red, “we’ll start clearing this up. And not a word of this.”
Napier, Lomax, Pietro and I went back to the scientists’ quarters, leaving Muller and Jenny conferring busily. That was at fifteen o’clock. At sixteen o’clock, Pietro issued orders against smoking.
Dinner was at eighteen o’clock. We sat down in silence. I reached for my plate without looking. And suddenly little Phil Riggs was on his feet, raving. “Whole wheat! Nothing but whole wheat bread! I’m sick of it—sick! I won’t—”
“Sit down!” I told him. I’d bitten into one of the rolls on the table. It was white bread, and it was the best the cook had managed so far. There was corn instead of baked beans, and he’d done a fair job of making meat loaf. “Stop making a fool of yourself, Phil.”
He slumped back, staring at the white bun into which he’d bitten. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s this air—so stuffy. I can’t breathe. I can’t see right—”
Pietro and I exchanged glances, but I guess we weren’t surprised. Among intelligent people on a ship of that size, secrets wouldn’t keep. They’d all put bits together and got part of the answer. Pietro shrugged and half stood up to make an announcement.
“Beg pardon, sirs.” We jerked our heads around to see Bullard standing in the doorway.
He was scared stiff, and his words got stuck in his throat. Then he found his voice again. “I heard as how Hendrix went crazy and poisoned the plants and went and killed himself and we’ll all die if we don’t find some trick, and what I want to know, please, sirs, is are what they’re saying right and you know all kinds of tricks and can you save us because I can’t go on like this not knowing and hearing them talking outside the galley and none of them telling me—”
Lomax cut into his flood of words. “You’ll live, Bullard. Farmer Hendrix did get killed in an accident to some of the plants, but we’ve still got air enough. Captain Muller has asked the help of a few of us, but it’s only a temporary emergency.”
Bullard stared at him, and slowly some of the fear left his face—though not all of it. He turned and left with a curt bow of his head, while Pietro added a few details that weren’t exactly lies to Lomax’s hasty cover-up, along with a grateful glance at the chemist. It seemed to work, for the time being—at least enough for Riggs to begin making nasty remarks about cooked paste.
Then the tension began to build again. I don’t think any of the crew talked to any of our group. And yet, there seemed to be a chain of rumor that exchanged bits of information. Only the crew could have seen the dead plants being carried down to our refuse breakdown plant; and the fact it was chromazone poisoning must have been deduced from a description by some of our group. At any rate, both groups knew all about it—and a little bit more, as was usual with rumors—by the second day.
Muller should have made the news official, but he only issued an announcement that the danger was over. When Peters, our radioman-navigator, found Sam and Phil Riggs smoking and dressed them down, it didn’t make Muller’s words seem too convincing. I guessed that Muller had other things on his mind; at least he wasn’t in his cabin much, and I didn’t see Jenny for two whole days.
My nerves were as jumpy as those of the rest. It isn’t too bad cutting out smoking; a man can stand imagining the air is getting stale; but when every unconscious gesture toward cigarettes that aren’t there reminds him of the air, and when every imagined stale stench makes him want a cigarette to relax, it gets a little rough.
Maybe that’s why I was in a completely rotten mood when I finally did spot Jenny going down the passage, with the tight coveralls she was wearing emphasizing every motion of her hips. I grabbed her and swung her around. “Hi, stranger. Got time for a word?”
She sort of brushed my hand off her arm, but didn’t seem to mind it. “Why, I guess so, Paul. A little time. Captain Muller’s watching the ’ponics.”
“Good,” I said, trying to forget Muller. “Let’s make it a little more private than this, though. Come on in.”
She lifted an eyebrow at the open door of my cabin, made with a little giggle, and stepped inside. I followed her, and kicked the door shut. She reached for it, but I had my back against it.
“Paul!” She tried to get around me, but I wasn’t having any. I pushed her back onto the only seat in the room, which was the bunk. She got up like a spring uncoiling. “Paul Tremaine, you open that door. You know better than that. Paul, please!”
“What makes me any different than the others? You spend plenty of time in Muller’s cabin—and you’ve been in Pietro’s often enough. Probably Doc Napier’s, too!”
Her eyes hardened, but she decided to try the patient and reason-with-the-child line. “That is different. Captain Muller and I have a great deal of business to work out.”
“Sure. And he looks great in lipstick!”
It was a shot in the dark, but it went home. I wished I’d kept my darned mouth shut; before I’d been suspecting it—now I knew. She turned pink and tried to slap me, which won’t work when the girl is sitting on a bunk and I’m on my feet. “You mind your own business!”
“I’m doing that. Generations should stick together, and he’s old enough to be your father!”
She leaned back and studied me. Then she smiled slowly, and something about it made me sick inside. “I like older men, Paul. They make people my own age seem so callow, so unfinished. It’s so comforting to have mature people around. I always did have an Electra complex.”
“The Greeks had plenty of names for it, kid,” I told her. “Don’t get me wrong. If you want to be a slut, that’s your own business. But when you pull the innocent act on me, and then fall back to sophomore psychology—”
This time she stood up before she slapped. Before her hand stung my face, I was beginning to regret what I’d said. Afterwards, I didn’t give a damn. I picked her up off the floor, slapped her soundly on the rump, pulled her tight against me, and kissed her. She tried scratching my face, then went passive, and wound up with one arm around my neck and the other in the hair at the back of my head. When I finally put her down she sank back onto the bunk, breathing heavily.
“Why, Paul!” And she reached out her arms as I came down to meet them. For a second, the world looked pretty good.
Then a man’s hoarse scream cut through it all, with the sound of heavy steps in panic flight. I jerked up. Jenny hung on. “Paul.… Paul.…” But there was the smell of death in the air, suddenly. I broke free and was out into the corridor. The noise seemed to come from the shaft that led to the engine room, and I jumped for it, while I heard doors slam.
This time, there was a commotion, like a wet sack being tossed around in a pentagonal steel barrel, and another hoarse scream that cut off in the middle to a gargling sound.
* * * *
I reached the shaft and started down the center rail, not bothering with the hand-grips. I could hear something rustle below, followed by silence, but I couldn’t see a thing; the lights had been cut.
I could feel things poking into my back before I landed; I always get the creeps when there’s death around, and that last sound had been just that—somebody’s last sound. I knew somebody was going to kill me before I could find the switch. Then I stumbled over something, and my hair stood on end. I guess my own yell was pretty horrible. It scared me worse than I was already. But my