The instructor said, “Panin and Kondratev, into the gondolas.”
“Sir—” began Sergei.
The instructor’s face took on a preoccupied look. “Oh, I forgot. I’m very sorry, Sergei, but the doctor has forbidden you to try accelerations above the norm. Temporarily.”
“What?” Sergei asked with fright.
“You’re forbidden.”
“But I’ve already pulled seven Gs.”
“I’m very sorry, Sergei,” the instructor repeated.
“It’s some sort of mistake. It’s got to be.”
The instructor shrugged.
“I can’t have this,” Sergei said in despair. “I’ll get out of shape.” He looked at Panin. Panin was looking at the floor. Sergei once again faced the instructor. “It’s the end of everything for me.”
“It’s only temporary,” said the instructor.
“How long is temporary?”
“Until further notice. Maybe two months, no longer. It happens sometimes. In the meantime you’ll be training at five Gs. You’ll catch up later.”
“Never mind, Sergei,” Panin said in his bass. “Take a little rest from your multigravities.”
“I would still like to ask—” Sergei began in a repulsively ingratiating voice that he had never used before in his life.
The instructor frowned. “We’re wasting time, Kondratev,” he said. “Get into the gondola.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergei said softly, and crawled into the gondola.
He seated himself in the couch, fastened himself in with the broad straps, and began to wait. In front of the couch was a mirror, and in it he saw his gloomy, angry face. It would be better if they did carry me out, he thought. Now my muscles will get soft and I’ll have to start all over Now when will I ever get to ten Gs? Or even eight? They all think I’m some sort of jock, he thought venemously. The doctor too. Maybe I should tell him? He imagined that he was telling the doctor why he had to have all this and that the doctor looked at him with cheery, faded eyes and said, “Moderation, Sergei, moderation.”
“Overcautious old bird,” Sergei said aloud. He meant the doctor, but suddenly he realized that the instructor might hear him over the speaking tube and take it personally. “Well, all right,” he said loudly.
The gondola rocked smoothly. The conditioning session had begun.
When they had left the training hall, Panin quickly started massaging the bags under his eyes. Like all the cadets inclined to stoutness, he always got bags under his eyes after the Large Centrifuge. Panin worried a good deal about his appearance. He was handsome and was used to being admired. Consequently, right after the Large Centrifuge he immediately set to work on the bags.
“You never get this crud,” he said to Sergei.
Sergei remained silent.
“You have a very efficient physique, superjock. Like a roach.”
“I wish I had your problems,” Sergei said.
“They told you it’s only temporary, worrywart.”
“That’s what they told Galtsev, and then they switched him over to Remote Control.”
“Oh, well,” Panin said judiciously, “so this wasn’t the job he was cut out for.”
Sergei clenched his teeth.
“Oh, agony!” said Panin. “They won’t let him pull eight Gs. Now take me, I’m a simple man, a guileless man…”
Sergei stopped. “You listen,” he said. “Bykov brought the Takhmasib back from Jupiter only by going to twelve gravities. Maybe you didn’t know that?”
“I know it,” said Panin.
“And Yusupov died because he couldn’t take eight. You know that too?”
“Yusupov was a test navigator,” Panin said, “so he doesn’t count here. And Bykov, I’ll have you know, did not have one hour of acceleration conditioning in his entire life.”
“Are you sure?” Sergei asked angrily.
“Well, maybe he did have conditioning, but he didn’t go try and rupture himself like you, superjock.”
“Do you really think I’m a jock?” Sergei asked.
Panin looked at him in puzzlement. “Well, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it. It’s a very useful thing out there, of course.”
“Okay,” said Sergei. “Let’s go over to the park. We have a chance to loosen up.”
They started down the corridor. Panin, still massaging the bags under his eyes, glanced through every window.
“The girls are still playing,” he said. He stopped at a window and stuck out his neck. “Ha! There she is!”
“Who?” asked Sergei.
“I don’t know her name.”
“Impossible.”
“No, really—I danced with her day before yesterday. But I have no idea what her name is.”
Sergei looked out the window too.
“That one,” said Panin. “With the bandaged knee.”
Sergei caught sight of the girl with the bandaged knee. “I see her,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Very nice-looking,” said Panin. “Very. And smart.”
“Come on, come on,” said Sergei. He took Panin by the elbow and dragged him along.
“Where’s the fire?” Panin asked in surprise.
They walked past empty classrooms and glanced into the simulator room. The simulator room was fitted out like the navigation deck of a real interplanetary photon ship, except that on the control board was mounted the big white cube of the stochastic computer in the place of the video screen. The computer was the source of navigation problems. When turned on, it randomly supplied input for the board’s indicators. The cadet then had to set up a system of course commands optimally responding to the conditions of the problem.
Right now, a whole gaggle of obvious smallfry was crowded in front of the control board. They shouted to one another, waved back and forth, and shoved each other. Then suddenly it became quiet, and the clicking of the keys on the board could be heard. Someone was entering a command. The agonizing silence was broken by the buzz of the computer, and on the board a red light went on—an incorrect solution. The smallfry let out a roar. They dragged somebody out of the control seat and shoved him away. The disheveled unfortunate shouted loudly, “I told you so!”
“Why are you so sweaty?” Panin asked him with disdain.
“Because I’m so mad,” said the smallfry.
The computer buzzed again, and again the red light on the control board went on.
“I told you so!” the same smallfry yelled.
“Now then,” Panin said, and shouldered his way through the crowd.
All the smallfry quieted down. Sergei saw Panin bend over the board, then the keys clattered quickly and surely, the computer began to hum, and a green light appeared on the board. The smallfry groaned.
“Well, so that’s Panin,” someone said.
“That’s Panin for you,” the sweaty smallfry said to Sergei reproachfully.
“Smooth plasma,” said Panin, extracting himself from the crowd. “Carry on. Let’s go, Sergei.”
Then they glanced into the computer room. People were studying there, but beside the graceful gray casing of LIANTO squatted three technicians, rummaging through circuit diagrams. The sad second-year cadet, Grigory Bystrov, was there as well.
“From LIANTO, love and kisses,” Panin said. “It seems that Bystrov is still alive. Curious.”
He looked at Sergei and slapped him on the back. A respectable echo rang down the corridor. “Buck up,” Panin said.
“Cut it out,” said Sergei.
They descended the staircase, passed through the lobby with the big bronze bust of Tsiolkovsky, and went out into the park.