In earlier days it had been accepted that there would be occasional periods of inactivity and boredom. These usually occurred during normal-space planetary approaches or when the ship got into a region which was so congested that the instantaneous drive could not be used to its full extent. The traditional therapy—mainly consisting of poker sessions and increased liquor rations—was one which Surgenor appreciated and understood, and he had visited the recent experimental introduction of Trance-Port tapes without enthusiasm.
“The most important thing about the tapes,” Hilliard went on, “is that they ease the pressure of loneliness. The human nervous system can only stand this sort of life for a strictly limited period, and then something has to give.”
“That’s why I tried to get into Pinky’s room last night,” Barrow said, grinning evilly. He was a former computer engineer and an abrasive individual who made a profession out of being dark, hairy and masculine. From his first hour on the ship he had been verbally sniping at Hilliard over the latter’s baby-pink face and fuzz of blond hair.
“Shamble off and discover fire or invent the wheel or something,” Hilliard said to him casually, without turning his head. “I’m telling you, Dave, you can only take it for so long.”
Surgenor waved a confident denial with his cup. “I’ve been in the Service for seventeen years—without any dream tapes to stop me going crazy.”
“Oh! Sorry, Dave—I wasn’t implying anything. Honest.”
The profuseness of the apology and the gleam in the youngster’s eyes aroused Surgenor’s suspicions. “Are you trying to be funny, junior? Because if you are…’
“Relax, Dave,” Victor Voysey said from two places along the table. “We all know you’re incurably sane. Bernie just wants you to try a tape for a while to see what it’s like. I’m using one myself this trip—got me a nice little Chinese firecracker of a wife I go home to most evenings. It’s a good life, Dave.”
Surgenor stared at him in surprise. Voysey was a red-haired freckle-skinned man with serious blue eyes and a pragmatic outlook on life which was helping him develop into an excellent surveyer. He had been sharing Module Five with Surgenor for more than a year, and looked like building up a respectable record of service. This was the first time he had mentioned going on to the tapes.
“You do it? You put one of those metal pie dishes under your pillow when you bunk down at night?” Surgenor spoke with a kind of amiable scorn he knew would not hurt the other man’s feelings too much.
“Not every night.” Voysey looked slightly uncomfortable as he picked at his ham and eggs.
Surgenor felt his puzzlement increase. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Well, it isn’t the sort of thing you go around talking about.” An incongruous tinge of crimson appeared in Voysey’s cheeks. “The Trance-Port programmes give you a developing relationship with a nice girl, and it’s sort of private. Just like in real life.”
“Better than in real life—you know you’re going to score every time,” Barrow said, making piston movements with his fist. “Tell us all about your Chinese piece, Vic. Is it like they say?”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
Barrow was unabashed. “Come on, Vic—I’ll tell you about my little woman. I only want to know if…’
“Shut it!” Voysey, his face losing its colour, picked up his fork and held it under Barrow’s slate-grey chin. “I don’t want to talk to you, and I don’t want you to talk to me, and the next time you butt in on me I promise I’ll do some permanent damage.”
There was a taut silence, then Barrow got to his feet, muttering indignantly, and moved down the table to the other side of the small group. “What’s the matter with him?” he whispered to Surgenor. “What did I say?”
Surgenor shook his head. He had no liking for Barrow, but Voysey’s reaction had seemed unnecessarily violent. All Surgenor knew about the Trance-Ports was that they were triggered by the pressure of a man’s head on the pillow, and worked largely by direct cortical stimulation of words and images. Initially they produced a mild form of hypnosis which promoted sleep, and then—after the brain rhythms had begun to indicate sleep, and when periods of rapid eye movement showed that the subject was ready to dream—fed his mind with a programmed scenario.
To Surgenor the Trance-Port players were little more than a type of advanced movie projector, and therefore he was puzzled by the depth of the feelings they seemed to engender. He leaned towards Voysey, who was now staring down at his plate, but Hilliard caught his arm.
“Victor’s right in what he says about it being just like real life,” Hilliard said, with a warning frown which indicated that Voysey should be left alone. “A Trance-Port isn’t an erotic dream machine. The psychologists who programme the tapes realize you need something more than that when you’re this far from home. A sexy girl is always the central figure, of course, but she’s a lot of other things besides sexy. Warm. Understanding. Fun to be with, yet dependable. She provides you with all the things that Service life lacks.”
“And she doesn’t cost you a cent,” Barrow said gleefully, apparently recovered from his brush with Voysey.
Hilliard was not put off. “She becomes very important to a man, Dave. I guess that’s why anybody who is Trance-Porting doesn’t talk about it much.”
“You’re talking some.”
“I am, aren’t I?” Hilliard smiled like a schoolboy announcing his first date. He lowered his voice to exclude Barrow. “It must be because I’m feeling so good. I never had an entirely satisfactory relationship with any of the girls I knew back in Saskatoon. There was always something missing.”
“Something missing?” Barrow said. “In your case it’s easy to guess what.” He glanced up and down the table, trying to enlist smiles, but he had made no friends since joining the Sarafand and the faces of the module crews remained impassive.
Hilliard, seizing the psychological moment, got to his feet and spoke in his best high-school declamatory style. “Barrow,” he said solemnly, “if you had as much ability to hurt people as you obviously have the desire, you’d be a deadly conversationalist indeed—as it is, you are merely pathetic.”
There was an admiring whoop of laughter along the table. Hilliard acknowledged it with a dignified nod and sat down again, seemingly oblivious to Barrow’s look of hatred. Surgenor was pleased for the young man, but he had some misgivings about the developing situation, which was another symptom of the strain felt by the Sarafand’s personnel.
The trip had already lasted longer than expected when it was discovered that Martell’s Cluster had four more planetary systems than had been indicated by long-range examination. It was within Aesop’s discretion to reject the four extra surveys, but he had taken the decision to press on. Surgenor, filled with an uncharacteristic wish to reach Earth in time to spend Christmas with his cousins and their families, had voiced objections, only to have them dismissed. Now, with tension building up around the breakfast table, he decided to have yet another private interview with Aesop.
Hilliard, resuming where he left off, said, “Things are different now that I’ve met Julie.”
“Julie? You mean, they have names?”
“Of course they have names!” Hilliard covered his face with his hands for a few seconds. “You just don’t understand, do you, Dave? Real girls have names, so Trance-Port girls have names. Mine happens to be called Julie Cornwallis.”
At that moment Surgenor became aware of two simultaneous events. A chime sounded and Aesop spoke to the crew on the general address system, telling them he had assessed all gravitational forces acting on the ship and was about to make a beta-space jump closer to the heart of Martell’s Cluster. And, while the omnidirectional voice of the computer was flooding the room, the face of Tod Barrow—which had been filled with broody resentment—suddenly registered surprise and happiness. The look was quickly gone, and in any case could have been interpreted as pleasure over Aesop’s announcement.