The door itself was blackened and there was the smell of blistered paint.
Jon Hoff spoke evenly: "This is a gun," he said. "With it I can kill you. With it I will kill you if you interfere. Stand back. Go hack where you came."
Herb took a forward step and stopped.
"You are the one who is interfering," he declared. Herb took another step.
Jon brought the gun up and lined its sights on him. "I've killed one man," he said, "and I'll kill another."
And he thought: So easy to talk of killing. Of taking human life. So ready to do it, now that I've killed once.
"Joe is missing," said Herb. "We have been hunting for him."
"You need to hunt no more," said Jon.
"But Joe was your friend."
"And so are you," said Jon. "But the purpose is too big for friendship. You're with me or against me. There is no middle ground."
"We'll read you out of chapel."
"You'll read me out of chapel," said Jon, mocking him.
"We'll exile you to the central ship."
"We've been exiled all our lives," said Jon. "For many generations. And we didn't even know it. We didn't know, I tell you. And because we didn't know, we fixed up a pretty story. We fixed up a pretty story and we convinced ourselves of it and we lived by it. And when I come along and show you it was no more than a pretty story, dreamed up because we had to have a story—had to have, I say—you are ready to read me out of chapel and to exile me. You'll have to do better than that, Herb. Much better than that."
He patted the gun.
"I can do better than that," he said.
"Jon, you are mad."
"And you are a fool," said Jon.
At first he had been afraid, then he had been angry and now there was only contempt—only contempt for them, huddled in the corridor, voicing feeble threats.
"What did you do with Joshua?" he asked.
"We tied him up," said Herb.
"Go back and untie him and send me up some food," he said.
They wavered. He made a threatening motion with the gun.
"Get," he said.
They ran.
He slammed the door and went back to the telescope.
HE FOUND six planets and two had atmospheres, No. 2 and No. 5. He looked at his watch and many hours had gone. Joshua had still not appeared.
There had been no rap at the door. There was no food and water.
He climbed the steps to the navigator's chair again.
The star was far astern.
The velocity had slid way off, but was still too fast. He pulled the lever back and watched the velocity indicator drop.
It was safe to do that—he hoped it was safe to do it. The ship was thirty million out and it should be safe to cut velocity.
He studied the board and it was clearer now—more understandable, more things he knew about. It was not so hard, he thought. It would not be too hard. You had time. You had plenty of time. You had to plan ahead, but you had time to do it. He studied the board and he found the computator he had missed before, the little metal brain—and that was how you told the ship. That was what he had missed before—that was what he had wondered about—how to tell the ship.
And this was the way you told it. You told the little brain.
And the one word—automatic—kept on hounding him.
He found the stud that was labeled telescope and the one that was labeled orbit and still another that was labeled landing.
That was it, he thought.
After all the worry, after all the fears, it was as simple as all that.
For that would have been the way those back on Earth would have made the ship. Simple. Simple beyond belief. So simple that any fool could land it. Just anyone at all who could punch a button.
For certainly they must have feared or guessed what might happen on the ship after several generations. They must have known how Earth would be forgotten and that there be a cultural adaptation to the ship.
Feared or guessed—or planned?
Was the culture of the ship a part of the master plan?
Could the Folk have lived through a thousand years if they had known of the purpose and the destination?
And the answer seemed to be that they couldn't have been able to, for they would have felt robbed and cheated; would have gone mad with the knowledge that they were no more than carriers of life, that their lives and the lives of many generations after them would be canceled out so that after many generations their descendants could arrive at the target planet.
There had been only one way to beat that situation —and that was to forget what it was all about. And that is what had happened and it had been for the best.
The Folk, after the first few generations, had lived their little lives in the little circle of their homegrown culture and that had been enough. After that the thousand years had been as nothing, for no one knew about the thousand years.
And all the time the ship bored on through space, heading for the target, heading straight and true. Jon Hoff went down to the telescope and centered Planet V and clamped over the radar controls that would hold it centered. He went back to the computator and pushed the stud that said telescope and the other stud that said orbit.
Then he sat down to wait.
There was nothing more to do.
PLANET V was death. The analyzer told the story. The atmosphere was mostly methane. The gravity thirty times too great. The pressure beneath the boiling clouds of methane close to a thousand atmospheres.
There were other factors, too. But any one of those three would have been enough.
Jon Hoff pulled the ship out of its orbit, headed it sunward. Back at the telescope, he found Planet II, locked it in the sights, tied in the computator and sat down to wait again.
One chance more and that was all they had. For of all the planets, only two had atmospheres. It had to be Planet II or none.
And if the second planet turned out to be death as well, what then?
There was one answer. There could be no other.
Head the ship toward another star, build up velocity and hope—hope that in another several generations the Folk could find a planet they could live on.
He was hungry—his belly gaunt and sore. He had found a water cooler with a few cups of liquid still intact, but he'd drunk the last of that two days before.
Joshua had not come back. There had been no sign from the Folk. Twice he had opened the door and gone out into the corridor, ready to make a dash for food and water, then reconsidered and gone back in again.
For he couldn't take the chance. He couldn't take the chance that they would sight him and run him down and not let him go back to the control room.
But the time would come before too long when he'd have to take a chance—when he'd have to make the dash. For before another day was gone he might he too weak to make it. And there were many days ahead before they reached Planet II.
The time would come when he'd have no choice. That he could stick it out was impossible. If he did not get food and water, he'd be a useless, crawling hulk with the strength and mind gone out of him by the time they reached the planet.
He went back to the control board and looked things over and it seemed to be all right. The ship still was building up velocity. The monitor on the computator was clocking its blue light and chuckling to itself, saying everything's all right, everything's all right.
Then he went back down the steps and to the corner where he'd been sleeping. He lay down and curled himself into a ball, trying to squeeze his belly together so it wouldn't nag him so and shut his eyes and tried to go to sleep.
With his ear against the metal he could hear the pulsing of the engines far back in their room—the song of power that ran through all the ship. And he remembered how he had thought a man might have to live with a ship to run her. But it hadn't turned out that way, although he could see how a man might learn to live with a ship, how a ship might become a part of him.