Think it through. Whatever they planned to send us to Saturn on, it was sure to take a long time. Six years was the figure I vaguely recalled hearing mentioned. And any transit over that kind of distance would have to be spent almost entirely in free fall. You could rotate the craft to provide gravity at either end—but one gee’s worth of rotation of a space that small would create so much Coriolis differential that anyone who didn’t want to puke or pass out would have to stay lying down for six years. Or hang like bolas from exercise lines on either end—not much more practical.
If we didn’t dodge the draft, we would never walk Earth again. We would be free-fall exiles, marooned in space. Our reward for serving as mouthpieces between a bunch of diplomats and the things that had killed Shara.
Assuming that we survived the experience at all.
At any other time, the implications would have been too staggering for my brain to let itself comprehend; my mind would have run round in frightened circles. Unless I could talk my way out of this with whoever was waiting for us at Skyfac (why Skyfac?), Norrey and I had taken our last walk, seen our last beach, gone to our last concert. We would never again breathe uncanned air, eat with a fork, get rained on, or eat fresh food. We were dead to to world (S.I.C. TRANSIT: gloria mundi, whispered a phantom memory that had been funny enough the first time). And yet I faced it squarely, calmly.
Not more than an hour ago I had renounced all those things.
And resigned myself to the loss of a lot of more important things, that it looked like I was now going to be able to keep. Breathing. Eating. Sleeping. Thinking. Making love. Hurting. Scratching. Bowel movements. Bitching. Why, the list was endless—and I had all those things back, at least six years’ worth! Hell, I told myself, there were damned few city dwellers any better off—few of them ever got walks, beaches, concerts, uncanned air or fresh food. What with airlocks and nostril filters, city folk might as well be in orbit for all the outdoors they could enjoy—and how many of them could feel confident of six more years? I couldn’t begin to envision the trip to Saturn, let alone what lay at the end of it—but I knew that space held no muckers, no muggers, no mad stranglers or crazed drivers, no tenement fires or fuel shortages or race riots or blackouts or gang wars or reactor meltdowns…
How does Norrey feel about it?
It had taken me a couple of minutes to get this far; as I turned my head to see Norrey’s face the acceleration warning sounded. She turned hers, too; our noses were scant centimeters apart, and I could see that she too had thought it through. But I couldn’t read her reaction.
“I guess I don’t mind much going,” I said.
“Iwant to go,” she said fervently.
I blinked. “Phillip Nolan was the Man Without A Country,” I said, “and he didn’t care for it. We’ll be the Couple Without A Planet.”
“I don’t care, Charlie.” Second warning sounded. “You seemed to care back there on the Car, when I was bum-rapping Earth.”
“You don’t understand. Those flickers killed my sister. I want to learn their language so I can cuss them out.”
It didn’t sound like a bad idea.
But thinking about it was. Two gees caught us both with our heads sideways, smacking our cheeks into the couch and wrenching our necks. An eternity later, turnover gave us just enough time to pop them back into place, and then deceleration came for another eternity.
There were “minor” maneuvering accelerations, and then “acceleration over” sounded. We unstrapped, both borrowed robes from Bill’s locker, and began trading neckrubs. By and by Bill returned. He glanced at the bruises we were raising on opposite sides of our faces and snorted. “Lovebirds. All right, all ashore. Powwow time.” He produced off-duty fatigues in both our sizes, and a brush and comb.
“With who?” I asked, dressing hastily.
“The Security-General of the United Nations,” he said simply.
“Jesus Christ.”
“If he was available,” Bill agreed.
“How about Tom?” Norrey asked. “Is he all right?”
“I spoke with Panzella,” Bill answered. “McGillicuddy is all right. He’ll look like strawberry yoghurt for a while, but no significant damage—”
“Thank God.”
“—Panzella’s bringing him here with the others, ETA—” he checked his chronometer pointedly—“five hours away.”
“All of us?” I exclaimed. “How big is the bloody ship?” I slipped on the shoes.
“All I know is my orders,” Bill said, turning to go. “I’m to see that the six of you are delivered to Skyfac, soonest. And, I trust you’ll remember, to keep my damn mouth shut.” Why Skyfac? I wondered again.
“Suppose the others don’t volunteer?” Norrey asked.
Bill turned back, honestly dumbfounded. “Eh?”
“Well, they don’t have the personal motivations Charlie and I have.”
“They have their duty.”
“But they’re civilians.”
He was still confused. “Aren’t they humans?” She gave up. “Lead us to the Secretary-General.” None of us realized at the time that Bill had asked a good question.
Tokugawa was in Tokyo. It was just as well; there was no room for him in his office. Seven civilians, six military officers. Three of the latter were Space Command, the other three national military; all thirteen were of high rank. It would have been obvious had they been naked. All of them were quiet, reserved; none of them spoke an unnecessary word. But there was enough authority in that room to sober a drunken lumberjack.
And it was agitated authority, nervous authority, faced not with an issue but a genuine crisis, all too aware that it was making history. Those who didn’t look truculent looked extremely grave. A jester facing an audience of lords in this mood would have taken poison.
And then I saw that all of the military men and one of the civilians were trying heroically to watch everyone in the room at once without being conspicuous, and I put my fists on my hips and laughed.
The man in Carrington’s—excuse me, in Tokugawa’s chair looked genuinely startled. Not offended, not even annoyed—just surprised.
There’s no point in describing the appearance or recounting the accomplishments of Siegbert Wertheimer. As of this writing he is still the Secretary-General of the United Nations, and his media photos, like his record, speak for themselves. I will add only that he was (inevitably) shorter than I had expected, and heavier. And one other, entirely subjective and apolitical impression: in those first seconds of appraisal I decided that his famous massive dignity, so beloved by political cartoonists, was intrinsic rather than acquired. It was the cause of his impressive track record, I was certain, and not the result of it. He did not seem like a humorless man—he was simply astounded that someone had found some humor in this mess. He looked unutterably weary.
“Why is it that you laugh, sir?” he asked mildly, with that faintest trace of accent.
I shook my head, still grinning uncontrollably. “I’m not sure I can make you see it, Mr. Secretary-General.” Something about the set of his mouth made me decide to try. “From my point of view, I’ve just walked into a Hitchcock movie.”
He considered it, momentarily imagining what it must be like to be an ordinary human thrust into the company of agitated lions, and grinned himself. “Then at least we shall try to make the dialogue fresh,” he said. A good deal of his weariness seemed to be low-gee malaise, the discomfort of fluids rising to the upper body, the feeling of fullness in the head and the vertigo. But only his body noticed it. “Let us proceed. I am impressed by your record, Mr.—” He glanced down, and the paper he needed was not there. The American civilian had it, and the Russian general was looking over his shoulder. Before I could prompt him, he closed his eyes, jogged his memory, and continued, “—Armstead. I own three copies of the Stardance, and the first two are worn out. I have recently viewed your own recordings, and interviewed several of your former students. I have a job that needs doing, and I think you and your troupe are precisely the people for that job.”