him.
“Really?” asked Laurinda Brozik. She had met him below the flight deck by agreement.
He offered her his arm, a studied, awkward gesture not used in his native society. She smiled and took it. He was a young Sol-Belter. Unlike Dorcas Saxtorph, or most folk of his nation, he eschewed spectacular garb. Small, slim, with olive-skinned, almost girlish features, he did wear his hair in the crest, but it was cut short.
“I have just heard complaints about the monotony,” Laurinda said.
“Monotony, or peacefulness?” he countered in his diffident fashion. “I chafed, too. Then gradually I realized what an opportunity this is to be alone and think. Or compose.”
“You don't sound like a rockjack,” she said needlessly. It was what had originally attracted her to him.
He chuckled. “How are rockjacks supposed to sound? We have the rough, tough image, yes. Pilot the boat, find the ore, wrench it out, bring it home, and damn the meteoroids. Or the sun-flare or the fusion generator failure or anything else. But we are simply persons making a living. Quite a few of us look forward to a day when we can use different talents.”
“What else would you like to do?”
His smile was stiff. He stared before him, “Prepare yourself to laugh.”
“Oh, no.” Her tone made naught of the eight centimeters by which she topped him. “How could I laugh at a man who handles the forces that I only measure?”
He flushed and had no answer. They walked on. The ship hummed around them. Bulkheads were brightly painted, pictures were hung on them and often changed, here and there were pots whose flowers Carita Fenger maintained, but nonetheless this was a barren environment. The two had a date in his cabin, where he would provide tea while they screened d'Auvergne's Fifth Chromophony. An appreciation of her work was one thing among others that they discovered they had in common.
“What is your hope?” Laurinda asked at last, low.
He gulped. “To be a poet.”
“Why, how… how remarkable.”
“Not that there's a living in it,” he said hastily. “I'll need a groundside position. But I will anyway when I get too old for this berth — and am still fairly young by most standards.” He drew breath. “In the centuries of spaceflight, how much true poetry has been written? Plenty of verse, but how much that makes your hair rise and you think yes, this is the real truth? It's as if we've been too busy to find the words for what we've been busy with. I want to try. I am trying, but know quite well I won't have a chance of succeeding with a single line till I've worked at it for another ten years or more.”
“You're too modest, Juan. Genius flowers early oftener than not. I would like to see what you have' done.”
“No, I don't think it's that good. Maybe my efforts never will be. Not even equal to— well, actually minor stuff, but it does have the spirit—”
“Such as what?”
“Oh, ancient pieces, mostly, pre-space. 'To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.'” Yoshii cackled a laugh. “I'm really getting bookish, am I not? An easy trap to fall into. Spacemen have a lot of free time in between crises.”
“You've put yours to good use,” she said earnestly. “Is that poem you quoted from in the ship's database? I'd like to read it.”
“I don't know, but I can recite it verbatim.”
“That would be much better. Romantic—” Laurinda broke off. She turned her glance away.
He sensed her confusion and blurted in his own, “Please don't misunderstand me. I know— your customs, your mores— I mean to respect them. Completely.”
She achieved a smile, though she could not yet look back his way. “Why, I'm not afraid of you.” Unspoken: You're not unbearably frustrated. It's obvious that Carita is your mistress as well as Kam's. “You are a gentleman.” And what we have coming to life between us is still small and frail, but already very sweet.
Rover re-entered normal space ten astronomical units from the destination star. That was unnecessarily distant for a mass less than a fourth of Sol's, but the Saxtorphs were more cautious than Markham admitted. Besides, the scientists wanted to begin with a long sweep as baseline for their preliminary observations, and it was their party now. As soon as precise velocity figures were available, Dorcas computed the vectors. The star was hurtling at well over a thousand kilometers per second with respect to galactic center. That meant the ship needed considerable delta v to get down to interplanetary speeds and into the equatorial plane where any attendant bodies were likeliest to be. That boost phase must also serve those initial requirements of the astronomers. Course and thrust could be adjusted as data came in and plans for the future were developed.
The star's motion meant, too, that it was escaping the galaxy, bound for the gulfs beyond. Presumably an encounter with one or more larger bodies had cast it from the region where it formed. A question the expedition hoped to get answered, however incompletely, was where that might have happened — and when.
Except for Dorcas, who worked with Tregennis to process the data that Laurinda mostly gathered, the crew had little to do but housekeeping. Occasionally someone was asked to lend a hand with some task of the research.
Going off watch, Carita Fenger stopped by the saloon. A large viewscreen there kept the image of the sun at the cross-haired center. Else nobody could have identified it. It was waxing as the ship drove inward but thus far remained a dim dull-red point, outshone by stars light-years away. The undertone of power through the ship was like a whisper of that which surged within, around, among them, nuclear fires, rage of radiation, millennial turmoil of matter, births and funeral pyres and ashes and rebirths, the universe forever in travail. Like most spacefarers, Carita could lose herself, hour upon hour, in the contemplation of it.
She halted. Markham sat alone, looking. His face was haggard. “Well, hi,” she said tentatively.
Markham gave her a glance. “How do you do, Pilot Fenger.” The words came flat.
She plumped herself down in the chair beside him. “Quite a sight, eh?” He nodded, his gaze back on the screen.
“A trite thing to say,” she persisted. “But I suspect Juan's wrong. He hopes to find words grand enough. I suspect it can't be done.”
“I was not aware Pilot Yoshii had such interests,” said Markham without unbending.
“Nah, you wouldn't be. You've been about as outgoing as a black hole. What's between you and Dorcas? You seem to be off speaking terms with her.”
“If you please, I am not in the mood for gossip.” Markham started to rise, to leave.
Carita took hold of his arm. It was a gentle grip, but he could easier have broken free of a salvage grapple. “Wait a minute,” she said. “I've been halfway on the alert for a chance to talk with you. Who does any more, except 'Pass the salt' at mess, that sort of thing? How lonesome you must be.”
He refrained from ineffectual resistance, continued to stare before him, and clipped, “Thank you for your concern, but I manage. Kindly let go.”
“Look,” she said, “we're supposed to be shipmates. It's a hell of an exciting adventure— Christ, we're the first, the very first, in all this weird wonder but it's cold out, too, and doesn't care an atom's worth about human beings. I keep thinking how awful it must be, cut off from any friendship the way you are. Not that you've exactly encouraged us, but we could try harder.”
Now he did regard her. “Are you inviting me to your bed?” he asked in the same tone as before.
Slightly taken aback, she recovered, smiled, and replied, “No, I wasn't, but if it'll make you feel better we can have a go at it.”
“Or make you feel better? I am not too isolated to have noticed that lately Pilot Yoshii has ceased visiting your cabin. Is Quartermaster Ryan insufficient?”
Carita's face went sulfur black. She dragged her fingers from him. “My mistake,” she said. “The rest were right about you. Okay, you can take off.”
“With pleasure.” He stalked out.
She mumbled an oath, drew forth a cigar, lit and blew fumes that ran the ventilators and air renewers up to capacity. Calm returned after a while.
She laughed ruefully. Ryan had told her more than once that she was too soft-hearted; and he was a man
