added
Samuel Ferguson, born 1810
. He glared at the loverbirds and brought his fist into his palm with a sound like a club on an anthill. They had heard him again, and this time they did not smile, but looked into each other’s eyes and then turned together to regard him, nodding gravely.
Rootes went through Grunty’s books, leafing and casting aside. He had never touched them before. “Buncha crap,” he jeered.
“Garden of the Plynck. Wind in the Willows. Worm Ouroborous
. Kid stuff.”
Grunty lumbered across and patiently gathered up the books the Captain had flung aside, putting them one by one back into their places, stroking them as if they had been bruised.
“Isn’t there nothing in here with pictures?”
Grunty regarded him silently for a moment and then took down a tall volume. The Captain snatched it, leafed through it. “Mountains,” he growled. “Old houses.” He leafed. “Damn boats.” He smashed the book to the deck. “Haven’t you got
any
of what I want?”
Grunty waited attentively.
“Do I have to draw a diagram?” the Captain roared. “Got that ol’ itch, Grunty. You wouldn’t know. I feel like looking at pictures, get what I mean?”
Grunty stared at him, utterly without expression, but deep within him a panic squirmed. The Captain never,
never
behaved like this in mid-voyage. It was going to get worse, he realized. Much worse. And quickly.
He shot the loverbirds a vicious, hate-filled glance. If they weren’t aboard …
There could be no waiting. Not now. Something had to be done. Something …
“Come on, come on,” said Rootes. “Goddlemighty Godfrey, even a deadbutt like you must have
something
for kicks.”
Grunty turned away from him, squeezed his eyes closed for a tortured second, then pulled himself together. He ran his hand over the books, hesitated, and finally brought out a large, heavy one. He handed it to the Captain and went forward to the console. He slumped down there over the file of computer tapes, pretending to be busy.
The Captain sprawled onto Grunty’s couch and opened the book. “Michelangelo, what the hell,” he growled. He grunted, almost like his shipmate. “Statues,” he half-whispered, in withering scorn. But he ogled and leafed at last, and was quiet.
The loverbirds looked at him with a sad tenderness, and then together sent beseeching glances at Grunty’s angry back.
The matrix-pattern for Terra slipped through Grunty’s fingers, and he suddenly tore the tape across, and across again. A filthy place, Terra.
There is nothing
, he thought,
like the conservatism of license
. Given a culture of sybaritics, with an endless choice of mechanical titillations, and you have a people of unbreakable and hidebound formality, a people with few but massive taboos, a shockable, narrow, prissy people obeying the rules—even the rules of their calculated depravities—and protecting their treasured, specialized pruderies. In such a group there are words one may not use for fear of their fanged laughter, colors one may not wear, gestures and intonations one must forego, on pain of being torn to pieces. The rules are complex and absolute, and in such a place one’s heart may not sing lest, through its warm free joyousness, it betray one.
And if you must have joy of such a nature, if you must be free to be your pressured self, then off to space … off to the glittering black loneliness. And let the days go by, and let the time pass, and huddle beneath your impenetrable integument, and wait, and wait, and every once in a long while you will have that moment of lonely consciousness when there is no one around to see; and then it may burst from you and you may dance, or cry, or twist the hair on your head till your eyeballs blaze, or do any of the other things your so unfashionable nature thirstily demands.
It took Grunty half a lifetime to find this freedom: No price would be too great to keep it. Not lives, nor interplanetary diplomacy, nor Earth
Samuel Ferguson, born 1810
. He glared at the loverbirds and brought his fist into his palm with a sound like a club on an anthill. They had heard him again, and this time they did not smile, but looked into each other’s eyes and then turned together to regard him, nodding gravely.
Rootes went through Grunty’s books, leafing and casting aside. He had never touched them before. “Buncha crap,” he jeered.
“Garden of the Plynck. Wind in the Willows. Worm Ouroborous
. Kid stuff.”
Grunty lumbered across and patiently gathered up the books the Captain had flung aside, putting them one by one back into their places, stroking them as if they had been bruised.
“Isn’t there nothing in here with pictures?”
Grunty regarded him silently for a moment and then took down a tall volume. The Captain snatched it, leafed through it. “Mountains,” he growled. “Old houses.” He leafed. “Damn boats.” He smashed the book to the deck. “Haven’t you got
any
of what I want?”
Grunty waited attentively.
“Do I have to draw a diagram?” the Captain roared. “Got that ol’ itch, Grunty. You wouldn’t know. I feel like looking at pictures, get what I mean?”
Grunty stared at him, utterly without expression, but deep within him a panic squirmed. The Captain never,
never
behaved like this in mid-voyage. It was going to get worse, he realized. Much worse. And quickly.
He shot the loverbirds a vicious, hate-filled glance. If they weren’t aboard …
There could be no waiting. Not now. Something had to be done. Something …
“Come on, come on,” said Rootes. “Goddlemighty Godfrey, even a deadbutt like you must have
something
for kicks.”
Grunty turned away from him, squeezed his eyes closed for a tortured second, then pulled himself together. He ran his hand over the books, hesitated, and finally brought out a large, heavy one. He handed it to the Captain and went forward to the console. He slumped down there over the file of computer tapes, pretending to be busy.
The Captain sprawled onto Grunty’s couch and opened the book. “Michelangelo, what the hell,” he growled. He grunted, almost like his shipmate. “Statues,” he half-whispered, in withering scorn. But he ogled and leafed at last, and was quiet.
The loverbirds looked at him with a sad tenderness, and then together sent beseeching glances at Grunty’s angry back.
The matrix-pattern for Terra slipped through Grunty’s fingers, and he suddenly tore the tape across, and across again. A filthy place, Terra.
There is nothing
, he thought,
like the conservatism of license
. Given a culture of sybaritics, with an endless choice of mechanical titillations, and you have a people of unbreakable and hidebound formality, a people with few but massive taboos, a shockable, narrow, prissy people obeying the rules—even the rules of their calculated depravities—and protecting their treasured, specialized pruderies. In such a group there are words one may not use for fear of their fanged laughter, colors one may not wear, gestures and intonations one must forego, on pain of being torn to pieces. The rules are complex and absolute, and in such a place one’s heart may not sing lest, through its warm free joyousness, it betray one.
And if you must have joy of such a nature, if you must be free to be your pressured self, then off to space … off to the glittering black loneliness. And let the days go by, and let the time pass, and huddle beneath your impenetrable integument, and wait, and wait, and every once in a long while you will have that moment of lonely consciousness when there is no one around to see; and then it may burst from you and you may dance, or cry, or twist the hair on your head till your eyeballs blaze, or do any of the other things your so unfashionable nature thirstily demands.
It took Grunty half a lifetime to find this freedom: No price would be too great to keep it. Not lives, nor interplanetary diplomacy, nor Earth
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