officer looked Don up and down. “Sorry. No can do. Radio silence. No traffic outgoing.”
“But,” Don answered desperately, “I’ve just got to.” Quickly he explained his predicament. “I’ve got to let them know where I am, sir.”
The officer shook his head. “We couldn’t raise Mars even if we were not in radio silence.”
“No, sir, but you could beam Luna, for relay to Mars.”
“Yes, I suppose we could—but we won’t. See here, young fellow, I’m sorry about your troubles but there is no possibility, simply none at all, that the commanding officer will permit silence to he broken for any reason, even one much more important than yours. The safety of the ship comes first.”
Don thought about it. “I suppose so,” he agreed forlornly.
“However, I wouldn’t worry too much. Your parents will find out where you are.”
“Huh? I don’t see how. They think I’m headed for Mars.”
“No, they don’t—or won’t shortly. There is no secret now about what has happened; the whole system knows it. They can find out that you got as far as Circum-Terra; they can find out that the Glory Road did not fetch you back. By elimination, you must be on your way to Venus. I imagine that they are querying Interplanet about you right now.”
The officer turned away and said, “Wilkins, paint a sign for the door saying, ‘Radio Silence—No Messages Accepted.’ We don’t want every civilian in the ship barging in here trying to send greetings to Aunt Hattie.”
Don bunked in a third-class compartment with three dozen men and a few boys. Some passengers who had paid for better accommodations complained. Don himself had had first-class passage booked—for the Valkyrie and Mars—but he was glad that he had not been silly enough to object when he saw the disgruntled returning with their tails between their legs. First-class accommodations, up forward, were occupied by the High Guard.
His couch was comfortable enough and a space voyage, dull under any circumstances, is less dull in the noise and gossip of a bunkroom than it is in the quiet of a first-class stateroom. During the first week out the senior surgeon announced that any who wished could avail themselves of cold-sleep. Within a day or two the bunkroom was half deserted, the missing passengers having been drugged and chilled and stowed in sleep tanks aft, there to dream away the long weeks ahead.
Don did not take cold-sleep. He listened to a bunkroom discussion, full of half facts, as to whether or not cold-sleep counted against a man’s lifetime. “Look at it this way,” one passenger pontificated. “You’ve got so long to live—right? It’s built into your genes; barring accidents, you live just that long. But when they put you in the freezer, your body slows down. Your clock stops, so to speak. That time doesn’t count against you. If you had eighty years coming to you, now you’ve got eighty years plus three months, or whatever. So I’m taking it.”
“You couldn’t be wronger,” he was answered. “More wrong, I mean. What you’ve done is chop three months right out of your life. Not for me!”
“You’re crazy. I’m taking it.”
“Suit yourself. And another thing—” The passenger who opposed it leaned forward and spoke confidentially, so that only the entire bunkroom could hear. “They say that the boys with the bars up front question you while you are going under. You know why? Because the Commodore thinks that spies slipped aboard at Circum-Terra.”
Don did not care which one was right. He was too much alive to relish deliberately “dying” for a time simply to save the boredom of a long trip. But the last comment startled him. Spies? Was it possible that the I.B.I. had agents right under the noses of the High Guard? Yet the I.B.I. was supposed to be able to slip in anywhere. He looked around at his fellow passengers, wondering which one might be traveling under a false identity.
He put it out of his
“But,” Don answered desperately, “I’ve just got to.” Quickly he explained his predicament. “I’ve got to let them know where I am, sir.”
The officer shook his head. “We couldn’t raise Mars even if we were not in radio silence.”
“No, sir, but you could beam Luna, for relay to Mars.”
“Yes, I suppose we could—but we won’t. See here, young fellow, I’m sorry about your troubles but there is no possibility, simply none at all, that the commanding officer will permit silence to he broken for any reason, even one much more important than yours. The safety of the ship comes first.”
Don thought about it. “I suppose so,” he agreed forlornly.
“However, I wouldn’t worry too much. Your parents will find out where you are.”
“Huh? I don’t see how. They think I’m headed for Mars.”
“No, they don’t—or won’t shortly. There is no secret now about what has happened; the whole system knows it. They can find out that you got as far as Circum-Terra; they can find out that the Glory Road did not fetch you back. By elimination, you must be on your way to Venus. I imagine that they are querying Interplanet about you right now.”
The officer turned away and said, “Wilkins, paint a sign for the door saying, ‘Radio Silence—No Messages Accepted.’ We don’t want every civilian in the ship barging in here trying to send greetings to Aunt Hattie.”
Don bunked in a third-class compartment with three dozen men and a few boys. Some passengers who had paid for better accommodations complained. Don himself had had first-class passage booked—for the Valkyrie and Mars—but he was glad that he had not been silly enough to object when he saw the disgruntled returning with their tails between their legs. First-class accommodations, up forward, were occupied by the High Guard.
His couch was comfortable enough and a space voyage, dull under any circumstances, is less dull in the noise and gossip of a bunkroom than it is in the quiet of a first-class stateroom. During the first week out the senior surgeon announced that any who wished could avail themselves of cold-sleep. Within a day or two the bunkroom was half deserted, the missing passengers having been drugged and chilled and stowed in sleep tanks aft, there to dream away the long weeks ahead.
Don did not take cold-sleep. He listened to a bunkroom discussion, full of half facts, as to whether or not cold-sleep counted against a man’s lifetime. “Look at it this way,” one passenger pontificated. “You’ve got so long to live—right? It’s built into your genes; barring accidents, you live just that long. But when they put you in the freezer, your body slows down. Your clock stops, so to speak. That time doesn’t count against you. If you had eighty years coming to you, now you’ve got eighty years plus three months, or whatever. So I’m taking it.”
“You couldn’t be wronger,” he was answered. “More wrong, I mean. What you’ve done is chop three months right out of your life. Not for me!”
“You’re crazy. I’m taking it.”
“Suit yourself. And another thing—” The passenger who opposed it leaned forward and spoke confidentially, so that only the entire bunkroom could hear. “They say that the boys with the bars up front question you while you are going under. You know why? Because the Commodore thinks that spies slipped aboard at Circum-Terra.”
Don did not care which one was right. He was too much alive to relish deliberately “dying” for a time simply to save the boredom of a long trip. But the last comment startled him. Spies? Was it possible that the I.B.I. had agents right under the noses of the High Guard? Yet the I.B.I. was supposed to be able to slip in anywhere. He looked around at his fellow passengers, wondering which one might be traveling under a false identity.
He put it out of his
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