mind—at least the I.B.I. was no longer interested in him .
Had Don not known that he was in the Nautilus headed for Venus he might well have imagined himself in the Valkyrie headed for Mars. The ships were of the same class and one piece of empty space looks like another. The Sun grew daily a little larger rather than smaller—but one does not look directly at the Sun, not even from Mars. The ship’s routine followed the same Greenwich day kept by any liner in space; breakfast came sharp on the bell; the ship’s position was announced each “noon”; the lights were dimmed at “night.”
Even the presence of soldiers in the ship was not conspicuous. They kept to their own quarters forward and civilians were not allowed there except on business. The ship was forty-two days out before Don again had any reason to go forward—to get a cut finger dressed in sick bay. On his way aft he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned.
He recognized Sergeant McMasters. The sergeant was wearing the star of a master-at-arms, a ship’s policeman. “What are you doing,” he demanded, “skulking around here?”
Don held up his damaged digit. “I wasn’t skulking; I was getting this attended to.”
McMasters looked at it. “Mashed your finger, eh? Well, you’re in the wrong passageway. This leads to the bomb room, not to passengers’ quarters. Say, I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
“Sure.”
“I remember. You’re the lad who thought he was going to Mars.”
“I’m still going to Mars.”
“So? You seem to favor the long way around—by about a hundred million miles. Speaking of the long way around, you haven’t explained why I find you headed toward the bomb room.”
Don felt himself getting red. “I don’t know where the bomb room is. If I’m in the wrong passage, show me the right one.”
“Come with me.” The sergeant led him down two decks where the spin of the ship made them slightly heavier and conducted Don into an office. “Sit down. The duty officer will be along.”
Don remained standing. “I don’t want to see the duty officer. I want to go back to my bunkroom.”
“Sit down, I said. I remember your case. Maybe you were just turned around but could be you took the wrong turn on purpose.”
Don swallowed his annoyance and sat. “No offense,” said McMasters. “How about a slug of solvent?” He went to a coffee warmer and poured two cups.
Don hesitated, then accepted one. It was the Venerian bean, black and bitter and very strong. Don found himself beginning to like McMasters. The sergeant sipped his, grimaced, then said, “You must be born lucky. You ought to be a corpse by now.”
“Huh?”
“You were scheduled to go back in the Glory Road , weren’t you? Well?”
“I don’t track you.”
“Didn’t the news filter aft? The Glory didn’t make it.”
“Huh? Crashed?”
“Hardly! The Federation groundhogs got jumpy and blasted her out of the sky. Couldn’t raise her and figured she was booby-trapped, I guess. Anyhow they blasted her.”
“Oh—”
“Which is why I say you were born lucky, seeing as how you were supposed to go back in her.”
“But I wasn’t. I’m headed for Mars.”
McMasters stared at him, then laughed. “Boy, have you got a one-track mind! You’re as bad as a ‘move-over.’”
“Maybe so, but I’m still going to Mars.”
The sergeant put down his cup. “Why don’t you wise up? This war is going to last maybe ten or fifteen years. Chances are there won’t be a scheduled ship to Mars in that whole time.”
“Well… I’ll make it, somehow. But why do you figure it will last so long?”
McMasters stopped to light up. “Studied any history?”
“Some.”
“Remember how the American colonies got loose from England? They piddled along for eight years, fighting just now and then—yet England was so strong that she should have been able to lick the colonies any weekend. Why didn’t she?”
Don did not know. “Well,”
Had Don not known that he was in the Nautilus headed for Venus he might well have imagined himself in the Valkyrie headed for Mars. The ships were of the same class and one piece of empty space looks like another. The Sun grew daily a little larger rather than smaller—but one does not look directly at the Sun, not even from Mars. The ship’s routine followed the same Greenwich day kept by any liner in space; breakfast came sharp on the bell; the ship’s position was announced each “noon”; the lights were dimmed at “night.”
Even the presence of soldiers in the ship was not conspicuous. They kept to their own quarters forward and civilians were not allowed there except on business. The ship was forty-two days out before Don again had any reason to go forward—to get a cut finger dressed in sick bay. On his way aft he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned.
He recognized Sergeant McMasters. The sergeant was wearing the star of a master-at-arms, a ship’s policeman. “What are you doing,” he demanded, “skulking around here?”
Don held up his damaged digit. “I wasn’t skulking; I was getting this attended to.”
McMasters looked at it. “Mashed your finger, eh? Well, you’re in the wrong passageway. This leads to the bomb room, not to passengers’ quarters. Say, I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
“Sure.”
“I remember. You’re the lad who thought he was going to Mars.”
“I’m still going to Mars.”
“So? You seem to favor the long way around—by about a hundred million miles. Speaking of the long way around, you haven’t explained why I find you headed toward the bomb room.”
Don felt himself getting red. “I don’t know where the bomb room is. If I’m in the wrong passage, show me the right one.”
“Come with me.” The sergeant led him down two decks where the spin of the ship made them slightly heavier and conducted Don into an office. “Sit down. The duty officer will be along.”
Don remained standing. “I don’t want to see the duty officer. I want to go back to my bunkroom.”
“Sit down, I said. I remember your case. Maybe you were just turned around but could be you took the wrong turn on purpose.”
Don swallowed his annoyance and sat. “No offense,” said McMasters. “How about a slug of solvent?” He went to a coffee warmer and poured two cups.
Don hesitated, then accepted one. It was the Venerian bean, black and bitter and very strong. Don found himself beginning to like McMasters. The sergeant sipped his, grimaced, then said, “You must be born lucky. You ought to be a corpse by now.”
“Huh?”
“You were scheduled to go back in the Glory Road , weren’t you? Well?”
“I don’t track you.”
“Didn’t the news filter aft? The Glory didn’t make it.”
“Huh? Crashed?”
“Hardly! The Federation groundhogs got jumpy and blasted her out of the sky. Couldn’t raise her and figured she was booby-trapped, I guess. Anyhow they blasted her.”
“Oh—”
“Which is why I say you were born lucky, seeing as how you were supposed to go back in her.”
“But I wasn’t. I’m headed for Mars.”
McMasters stared at him, then laughed. “Boy, have you got a one-track mind! You’re as bad as a ‘move-over.’”
“Maybe so, but I’m still going to Mars.”
The sergeant put down his cup. “Why don’t you wise up? This war is going to last maybe ten or fifteen years. Chances are there won’t be a scheduled ship to Mars in that whole time.”
“Well… I’ll make it, somehow. But why do you figure it will last so long?”
McMasters stopped to light up. “Studied any history?”
“Some.”
“Remember how the American colonies got loose from England? They piddled along for eight years, fighting just now and then—yet England was so strong that she should have been able to lick the colonies any weekend. Why didn’t she?”
Don did not know. “Well,”
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