likely that they would be in some decidedly hostile surroundings, if not actual combat. He and K'Stin had improvised shaping dies with which the heated ceramic could be pressed into shape, then rehardened. Kelly went through the supply room and into the machine shop, where the floor was littered with pieces of armor.
"Fashion-show time," Torwald announced. "This is your suit, so let's see if it fits. First, the legs." Each was made in one piece, to snap around leg and thigh, and was held shut by its own springiness. The knees were much more complex and required exact fitting for easy movement. The arm pieces were similar. Breast-and-back plates were made in several overlapping pieces for mobility. When the boy was fully fitted, Torwald had him jump, squat, lie down, and get up until he was satisfied that the armor was properly fitted. Kelly admired himself in the supply room mirror. He looked like a Space Marine recruiting poster.
"Where did you learn to make this stuff?" Kelly asked, admiring the sleek lines and gleaming black surface.
"During the War I had to convalesce for six months after copping a wound, so they put me to work in the armory of a Marine troopship. With your helmet on and your visor shut, you'll be almost invulnerable in that... Okay, kid, it fits. You can take it off."
"Torwald, what do you think about this crazy trip we're on?"
"Think? Well, mostly I try not to think about it at all. Because, if I have to think about it, here's the inescapable conclusion: Nobody knows the nature of the Center, but it's believed that the stresses, radiation, and even the natural processes differ so radically from what pertains in our little bailiwick out toward the Rim that exploration might prove impossible, even if we could come up with a drive that could make the trip in less than ten generations. Now, I'm going to traverse almost a full radius of the galaxy, and not on a huge, lavish exploration vessel. Instead, I'm going in a beat-up, superannuated tramp freighter armed with a couple of popguns, navigated by a sapient football, and crewed by kids and rejects."
"Is it really that bad?" asked Kelly.
"Just about. Well, Drake's Golden Hind was a miserable little cockleshell displacing a hundred and twenty tons, and he sailed it clean around the world and took a Spanish treasure ship, to boot. Maybe we'll be as lucky. Maybe."
A thump at the hatch announced a visitor—two visitors, in fact: Bert and Finn. Bert opened the conversation.
"Things have been going a bit fast until now, and a certain trepidation sets in. Is that thing really going to take us where it says it will? If so, can we survive the trip? Having accomplished its purpose, will it really send us back? I, for one, have no ambition to crew on the Flying Dutchman of the inner galaxy."
"Look at it this way," Finn said. "It's like being in the Navy again. We go where we're sent because Someone In Charge finds it meet that we should do so. The choice has been taken out of our hands."
"We've always got old Sphere, Finn. Bert's said that its powers are nearly godlike. Maybe it really can protect us."
"I've revised my estimate, Kelly. It might have been godlike at one time, but no longer. It needs a ship to travel in, doesn't it? If it's reduced to reliance on mechanical devices for movement, maybe its other powers are similarly weakened."
"And," Finn continued, "it regards us with about the same esteem that we accord to amoebae. It might discard us at any time should we prove no longer useful."
"Don't talk like that where the Vivers can hear you," Torwald said. "Talk like that stirs up their survival instincts. They might try to cycle us through the airlock and take the ship back themselves, not that they'd ever be able to navigate back from wherever Sphere's got us now."
"Do you think bringing those two along was such a good idea?" Finn asked. "They're ill-mannered and volatile, and whereas they may be survival specialists compared to us, their
"Fashion-show time," Torwald announced. "This is your suit, so let's see if it fits. First, the legs." Each was made in one piece, to snap around leg and thigh, and was held shut by its own springiness. The knees were much more complex and required exact fitting for easy movement. The arm pieces were similar. Breast-and-back plates were made in several overlapping pieces for mobility. When the boy was fully fitted, Torwald had him jump, squat, lie down, and get up until he was satisfied that the armor was properly fitted. Kelly admired himself in the supply room mirror. He looked like a Space Marine recruiting poster.
"Where did you learn to make this stuff?" Kelly asked, admiring the sleek lines and gleaming black surface.
"During the War I had to convalesce for six months after copping a wound, so they put me to work in the armory of a Marine troopship. With your helmet on and your visor shut, you'll be almost invulnerable in that... Okay, kid, it fits. You can take it off."
"Torwald, what do you think about this crazy trip we're on?"
"Think? Well, mostly I try not to think about it at all. Because, if I have to think about it, here's the inescapable conclusion: Nobody knows the nature of the Center, but it's believed that the stresses, radiation, and even the natural processes differ so radically from what pertains in our little bailiwick out toward the Rim that exploration might prove impossible, even if we could come up with a drive that could make the trip in less than ten generations. Now, I'm going to traverse almost a full radius of the galaxy, and not on a huge, lavish exploration vessel. Instead, I'm going in a beat-up, superannuated tramp freighter armed with a couple of popguns, navigated by a sapient football, and crewed by kids and rejects."
"Is it really that bad?" asked Kelly.
"Just about. Well, Drake's Golden Hind was a miserable little cockleshell displacing a hundred and twenty tons, and he sailed it clean around the world and took a Spanish treasure ship, to boot. Maybe we'll be as lucky. Maybe."
A thump at the hatch announced a visitor—two visitors, in fact: Bert and Finn. Bert opened the conversation.
"Things have been going a bit fast until now, and a certain trepidation sets in. Is that thing really going to take us where it says it will? If so, can we survive the trip? Having accomplished its purpose, will it really send us back? I, for one, have no ambition to crew on the Flying Dutchman of the inner galaxy."
"Look at it this way," Finn said. "It's like being in the Navy again. We go where we're sent because Someone In Charge finds it meet that we should do so. The choice has been taken out of our hands."
"We've always got old Sphere, Finn. Bert's said that its powers are nearly godlike. Maybe it really can protect us."
"I've revised my estimate, Kelly. It might have been godlike at one time, but no longer. It needs a ship to travel in, doesn't it? If it's reduced to reliance on mechanical devices for movement, maybe its other powers are similarly weakened."
"And," Finn continued, "it regards us with about the same esteem that we accord to amoebae. It might discard us at any time should we prove no longer useful."
"Don't talk like that where the Vivers can hear you," Torwald said. "Talk like that stirs up their survival instincts. They might try to cycle us through the airlock and take the ship back themselves, not that they'd ever be able to navigate back from wherever Sphere's got us now."
"Do you think bringing those two along was such a good idea?" Finn asked. "They're ill-mannered and volatile, and whereas they may be survival specialists compared to us, their
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