noticed. And when you die, Redleigh, will even one horn sound? Will one hand flutter, one soul cry, one tear drop, one door slam? Whatâs your sum? Letâs finish it. There, there it is: zero. Did my secret self put those ciphers there? Feed zero, get zero? So I, John Redleigh, sum myself.
Â
âYou there,â said Redleigh, as I passed him outside the door to the captainâs cabin.
âSir,â I said.
âDonât jump. What are you doing here ? Shouldnât you be on the quarterdeck?â
âWell, sir,â I said, nodding at the captainâs door. âSix days. Isnât that a long time for the captain to be shut in? I canât help but wonder ⦠Is he all right? I have an urge to knock upon his door.â
Redleigh regarded me for a moment, then said, âWell, then â¦â
I stepped quietly to the door and rapped upon it lightly.
âNo, no,â said Redleigh. âLet me show you.â
And he stepped up and knocked hard on the door with his fist.
He waited a moment, then knocked again.
I said, âDoes he never answer, then?â
âIf he knew that God Himself were out here, he might venture forth for a chat. But you or me? No.â
Suddenly there was the sound of a bell, a klaxon, and from the intercom a voice spoke: âHear this! Captainâs inspection. All hands assemble, main deck. All hands, Captainâs inspection.â
And we turned and ran.
All gathered, five hundred strong, on the main deck.
âIn line!â called Redleigh, from the head of the assembly. âHeâs coming, the captain is coming. Tenshun!â
There was a faint hum, a touch of electrical sound, which wavered like a swarm of insects.
The door to the main deck hissed open, and the captain was there. He stepped forward three steady, slow paces and stopped.
He was tall, well proportioned, and his uniform was completely white. The great shock of his hair was almost white, with faint traces of gray.
Over his eyes he wore a set of opaque radar-vision glasses, in which danced small firefly electric traces.
To a man, we held our breath.
At last he spoke.
âAt ease.â
And, as one, we let out our breath.
âRedleigh,â the captain said.
âAll present, sir.â
The captain traced the air with his hands. âYes, the temperature has gone up ten degrees. All present, indeed.â
He moved along the front line, then stopped, one hand out, hovering near my face.
âAh, hereâs one who runs the very furnace of youth. Your name?â
âSir,â I said. âIshmael Hunnicut Jones.â
âGod, Redleigh,â said the captain, âisnât that the sound of Blue Ridge wilderness or the scarred red hills of Jerusalem?â
Without waiting for a response, he continued, âWell, now, Ishmael. What do you see that I donât?â
Staring at him, I pulled back, and from the far side of my mind, in a panic, I whispered, âQuell?â
Suddenly I knew that if I should seize the captainâs dark machine electric lenses, behind them I would find eyes the color of minted silver, of fish that had never been born. White. Oh, God, this man is white, all white.
And in my head I heard Quell, a shadow upon the air: âSome years ago the universe set off a light-year immensity of photographic flash. God blinked and bleached the captain to this color of sleeplessness and terror.â
âWhat?â the captain demanded, for he had sensed our thoughts.
âNothing, sir,â I lied. âAnd there is nothing I can see that you do not.â
I waited for his reply, but none was forthcoming. Instead, he turned and walked back to the head of the assembly and spoke. âHow runs a ship in space, men?â
The crew murmured, and one replied, âWith tight seams and oxygen suits at the ready, sir.â
âWell said,â the captain replied, and continued. âAnd how do you treat
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