He traipsed to
the chart room, Burman following. Consulting the charts, he dialed the
intercom phone, got Pike in the bow and ordered, "There's a panic. All
ships grounded. We've got to make for Zaxtedport, about three days' run
away. Change course at once. Starboard seventeen degrees, declination
ten." Then he cut off, griped, "Bang goes that sweet month on Terra. I
never did like Zaxted, either. It stinks. The crew will feel murderous
about this, and I don't blame them."
"What d'you think has happened, sir?" asked Burman. He looked both uneasy
and annoyed.
"Heaven alone knows. The last general call was seven years ago when the Starider exploded halfway along the Mars run. They grounded every ship in existence
while they investigated the cause." He rubbed his chin, pondered, went on,
"And the call before that one was when the entire crew of the Blowgun went nuts. Whatever it is this time, you can bet it's serious."
"It wouldn't be the start of a space war?"
"Against whom?" McNaught made a gesture of contempt. "Nobody has the ships
with which to oppose us. No, it's something technical. We'll learn of it
eventually. They'll tell us before we reach Zaxted or soon afterward."
They did tell him. Within six hours. Burman rushed in with face full of
horror.
"What's eating you now?" demanded McNaught, staring at him.
"The offog," stuttered Burman. He made motions as though brushing off
invisible spiders.
"What of it?"
"It's a typographical error. In your copy it should read off. dog."
The commander stared owlishly.
"Off. dog?" echoed McNaught, making it sound like foul language.
"See for yourself." Dumping the signal on the desk, Burman bolted out,
left the door swinging. McNaught scowled after him, picked up the message.
Terran Headquarters to Bustler . Your report
V1098, ship's official dog Peaslake. Detail
fully circumstances and manner in which animal came apart under
gravitational stress. Cross-examine crew and signal all coincidental
symptoms experienced by them. Urgent and Important. Welling. Alarm and
Rescue Command. Terra.
In the privacy of his cabin McNaught commenced to eat his nails. Every now
and again he went a little cross-eyed as he examined them for nearness to
the flesh.
The End
© 1955, by Street & Smith Publications, copyright 1983 by Davis
Publications. Originally appeared in Astounding Science Fiction.
View from a Height
Joan D. Vinge
SATURDAY, THE 7 TH
I want to know why those pages were missing! How am I supposed to keep up
with my research if they leave out pages—?
( Long sighing noise. )
Listen to yourself, Emmylou: You're listening to the sound of fear. It was
an oversight, you know that. Nobody did it to you on purpose. Relax,
you're getting Fortnight Fever. Tomorrow you'll get the pages, and an
apology too, if Harvey Weems knows what's good for him.
But still, five whole pages; and the table of contents. How could you miss five pages? And the table of contents.
How do I know there hasn't been a coup? The Northwest's finally taken over
completely, and they're censoring the media—and like the Man without
a Country, everything they send me from now on is going to have holes cut
in it.
In Science?
Or maybe Weems has decided to drive me insane—?
Oh, my God … it would be a short trip. Look at me. I don't have any
fingernails left.
( "Arrwk. Hello, beautiful. Hello? Hello?" )
("Ozymandias! Get out of my hair, you devil." Laughter. "Polly want
a cracker? Here … gently! That's a boy.")
It's beautiful when he flies. I never get tired of watching him, or
looking at him, even after twenty years. Twenty years … What did
the Psittacidae do, to win the right to wear a rainbow as their plumage?
Although the way we've hunted them for it, you could say it was a mixed
blessing. Like some other things.
Twenty years. How strange it sounds to hear those words, and know they're
true. There are gray hairs when I
the chart room, Burman following. Consulting the charts, he dialed the
intercom phone, got Pike in the bow and ordered, "There's a panic. All
ships grounded. We've got to make for Zaxtedport, about three days' run
away. Change course at once. Starboard seventeen degrees, declination
ten." Then he cut off, griped, "Bang goes that sweet month on Terra. I
never did like Zaxted, either. It stinks. The crew will feel murderous
about this, and I don't blame them."
"What d'you think has happened, sir?" asked Burman. He looked both uneasy
and annoyed.
"Heaven alone knows. The last general call was seven years ago when the Starider exploded halfway along the Mars run. They grounded every ship in existence
while they investigated the cause." He rubbed his chin, pondered, went on,
"And the call before that one was when the entire crew of the Blowgun went nuts. Whatever it is this time, you can bet it's serious."
"It wouldn't be the start of a space war?"
"Against whom?" McNaught made a gesture of contempt. "Nobody has the ships
with which to oppose us. No, it's something technical. We'll learn of it
eventually. They'll tell us before we reach Zaxted or soon afterward."
They did tell him. Within six hours. Burman rushed in with face full of
horror.
"What's eating you now?" demanded McNaught, staring at him.
"The offog," stuttered Burman. He made motions as though brushing off
invisible spiders.
"What of it?"
"It's a typographical error. In your copy it should read off. dog."
The commander stared owlishly.
"Off. dog?" echoed McNaught, making it sound like foul language.
"See for yourself." Dumping the signal on the desk, Burman bolted out,
left the door swinging. McNaught scowled after him, picked up the message.
Terran Headquarters to Bustler . Your report
V1098, ship's official dog Peaslake. Detail
fully circumstances and manner in which animal came apart under
gravitational stress. Cross-examine crew and signal all coincidental
symptoms experienced by them. Urgent and Important. Welling. Alarm and
Rescue Command. Terra.
In the privacy of his cabin McNaught commenced to eat his nails. Every now
and again he went a little cross-eyed as he examined them for nearness to
the flesh.
The End
© 1955, by Street & Smith Publications, copyright 1983 by Davis
Publications. Originally appeared in Astounding Science Fiction.
View from a Height
Joan D. Vinge
SATURDAY, THE 7 TH
I want to know why those pages were missing! How am I supposed to keep up
with my research if they leave out pages—?
( Long sighing noise. )
Listen to yourself, Emmylou: You're listening to the sound of fear. It was
an oversight, you know that. Nobody did it to you on purpose. Relax,
you're getting Fortnight Fever. Tomorrow you'll get the pages, and an
apology too, if Harvey Weems knows what's good for him.
But still, five whole pages; and the table of contents. How could you miss five pages? And the table of contents.
How do I know there hasn't been a coup? The Northwest's finally taken over
completely, and they're censoring the media—and like the Man without
a Country, everything they send me from now on is going to have holes cut
in it.
In Science?
Or maybe Weems has decided to drive me insane—?
Oh, my God … it would be a short trip. Look at me. I don't have any
fingernails left.
( "Arrwk. Hello, beautiful. Hello? Hello?" )
("Ozymandias! Get out of my hair, you devil." Laughter. "Polly want
a cracker? Here … gently! That's a boy.")
It's beautiful when he flies. I never get tired of watching him, or
looking at him, even after twenty years. Twenty years … What did
the Psittacidae do, to win the right to wear a rainbow as their plumage?
Although the way we've hunted them for it, you could say it was a mixed
blessing. Like some other things.
Twenty years. How strange it sounds to hear those words, and know they're
true. There are gray hairs when I
Similar Books
