T
hen everyone was saying goodbye to earth. Fantastic, it seemed. There were tears, there was laughter, cursing, promises of return, awkward verbal comparisons with the crescent moon, vows of faithfulness to lovers and sweethearts. And there was Arkalion, with an avid expression in the old eyes, Arkalion with his boyish face, not saying goodbye so much as he was calling hello to something Temple could not fathom.
Now, as he struggled awkwardly with weightlessness, Temple called it his imagination. His thought-patterns shifted vaguely, without motivation, from the gleaming, polished interior of the ship with its smell of antiseptic and metal polish to the clear Spring air of Earth, blue of sky and bright of sun. The unique blue sky of Earth which he somehow knew could not be duplicated elsewhere. Elsewhere—the word itself bordered on the meaningless.
And Stephanie. The brief warm ecstasy of her—once, forever. He wondered with surprising objectivity if a hundred other names, a hundred other women were not in a hundred other minds while everyone stared at the crescent Earth hanging serenely in space—with each name and each woman as dear as Stephanie, with the same combination of fire and gentle femininity stirring the blood but saddening the heart. Would Stephanie really forget him? Did he want her to? That part of him burned by the fire of her said no—no, she must not forget him. She was his, his alone, roped and branded though a universe separated them. But someplace in his heart was the thought, the understanding, the realization that although Stephanie might keep a small place for him tucked someplace deep in her emotions, she must forget. He was gone—permanently. For Stephanie, he was dead. It was as he had told her that last stolen day. It was....Stephanie, Stephanie, how much I love you....
Struggling with weightlessness, he made his way back to the small room he shared with Arkalion. Hardly more than a cubicle, it was, with sufficient room for two beds, a sink, a small chest. He lay down and slept, murmuring Stephanie's name in his sleep.
H
e awoke to the faint hum of the air-pumps, got up feeling rested, forgot his weightlessness and floated to the ceiling where only an outthrust arm prevented a nasty bump on his head. He used hand grips on the wall to let himself down. He washed, aware of no way to prevent the water he splashed on his face from forming fine droplets and spraying the entire room. When he crossed back to the foot of his bed to get his towel he thrust one foot out too rapidly, lost his balance, half-rose, stumbled and fell against the other bed which, like all other items of furniture, was fastened to the floor. But his elbow struck sleeping Arkalion's jaw sharply, hard enough to jar the man's teeth.
"I'm sorry," said Temple. "Didn't mean to do that," he apologized again, feeling embarrassed.
Arkalion merely lay there.
"I said I'm sorry."
Arkalion still slept. It seemed inconceivable, for Temple's elbow pained him considerably. He bent down, examined his inert companion.
Arkalion stirred not a muscle.
Vaguely alarmed, Temple thrust a hand to Arkalion's chest, felt nothing. He crouched, rested the side of his head over Arkalion's heart. He listened, heard—nothing.
What was going on here?
"Hey, Arkalion!" Temple shook him, gently at first, then with savage force. Weightless, Arkalion's body floated up off the bed, taking the covers with it. His own heart pounding furiously, Temple got it down again, fingered the left wrist and swallowed nervously.
Temple had never seen a dead man before. Arkalion's heart did not beat. Arkalion had no pulse.
Arkalion was dead.
Yelling hoarsely, Temple plunged from the room, soaring off the floor in his haste and striking his head against the ceiling hard enough to make him see stars. "This guy is dead!" he cried. "Arkalion is dead."
Men stirred in the companionway. Someone called for one of the armed guards who were constantly on patrol.
"If he's dead, you're yelling loud enough to get him out of his grave." The voice was quiet, amused.
Arkalion.
"What?" Temple blurted, whirling around and striking his head again. A little wild-eyed, he reentered the room.
"Now, who is dead, Kit?" demanded Arkalion, sitting up and stretching comfortably.
"Who—is dead? Who—?" Open-mouthed, Temple stared.
A
guard, completely at home with weightlessness, entered the cubicle briskly. "What's the trouble in here? Something about a dead man, they said."
"A dead man?" demanded Arkalion. "Indeed."
"Dead?" muttered Temple, lamely and foolishly. "Dead...."
Arkalion smiled deprecatingly. "My friend must have been talking in his sleep. The only thing dead in here is my appetite. Weightlessness doesn't let you become very hungry."
"You'll grow used to it," the guard promised. He patted his paunch happily. "I am. Well, don't raise the alarm unless there's some trouble. Remember about the boy who cried wolf."
"Of course," said Temple. "Sure. Sorry."
He watched the guard depart.
"Bad dream?" Arkalion wanted to know.
"Bad dream, my foot. I accidentally hit you. Hard enough to hurt. You didn't move."
"I'm a sound sleeper."
"I felt for your heart. It wasn't beating. It wasn't!"
"Oh, come, come."
"Your heart was not beating, I said."
"And I suppose I was cold as a slab of ice?"
"Umm, no. I don't remember. Maybe you were. You had no pulse, either."
Arkalion laughed easily. "And am I still dead?"
"Well—"
"Clearly a case of overwrought nerves and a highly keyed imagination. What you need is some more sleep."
"I'm not sleepy, thanks."
"Well, I think I'll get up and go down for breakfast." Arkalion climbed out of bed gingerly, made his way to the sink and was soon gargling with a bottle of prepared mouthwash, occasionally spraying weightless droplets of the pink liquid up at the ceiling.
Temple lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, made his way to Arkalion's bed while the man hummed tunelessly at the sink. Temple let his hands fall on the sheet. It was not cold, but comfortably cool. Hardly as warm as it should have been, with a man sleeping on it all night.
Was he still imagining things?
"I'm glad you didn't call for a burial detail and have me expelled into space with yesterday's garbage," Arkalion called over his shoulder jauntily as he went outside for some breakfast.
Temple cursed softly and lit another cigarette, dropping the first one into a disposal chute on the wall.
E
very night thereafter, Temple made it a point to remain awake after Arkalion apparently had fallen asleep. But if he were seeking repetition of the peculiar occurrence, he was disappointed. Not only did Arkalion sleep soundly and through the night, but he snored. Loudly and clearly, a wheezing snore.
Arkalion's strange feat—or his own overwrought imagination, Temple thought wryly—was good for one thing: it took his mind off Stephanie. The days wore on in endless, monotonous routine. He took some books from the ship's library and browsed through them, even managing to find one concerned with traumatic catalepsy, which stated that a severe emotional shock might render one into a deep enough trance to have a layman mistakenly pronounce him dead. But what had been the severe emotional disturbance for Arkalion? Could the effects of weightlessness manifest themselves in that way in rare instances? Temple naturally did not know, but he resolved to find out if he could after reaching their destination.
One day—it was three weeks after they left the space station, Temple realized—they were all called to assembly in the ship's large main lounge. As the men drifted in, Temple was amazed to see the progress they had made with weightlessness. He himself had advanced to handy facility in locomotion, but it struck him all the more pointedly when he saw two hundred men swim and float through air, pushing themselves along by means of the hand-holds strategically placed along the walls.
The ever-present microphone greeted them all. "Good afternoon, men."
"Good afternoon, mac!"
"Hey, is this the way to Ebbetts' Field?"
"Get on with it!"
"Sounds like the same man who addressed us in White Sands," Temple told Arkalion. "He sure does get around."
"A recording, probably. Listen."
"Our destination, as you've probably read in newspapers and magazines, is the planet Mars."
Mutterings in the assembly, not many of surprise.
"Their suppositions, based both on the seven hundred eighty day lapse between Nowhere Journeys and the romantic position in which the planet Mars has always been held, are correct. We are going to Mars.
"For most of you, Mars will be a permanent home for many years to come—"
"Most of us?" Temple wondered out loud.
Arkalion raised a finger to his lips for silence.
"—until such time as you are rotated according to the policy of rotation set up by the government."
Temple had grown accustomed to the familiar hoots and catcalls. He almost had an urge to join in himself.
"Interesting," Arkalion pointed out. "Back at White Sands they claimed not to know our destination. They knew it all right—up to a point. The planet Mars. But now they say that all of us will not remain on Mars. Most interesting."
"—further indoctrination in our mission soon after our arrival on the red planet. Landing will be performed under somewhat less strain than the initial takeoff in the Earth-to-station ferry, since Mars exerts less of a gravity pull than Earth. On the other hand, you have been weightless for three weeks and the change-over is liable to make some of you sick. It will pass harmlessly enough.
"We realize it is difficult, being taken from your homes without knowing the nature of your urgent mission. All I can tell you now—and, as a matter of fact, all I know—"
"Here we go again," said Temple. "More riddles."
"—is that everythingisof the utmost urgency. Our entire way of life is at stake. Our job will be to safeguard it. In the months which follow, few of you will have any big, significant role to play, but all of you, working together, will provide the strength we need. When thecadre—"
"So they call their guards teachers," Arkalion commented dryly.
"—come around, they will see that each man is strapped properly into his bunk for deceleration. Deceleration begins in twenty-seven minutes."
Mars, thought Temple, back in his room with Arkalion.Mars.He did not think of Stephanie, except as a man who knows he must spend the rest of his life in prison might think of a lush green field, or the cool swish of skis over fresh, powdery snow, or the sound of yardarms creaking against the wind on a small sailing schooner, or the tang of wieners roasting over an open fire with the crisp air of fall against your back, or the scent of good French brandy, or a woman.
Deceleration began promptly. Before his face was distorted and his eyes forced shut by a pressure of four gravities, Temple had time to see the look of complete unconcern on Arkalion's face. Arkalion, in fact, was sleeping.
He seemed as completely relaxed as he did that morning Temple thought he was dead.
P
etrovitch, S. A.!" called the Comrade standing abreast of the head of the line, a thin, nervous man half a head shorter than the girl herself. Sophia Androvna Petrovitch strode forward, took a pair of trim white shorts from the neat stack at his left.
"Is that all?" she said, looking at him.
"Yes, Comrade. Well, a woman. Well."
Without embarrassment, Sophia had seen the men ahead of her in line strip and climb into the white shorts before they disappeared through a portal ahead of the line, depositing their clothing in a growing pile on the floor. But now it was Sophia's turn, after almost a two hour wait. Not that it was chilly, but....
"Is that all?" she repeated.
"Certainly. Strip and move along, Comrade." The nervous little man appraised her lecherously, she thought.
"Then I must keep some of my own clothing," she told him.
"Impossible. I have my orders."
"I am a woman."
"You are a volunteer for the Stalintrek. You will take no personal property—no clothing—with you. Strip and advance, please."
Sophia flushed slightly, while the men behind her began to call and taunt.
"I like this Stalintrek."
"Oh, yes."
"We are waiting, Comrade."
Quickly and with an objective detachment which surprised her, Sophia unbuttoned her shirt, removed it. Her one wish—and an odd one, she thought, smiling—was for wax for her ears. She loosened the three snaps of her skirt, watched it fall to the floor. She stood there briefly, lithe-limbed, a tall, slim girl, then had the white shorts over her nakedness in one quick motion. She still wore a coarse halter.
"All personal effects, Comrade," said the nervous little man.
"No," Sophia told him.
"But yes. Definitely, yes. You hold up the line, and we have a schedule to maintain. The Stalintrek demands quick, prompt obedience."
"Then you will give me one additional item of clothing."
The man looked at Sophia's halter, at the fine way she filled it. He shrugged. "We don't have it," he said, clearly enjoying himself.
In volunteering for the Stalintrek, Sophia had invaded man's domain. She had watched not with embarrassment but with scorn while the men in front of her got out of their clothing. She had invaded man's domain, and as she watched them, the short, flabby ones, the bony ones with protruding ribs and collar-bones, those of milky white skin and soft hands, she knew most of them would bite off more than they could chew if ever they tried what was the most natural thing for men to try with a lone woman in an isolated environment. But shewasin a man's world now, and if that was the way they wanted it, she would ask no quarter.
She reached up quickly with one hand and unfastened the halter, catching it with her free hand and holding it in front of her breasts while the nervous little man licked his lips and gaped. Sophia grabbed another pair of the white shorts, tore it quickly with her strong fingers, fashioning a crude covering for herself. This she pulled around her, fastening it securely with a knot in back.
"You'll have to give that back to me," declared the nervous little Comrade.
"I'll bet you a samovar on that," Sophia said quietly, so only the man heard her.
He reached out, as if to rip the crude halter from her body, but Sophia met him half-way with her strong, slim fingers, wrapping them around his biceps and squeezing. The man's face turned quickly to white as he tried unsuccessfully to free his arm.
"Please, that hurts."
"I keep what I am wearing." She tightened her grip, but gazed serenely into space as the man stifled a whimper.
"Well—" the man whispered indecisively as he gritted his teeth.
"Fool!" said Sophia. "Your arm will be black and blue for a week. While you men grow soft and lazy, many of the women take their gymnastics seriously, especially if they want to keep their figures with the work they must do and the food they must eat. I am stronger than you and I will hurt you unless—" And her hand tightened around his scrawny arm until her knuckles showed white.
"Wear what you have and go," the man pleaded, and moaned softly when Sophia released his numb arm and strode through the portal, still drawing whistles and leers from the other men, who missed the by-play completely.
S
o we're on Mars!"
"It ain't Nowhere after all, it's Mars."
"Wait and see, buster. Wait and see."
"Kind of cold, isn't it? Well, if this was Venus and some of them beautiful one-armed dames was waiting for us—"
"That's just a statue, stupid."
"Lookit all them people down there, will you?"
"You think they're Martians?"
"Stupid! We ain't the first ones went on the Nowhere Journey."
"What are we waiting for? It sure will feel good to stretch your legs."
"Let's go!"
"Look out, Mars, here I come!"
It would have been just right for a Hollywood epic, Temple thought. The rusty ochre emptiness spreading out toward the horizon in all directions, spotted occasionally with pale green and frosty white, the sky gray with but a shade of blue in it, distant gusts of Martian wind swirling ochre clouds across the desert, the spaceship poised on its ungainly bottom, a great silver bowling ball with rocket tubes for finger holes, and the Martians from Earth who had been here on this alien world for seven-hundred-eighty days or twice seven-eighty or three times, and who fought in frenzied eagerness, like savages, to reach the descending gangplank first.
Earth chorus: Hey, Martians, any of you guys speak English? Hah-ha, I said, any of you guys....
Where are all them canals I heard so much about?
You think maybe they're dangerous? (Laughter)
No dames. Hey, no dames....
Who were you expecting, Donna Daunley?
What kind of place is Mars with no women?
What do they do here, anyway, just sit around and wait for the next rocket?
I'm cold.
Get used to it, brother, get used to it.
Look out, Mars, here I come!
Martian chorus: Who won the Series last year, Detroit?
Hey, bud, tell me, are dames still wearing those one piece things, all colors, so you see their legs up to about here and their chests down to about here? (Gestures lewdly)
Which one of you guys can tell me what it's like to take a bath? I mean a real bath in a real bath tub.
Hey, we licked Russia yet?
We heard they were gonna send some dames!
Dames—ha-ha, you're breaking my heart.
Tell me what a steak tastes like. So thick.
Me? Gimme a bowl of steamed oysters. And a dame.
Dames. Girls. Women. Females. Chicks. Tomatoes. Frails. Dames. Dames. Dames....
They did not seem to mind the cold, these Earth-Martians. Temple guessed they never spent much time out of doors (above ground, for there were no buildings?) because all seemed pale and white. While the sun was weaker, so was the protection offered by a thinner atmosphere. The sun's actinic rays could burn, and so could the sand-driving wind. But pale skins could not be the result of staying indoors, for Temple noted the lack of man-made structures at once. Underground, then. The Earth-Martians lived underground like moles. Doing what? And for what reason? With what ultimate goal, if any? And where did those men who did not remain on Mars go? Temple's head whirled with countless questions—and no answers.
Shoulder to shoulder with Arkalion, he made his way down the gangplank, turning up the collar of his jumper against the stinging wind.
"You got any newspapers, pal?"
"Magazines?"
"Phonograph records?"
"Gossip?"
"Newsfilm?"
"Who's the heavyweight champ?"
"We lick those Commies in Burma yet?"
"Step back! Watch that man. Maybe he's your replacement."
"Replacement. Ha-ha. That's good."
All types of men. All ages. In torn, tattered clothing, mostly. In rags. Even if a man seemed more well-groomed than the rest, on closer examination Temple could see the careful stitching, the patches, the fades and stains. No one seemed to mind.
"Hey, bud. What do you hear about rotation? They passed any laws yet?"
"I been here ten years. When doIget rotated?"
"Ain't that something? Dad Jenks came here with the first ship. Don't you talk about rotation. Ask Dad."
"Better not mention that word to Dad Jenks. He sees red."
"This whole damn planet is red."
"Want a guided tour of nowhere, men? Step right up."
Arkalion grinned. "They seem so well-adjusted," he said, then shuddered against the cold and followed Temple, with the others, through the crowd.
T
hey were inoculated against nameless diseases. (Watch for the needle with the hook.)
They were told again they had arrived on the planet Mars. (No kidding?)
Led to a drab underground city, dimly lit, dank, noisome with mold and mildew. (Quick, the chlorophyll.)
Assigned bunks in a dormitory, with four men to a room. (Be it ever so humble—bah!)
Told to keep things clean and assigned temporarily to a garbage pickup detail. (For this I left Sheboygan?)
Read to from the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and Public Law 1182 (concerned with the Nowhere Journey, it told them nothing they did not already know).
Given as complete a battery of tests, mental, emotional and physical, as Temple ever knew existed. (Cripes, man! How the hell should I know what the cube root of −5 is? I never finished high school!)
Subjected to an exhaustive, overlong, and at times meaningless personal interview. (No, doc, honest. I never knew I had a—uh—anxiety neurosis. Is it dangerous?)
"How do you do, Temple? Sit down."
"Thank you."
"Thought you'd like to know that while your overall test score is not uncanny, it's decidedly high."
"So what?"
"So nothing—not necessarily. Except that with it you have a very well balanced personality. We can use you, Temple."
"That's why I'm here."
"I mean—elsewhere. Mars is only a way station, a training center for a select few. It takes an awful lot of administrative work to keep this place going, which explains the need for all the station personnel."
"Listen. The last few weeks I had everything thrown at me. Everything, the works. Mind answering one question?"
"Shoot."
"What's this all about?"
"Temple, I don't know!"
"You what?"
"I know you find it hard to believe, but I don't. There isn't a man here on Mars who knows the whole story, either—and certainly not on Earth. We know enough to keep everything in operation. And we know it's important, all of it, everything we do."
"You mentioned a need for some men elsewhere. Where?"
The psychiatrist shrugged. "I don't know. Somewhere. Anywhere." He spread his hands out eloquently. "That's where the Nowhere Journey comes in."
"Surely you can tell me something more than—"
"Absolutely not. It isn't that I don't want to. I can't. I don't know."
"Well, one more question I'd like you to answer."
The psychiatrist lit a cigarette, grinned. "Say, who is interviewing whom?"
"This one I think you can tackle. I have a brother, Jason Temple. Embarked on the Nowhere Journey five years ago. I wonder—"
"So that's the one factor in your psychograph we couldn't figure out—anxiety over your brother."
"I doubt it," shrugged Temple. "More likely my fiancee."
"Umm, common enough. You were to be married?"
"Yes."Stephanie, what are you doing now? Right now?
"That's what hurts the most.... Well, yes, I can find out about your brother." The psychiatrist flicked a toggle on his desk. "Jamison, find what you can on Temple, Jason, year of—"
"1987," Temple supplied.
"1987. We'll wait."
After a moment or two, the voice came through, faintly metallic: "Temple, Jason. Arrival: 1987. Psychograph, 115b12. Mental aggregate, 98. Physcom, good to excellent. Training: two years, space perception concentrate, others. Shipped out: 1989."
So Jase had shipped out for—Nowhere.
"Someday you'll follow in your brother's footsteps, Temple. Now, though, I have a few hundred questions I'd like you to answer."
The psychiatrist hadn't exaggerated. Several hours of questioning followed. Once reminded of her, Temple found it hard to keep his thought off Stephanie.
He left the psychiatrist's office more confused than ever.
G
ood morning, child. You Stephanie Andrews?"
Stephanie hadn't felt up to working that first morning after Kit's final goodbye. She answered the door in her bathrobe, saw a small, middle-aged woman with graying hair and a kind face. "That's right. Won't you come in?"
"Thank you. I represent the Complete Emancipation League, Miss Andrews."
"Complete Emancipation League? Oh, something to do with politics. Really, I'm not much interested in—"
"That's entirely the trouble," declared the older woman. "Too many of us are not interested in politics. I'd like to discuss the C.E.L. with you, my dear, if you will bear with me a few minutes."
"All right," said Stephanie. "Would you like a glass of sherry?"
"In the morning?" the older woman smiled.
"I'm sorry. Don't mind me. My fiance left yesterday, took his final goodbye. He—he embarked on the Nowhere Journey."
"I realize that. It is precisely why I am here. My dear, the C.E.L. does not want to fight the government. If the government decides that the Nowhere Journey is vital for the welfare of the country—even if the government won't or can't explain what the Nowhere Journey is—that's all right with us. But if the government says there is a rotation system but does absolutely nothing about it, we're interested in that. Do you follow me?"
"Yes!" cried Stephanie. "Oh, yes. Go on."
"The C. E. L. has sixty-eight people in Congress for the current term. We hope to raise that number to seventy-five for next election. It's a long fight, a slow uphill fight, and frankly, my dear, we need all the help we can get. People—young women like yourself, my dear—are entirely too lethargic, if you'll forgive me."
"You ought to forgiveme," said Stephanie, "if you will. You know, it's funny. I had vague ideas about helping Kit, about finding some way to get him back. Only to tackle something like that alone.... I'm only twenty-one, just a girl, and I don't know anyone important. No one ever comes back, that's what you hear. But there's a rotation system, you also hear that. If I can be of any help...."
"You certainly can, my dear. We'd be delighted to have you."
"Then, eventually, maybe, just maybe, we'll start getting them rotated home?"
"We can't promise a thing. We can only try. And I never did say we'd try to get the boys rotated, my dear. There is a rotation system in the law, right there in Public Law 1182. But if no men have ever been rotated, there must be a reason for it."
"Yes, but—"
"But we'll see. If for some reason rotation simply is not practicable, we'll find another way. Which is why we call ourselves the C.E.L.—Complete Emancipation League—for women. If men must embark on the Nowhere Journey—the least they can do is let their women volunteer to go along with them if they want to—since it may be forever. Let a bunch of women get to this Nowhere place and you'll never know what might happen, that's what I say."
Something about the gray haired woman's earthy confidence imbued Stephanie with an optimism she never expected. "Well," she said, smiling, "if we can't bring ourselves to Mohammed.... No, that's all wrong! ... to the mountain...?"
"Yes, there's an old saying. But it isn't important. You get the idea. My dear, how would you like to go to Nowhere?"
"I—to Kit, anywhere, anywhere!"I'll never forget yesterday, Kit darling. Never!
"I make no promises, Stephanie, but it may be sooner than you think. Morning be hanged, perhaps I will have some sherry after all. Umm, you wouldn't by any chance have some Canadian instead?"
Humming, Stephanie dashed into the kitchen for some glasses.
T
here were times when the real Alaric Arkalion III wished his father would mind his own business. Like that thing about the Nowhere Journey, for instance. Maybe Alaric Sr. didn't realize it, but being the spoiled son of a billionaire wasn't all fun. "I'm a dilettante," Alaric would tell himself often, gazing in the mirror, "a bored dilettante at the age of twenty-one."
Which in itself, he had to admit, wasn't too bad. But having reneged on the Nowhere Journey in favor of a stranger twice his age who now carried his, Alaric's, face, had engendered some annoying complications. "You'll either have to hide or change your own appearance and identity, Alaric."
"Hide? For how long, father?"
"I can't be sure. Years, probably."
"That's crazy. I'm not going to hide for years."
"Then change your appearance. Your way of life. Your occupation."
"I have no occupation."
"Get one. Change your face, too. Your fingerprints. It can be done. Become a new man, live a new life."
In hiding there was boredom, impossible boredom. In the other alternative there was adventure, intrigue—but uncertainty. One part of young Alaric craved that uncertainty, the rest of him shunned it. In a way it was like the Nowhere Journey all over again.
"Maybe Nowhere wouldn't have been so bad," said Alaric to his father, choosing as a temporary alternative and retreat what he knew couldn't possibly happen.
Couldn't it?
"If I choose another identity, I'd be eligible again for the Nowhere Journey."
"By George, I hadn't considered that. No, wait. You could be older than twenty-six."
"I like it the way I am," Alaric said, pouting.
"Then you'll have to hide. I spent ten million dollars to secure your future, Alaric. I don't want you to throw it away."
Alaric pouted some more. "Let me think about it."
"Fair enough, but I'll want your answer tomorrow. Meanwhile, you are not to leave the house."
Alaric agreed verbally, but took the first opportunity which presented itself—that very night—to sneak out the servants' door, go downtown, and get stewed to the gills.
At two in the morning he was picked up by the police for disorderly conduct (it had happened before) after losing a fistfight to a much poorer, much meaner drunk in a downtown bar. They questioned Alaric at the police station, examined his belongings, went through his wallet, notified his home.
Fuming, Alaric Sr. rushed to the police station to get his son. He was met by the desk sergeant, a fat, balding man who wore his uniform in a slovenly fashion.
"Mr. Arkalion?" demanded the sergeant, picking at his teeth with a toothpick.
"Yes. I have come for Alaric, my son."
"Sure. Sure. But your son's in trouble, Mr. Arkalion. Serious trouble."
"What are you talking about? If there are any damages, I'll pay. He didn't—hurt anyone, did he?"
The sergeant broke the toothpick between his teeth, laughed. "Him? Naw. He got the hell beat out of him by a drunk half his size. It ain't that kind of trouble, Mr. Arkalion. You know what an 1182 card is, mister?"
Arkalion's face drained white. "Why—yes."
"Alaric's got one."
"Naturally."
"According to the card, he should have shipped out on the Nowhere Journey, mister. He didn't. He's in serious trouble."
"I'll see the district attorney."
"More'n likely, you'll see the attorney general. Serious trouble."
T
he trouble with the Stalintrek, Sophia thought, was that it took months to get absolutely nowhere. There had been the painful pressure, the loss of consciousness, the confinement in this tight little world of dormitories and gleaming metal walls, the uncanny feeling of no weight, the ability—boring after a while, but interesting at first—to float about in air almost at will.
Then, how many months of sameness? Sophia had lost all track of time throughennui. But for the first brief period of adjustment on the part of her fellows to the fact that although she was a woman and shared their man's life she was still to be inviolate, the routine had been anything but exciting. The period of adjustment had had its adventures, its uncertainties, its challenge, and to Sophia it had been stimulating. Why was it, she wondered, that the men who carried their sex with strength and dignity, the hard-muscled men who could have their way with her if they resorted to force were the men who did not violate her privacy, while the weaklings, the softer, smaller men, or the average men whom Sophia considered her physical equals were the ones who gave her trouble?
She had always accepted her beauty, the obvious attraction men found in her, with an objective unconcern. She had been endowed with sex appeal; there was not much room in her life to exploit it, even had she wanted to. Now, now when she wanted anything but that, it gave her trouble.
Her room was shared, of necessity, with three men. Tall, gangling Boris gave her no trouble, turned his back when she undressed for the evening, even though she was careful to slip under the covers first. Ivan, the second man, was short, thin, stooped. Often she found him looking at her with what might have been more than a healthy interest, but aside from that he kept his peace. Besides, Ivan had spent two years in secondary school (as much as Sophia) and she enjoyed conversing with him.
The third man, Georgi, was the troublemaker. Georgi was one of those plump young men with red cheeks, big, eager eyes, a voice somewhat too high. He was an avid talker, a boaster and a boor. In the beginning he showered attentions on Sophia. He insisted on drawing her wash-basin at night, escorted her to breakfast every morning, told her in confidence of the conquests he had made over beautiful women (but not as beautiful as you, Sophia). He soon began to take liberties. He would sit—timorously at first, but with growing boldness—on the corner of her bed, talking with her at night after the others had retired, Ivan with his snores, Boris with his strong, deep breathing. And night after night, plump Georgi grew bolder.
He would reach out and touch Sophia, he would insist on tucking her in at night (let me be your big brother), he would awaken her in the morning with his hand heavy on her shoulder. Finally, one night at bedtime, she heard him conversing in low whispers with Ivan and Boris. She could not hear the words, but Boris looked at her with what she thought was surprise, Ivan nodded in an understanding way, and both of them left the room.
Sophia frowned. "What did you tell them, Georgi?"
"That we wanted to be alone one evening, of course."
"I never gave you any indication—"
"I could see it in your eyes, in the way you looked at me."
"Well, you had better call them back inside and go to bed."
Georgi shook his head, approached her.
"Georgi! Call them back or I will."
"No, you won't." Georgi followed her as she retreated into a corner of the room. When she reached the wall and could retreat no further, he placed his thick hands on her shoulders, drew her to him slowly. "You will call no one," he rasped.
S
he ducked under his arms, eluded him, was on the point of running to the door, throwing it open and shouting, when she reconsidered. If she did, she would be asking for quarter, gaining a temporary reprieve, inviting the same sort of thing all over again.
She crossed to the bed and sat down. "Come here, Georgi."
"Ah." He came to her.
She watched him warily, a soft flabby man not quite so tall as she was, but who nevertheless out-weighed her by thirty or forty pounds. In his eagerness, he walked too fast, lost his footing and floated gently to the ceiling. Smiling as demurely as she could, Sophia reached up, circled his ankle with her hand.
"I never could get used to this weightlessness," Georgi admitted. "Be nice and pull me down."
"I will be nice. I will teach you a lesson."
He weighed exactly nothing. It was as simple as stretching. Sophia merely extended her arm upwards and Georgi's head hit the ceiling with a loudthunk. Georgi groaned. Sophia repeated the procedure, lowering her arm a foot—and Georgi with it—then raising it and bouncing his head off the ceiling.
"I don't understand," Georgi whined, trying to break free but only succeeding in thrashing his chubby arms foolishly.
"You haven't mastered weightlessness," Sophia smiled up at him. "I have. I said I would teach you a lesson. First make sure you have the strength of a man if you would play a man's game."
Still smiling, Sophia commenced spinning the hand which held Georgi's ankle. Arms and free leg flailing air helplessly, Georgi began to spin.
"Put me down!" he whined, a boy now, not even pretending to be a man. When Sophia shoved out gently and let his ankle go he did a neat flip in air and hung suspended, upside down, his feet near the ceiling, his head on a level with Sophia's shoulders. He cried.
She slapped his upside down face, carefully and without excitement, reddening the cheeks. "I was—only joking," he slobbered. "Call back our friends."
Sophia found one of the hard, air-tight metal flasks they used for drinking in weightlessness. With one hand she opened the lid, with the other she grasped Georgi's shoulder and spun him in air, still upside down. She squirted the water in his face, and because he was upside down and yelling it made him choke and cough. When the container was empty she lowered Georgi gently to the floor.
Minutes later, she opened the door, summoned Boris and Ivan, who came into the room self-consciously. What they found was a thoroughly beaten Georgi sobbing on the floor. After that, Sophia had no trouble. Week after week of boredom followed and she almost wished Georgi or someone else wouldlookfor trouble ... even if it were something she could not handle, for although she was stronger than average and more beautiful, she was still a woman first, and she knew if the right man....
D
id you know that radio communication is maintained between Earth and Mars?" the Alaric Arkalion on Mars asked Temple.
"Why, no. I never thought about it."
"It is, and I am in some difficulty."
"What's the matter?" Temple had grown to like Arkalion, despite the man's peculiarities. He had given up trying to figure him out, feeling that the only way he'd get anywhere was with Arkalion's co-operation.
"It's a long story which I'm afraid you would not altogether understand. The authorities on Earth don't think I belong here on the Nowhere Journey."
"Is that so? A mistake, huh? I sure am glad for you, Alaric."
"That's not the difficulty. It seems that there is the matter of impersonation, of violating some of the clauses in Public Law 1182. You're glad for me. I'm likely to go to prison."
"If it's that serious, how come they told you?"
"They didn't. But I—managed to find out. I won't go into details, Kit, but obviously, if I managed to embark for Nowhere when I didn't have to, then I wanted to go. Right?"
"I—uh, guess so. But why—?"
"That isn't the point. Istillwant to go. Not to Mars, but to Nowhere. I still can, despite what has happened, but I need help."
Temple said, "Anything I can do, I'll be glad to," and meant it. For one thing, he liked Arkalion. For another, Arkalion seemed to know more, much more than he would ever say—unless Temple could win his confidence. For a third, Temple was growing sick and tired of Mars with its drab ochre sameness (when he got to the surface, which was rarely), with its dank underground city, with its meaningless attention to meaningless detail. Either way, he figured there was no returning to Earth. If Nowhere meant adventure, as he suspected it might, it would be preferable. Mars might have been the other end of the galaxy for all its nearness to Earth, anyway.
"There is a great deal you can do. But you'll have to come with me."
"Where?" Temple demanded.
"Where you will go eventually. To Nowhere."
"Fine." And Temple smiled. "Why not now as well as later?"
"I'll be frank with you. If you go now, you go untrained. You may need your training. Undoubtedly, you will."
"You know a lot more than you want to talk about, don't you?"
"Frankly, yes.... I am sorry, Kit."
"That's all right. You have your reasons. I guess if I go with you I'll find out soon enough, anyway."
Arkalion grinned. "You have guessed correctly. I am going to Nowhere, before they return me to Earth for prosecution under Public Law 1182. I cannot go alone, for it takes at least two to operate ... well, you'll see."
"Count me in," said Temple.
"Remember, you may one day wish you had remained on Mars for your training."
"I'll take my chances. Mars is driving me crazy. All I do is think of Earth and Stephanie."
"Then come."
"Where are we going?"
"A long, long way off. It is unthinkably remote, this place called Nowhere."
Temple felt suddenly like a kid playing hookey from school. "Lead on," he said, almost jauntily. He knew he was leaving Stephanie still further behind, but had he been in prison on the next street to hers, he might as well have been a million miles away.
As for Arkalion—the thought suddenly struck Temple—Arkalion wasn't necessarily leaving his world further behind. Perhaps Arkalion was going home....