by Ted White
Simmons mouthed a few more platitudes, and then consulted the time again before announcing, “I believe you may now enter the shuttle for the final leg of your epic journey. May I wish you all luck and success.” It was Simmons at his floweriest.
They gave me a better berth going back with a definitely superior menu. After checking out both berth and menu (the latter with much private pleasure), I rejoined Bjonn in the common lounge, where I instructed him on the use of his berth.
There is no privacy in a shuttle lounge, and there were many questions I wanted to ask the man but avoided, simply because of that fact. Still, we talked a bit while we awaited liftoff.
I felt ill at ease. Bjonn had a disconcerting directness to him. I had the feeling that he was totally unpracticed in the art of small talk. I was unwilling to pass beyond vague generalities here in public, and yet he seemed determined to stare directly into my eyes and ask me the most direct-questions. I answered them as best I could, but I was quite relieved when the announcement came and we had to return to our berths for liftoff.
Chapter Two
A lunar liftoff is a gentle thing, compared to the raw and jolting waste of power one experiences on leaving Earth. There was really no reason for retiring to our berths except that of tradition. Berths are for liftsoff and eating. We liftoff from the Moon; therefore, we retire to our berths for lunar liftsoff. Quod erat demonstrandum. On this particular occasion, however, I welcomed this mindless example of bureaucratic tradition. I stepped into the berth, closed the folding door, inflated the supportive restraint cushions, and relaxed. It sometimes struck me as peculiar that I could relax as easily in a tiny closet, the dimensions of which only slightly exceeded those of my body, when a relatively much larger space like Simmons’ office hit me with such a strong wave of claustrophobia. Perhaps it was simply the difference reflected in my attitudes: Simmons’ office was intended to be moved about in, but offered little opportunity. A shuttle berth is intended for use as a sort of womblike bed, and as such is excellent.
After the warning bell I felt the gravitational shift which signaled that the shuttle rocket was being raised into vertical launching position. Soon I was lying flat on my back, when moments before I had been standing upright. We waited, and with my arms laid flat I couldn’t check my chronometer, but I knew from experience that this wait would seem the longest and be the shortest. Finally a faint vibration penetrated the inflated cushions that enveloped me. Right. Engines firing: testing. We would either abort, or lift; these were the crucial moments. I’ve never been on a shuttle that aborted, but I know it has sometimes happened. Only important people go to the Moon—and beyond—people with whose safety no one takes chances.
The vibration ceased—or seemed to. Then I felt a gentle push against my back—still less than one G—and I knew we were lifting off. I felt a strain in my chest, found I’d been holding my breath, and released it gustily.
After indulging in my first meal—I’m afraid I sucked the tube more greedily than usual; but then, eating is one of the greatest personal, private, and sensual delights—I deflated the restraining cushions and opened my berth.
Bjonn was waiting for me outside.
He seemed used to moving in free-fall; his movements had a catlike grace and I was reminded again of the way he had moved through the crowd of media-men back on the Moon. There was something more there than simple suppleness; he had a body-awareness, a total knowledge of where every part of his body was in relation to his immediate environment. I could never imagine him being clumsy, or bumping into or against anything. Following him into the lounge again I felt stiff and awkward, and very adolescent.
Perhaps you are beginning to understand that which I did not yet comprehend about myself: that I was coming to dislike Bjonn. It was a deep-level reaction, the reaction of the pimply adolescent as he follows his heroes around: he envies, but he also hates, because every moment he spends in the company of those who are better, more skilled than he, he is reminded of his own inferiority. But, as I say, I was not yet aware of my reaction. It was to gnaw and nibble at me for a long time before surfacing.
The shutters were open and the lounge viewport offered a beautiful sight of Earth, rising over the Moon. Technically, we were still in lunar orbit, but for me this was a senses-shattering sight, and one I treasured every trip. The Earth was jewel-brilliant in its three-quarter face sun-washed brightness, all pinks and sapphire blues and snow-bright whiteness.
“This is Earth,” Bjonn said to me as we hung from handholds a little behind the main cluster of passengers. His voice was breathy, and it seemed to me to be tinged with a strong emotion.
I agreed, not really wanting to talk.
“’Land of our fathers,’” he quoted. “Most beautiful.”
“What does Farhome look like?” I asked.
He chuckled. “I really do not know. There was no opportunity to view it when I boarded the Longhaul, and none afterward. I’ve been shown recordings, of course, but they are never the same, are they?” He paused, then added, “We have less water; from space the world looks browner, I think. The cloud-layer is heavier—most of our days are overcast. Whites and browns, a little blue.”
“How do you feel, leaving Farhome and coming here?” I asked. “You know, when you go back your friends, family—they’ll all be thirty years older.”
He sighed, a curiously human sound which I hadn’t expected. “True. And yet, I am the Emissary. I could not have stopped myself from coming here, even had I wished.”
I wondered, even then, what he meant by that.
* * *
Mostly a shuttle trip is routine, even a little dull, but for all that it represented the sum total of my travels in space. Familiarity dulls even the finest sensations. The menu must vary. This time, however, I found myself looking at the trip through Bjonn’s eyes, trying to anticipate his reactions, sensing all over again the newness, the differences he must be finding all around him.
All too soon, however, we were back in our berths, restraints inflated, and dropping down through Earth’s atmospheric window to Hawawii-port. I found myself supping abstractedly from the meal tube, my mind still turning over and analyzing the things Bjonn had said and done in the lounge.
“Ours is a sparsely settled world, you know,” he’d said. “We erected a vast landing port with radio-beacons against the day your ships would come, because we knew you’d never find us otherwise.” And on another occasion, “Farhome has much larger land-masses, of course. We’ve settled only one southern continent, and we haven’t even mapped much of the planet by air. The oxygen content of our air is about the same, but the humidity much higher. It’s a corrosive atmosphere, and things don’t last as long as they should.”
And always those very pale blue eyes staring, unwinking, into mine until my eyes would water and I’d blink and find an excuse to look away. Disconcertingly direct, and somehow everything he said carried the import of deep personal meaning. I found myself wondering what I’d do with him in the weeks to come.
The sub-orbital express took us to Eastern Long Island, of the Megayork complex, where a Bureau pod was waiting “for us. We had booked Bjonn a suite above the fiftieth floor in a modest hotel in southern Brooklyn for the duration of his stay in eastern North Am. The swift changes in transportation and scene left him quiet but unruffled. As always, his eyes seemed to be tracking methodically, noting everything with computer-like accuracy, while a quiet smile lurked behind them. I showed him his facilities, pointed out the infomat, the information-console, and demonstrated a few of its uses. I felt like a bellhop.
“Enough, please—enough,” he said, waving his hand at me and chuckling. “I shall have enough to do just in exploring this amazing suite of rooms to occupy me for the next few weeks. Let us relax for a few moments, and enjoy the quiet amenities. Have a seat. I know you are dying to ask me many questions that the presence of others has inhibited. I will summon some food, and we can talk and eat together.”
>
I’m afraid my reaction was entirely too obvious. I felt the blood leave my face, and my limbs went watery. I all but collapsed into a handy chair. Well, yes, bad taste to be so demonstrative, but after all, the shock—
“Ah—perhaps, perhaps,” I stammered, “you are, umm, not acquainted with our, umm, ways.”
He had already taken the chair facing mine, and now he was leaning forward, an expression of concern tugging at his face. “Have I said something wrong?” he asked. His voice was gentle, but I could not forgive him as easily as that.
“One of man’s most private—most personal—moments,” I said, forcing the words out past stiff lips. “Most private— do you understand?” I found my breath becoming more regular again.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said.
“A decent man—a person of sensibility,” I said, trying again, “does not offer to intrude upon the privacy of so personal an act.”
“Please forgive me if I have offended you, Tad,” he said, “but I remain unaware of the nature of my offense. I understand that its nature makes it difficult for you to speak of it, but surely you must understand that I come from another culture and that my education in your ways is far from complete.” He was leaning on the edge of his chair, his voice low, intense, striving to communicate something to me—something more than appeared on the surface of his words. “How have I violated your privacy?” he asked.
I felt my stomach clench as I pushed the words out: “Food,” I said. “You offered to eat with me.”
A wave of sadness seemed to move over his face, and then was gone again. “The people in your society do not share food together?” Disappointment tinged his voice.
“Never,” I said. “The act of food-partaking, like its twin and consequent act, is man’s most jealously guarded privacy. It is an unbroachable intimacy. I shall say no more. It is not a subject I can or care to discuss.”
“I see….” he said. His eyes had dropped. He was staring at the floor.
I stood. “I think it is best that I leave you to your own devices for now,” I said. “You may reach me any time you need me via infomat—” I gestured at the console. “It is a part of the entire vast worldwide Telex System communications network, as well as a computer-outlet for North Am IBM. I’m sure you will find much to amuse you, and that you’ll want to rest after your journey….” I was babbling, and the sound of my words embarrassed me. I said goodbye, and left.
In the pod on the way to my office, I wondered at the extremity of my reaction. Very well, seating is a private, personal thing—but a proposition to share a meal is not beyond the bounds of comprehension. Why had I felt so deeply shocked? Was it because of Bjonn’s own intensity? Or was it because I sensed something that underlay his apparently innocent suggestion? Why had he seemed so disappointed in my refusal? Not surprised—not contrite for unknowingly violating the mores or custom—but disappointed in me. In me. Why?
And later, in the lift, I wondered how he could have escaped knowledge of so basic a custom while aboard the Longhaul II. But that sparked other thoughts, other questions, the answers to which—if I had them at all—were still locked in my unconscious, awaiting their release in a “hunch.”
“Tad! What are you doing here?”
A scent of gardenia: I knew it was Dian before I turned. She was just closing the door of her office-cubical. I paused; with my hand on my own door.
Dian Knight has been working out of our office for three years now; previously she put in five years advancement in the Bureau’s Tokyo office (I checked her file). In the three years I’d known her, I had invited her to social gatherings on four occasions. She refused the first three—all in that first year—and accepted the fourth, two months ago. But it had not been an unqualified success.
Dian was now about five years my junior—a comfortable age gap, I think—and, to me at least, a very attractive woman. She wore her hair conservatively, and rarely revealed more than her breasts. She had a good sense of humor—a nice balance against my own lack—and a generally sunny disposition. To the best of my knowledge (and that of the Bureau), she had never had a marriage contract.
“Come on inside,” I said, gesturing at my office. “Let me tell you-about our man from Farhome.”
We settled down in comfortable chairs, and while I stared abstractedly out my window at the gray waters of the Sound, I sketched in the details of my initial encounter with Bjonn.
“He bothers you,” she said, when I had concluded.
I steepled my hands and rested my chin against them. “Yes. It’s not a simple cultural difference. God knows, I’ve encountered that before. It’s something more subtle. It’s—it’s like those Religious Archivists. You remember them?”
A man named Schobell had been digging around in the literary debris of earlier centuries, and had uncovered several works of fiction which he released—suitably edited, of course—to the world as the bible of a new, but authentically ancient, of course, religion. It had to do with pre-space-age visitations by alien creatures in arcane vehicles, reincarnation, “engrams,” and a civilization which lived, or still lives perhaps, in caves beneath the earth’s surface. He hit the media during a lull, a dull period, and provoked a wave of summer madness (in the northern hemisphere—below the equator it was winter madness; ah, well) that swept the public. Overnight his churches had sprung up everywhere, he was “auditing” people by the millions, and was boasting he’d licked “the deros” for the first time in five hundred—or was it a thousand?—years. Like all fads that gain momentum so quickly, it had played out equally quickly and lapsed into obscurity within its second year. I understand Schobell retired on the fortune he made, but a few dedicated cells of his followers still persist.
One such man was at the party I’d taken Dian to, and she recalled him without further prompting. “Oh, you mean that strange, intense way of speaking he had? So sincere, and always looking you in the eyes, and like that? Don’t tell me it’s spread to Farhome!”
“Not likely,” I said. “And Bjonn hasn’t the, oh, call it the studied artificiality, of an Archivist. He’s, well, genuine. It’s not something he’s learned—it’s something he is.” And as I spoke the words, I felt a nagging idea in the back of my mind. But I couldn’t reach it.
Dian let my silence lengthen and then said, “How strange. But perhaps they have some similar religion on Farhome. After all, things were very different here before, they left.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head, but replying more to myself than Dian, “that’s not it. It’s in there, worrying its way around the back of my brain, but I can’t touch it yet.”
“It will come to you,” she said confidently. “When it’s ready.”
I glanced at her in surprise; it was an unusually perceptive remark. “There’s something else,” I said. “Something I didn’t-tell you yet.”
“What?”
“He asked me to eat with him.” I felt an icy fist clamp over my intestines as I said it, and I rose and went to the window to stare out of it.
She said nothing for a moment. I watched the safety-pane vibrate from the winds outside. Far below the incongruously white sails of a racing yacht darted over the water. Then:
“He must be ignorant of civilized customs.”
“I thought so at first, myself. But then, after I. left, I started to wonder. What about the time he spent aboard the Longhaul II?”
“Fifteen years…” she breathed.
“More like five months, for him,” I said, “but still time enough. No, I think he knew our customs well enough. I think he faked ignorance in order to gain an acceptable excuse for his blunder.”
“But—why? If he knew—?”
I turned around. Dian dropped her eyes momentarily to her lap, then looked up again, her eyes meeting mine. It was disconcerting. Her face seemed a little flushed.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s what I can’t figure out. He really wanted me to—to eat with him.” This
time we both blushed.
Properly speaking, I should not have been in my office. I should have been with Bjonn, filling his head with wondrous tales of our marvelous land and civilization, all the while covertly noting and filing his behavior and reactions. But I had a relatively free rein with the assignment. If I chose to leave him on his own, it was my own decision to make. After all, we controlled his suite; he could do little there which was not monitored, and if he left he would be discreetly watched.
Nonetheless, when the buzzer sounded on my infomat I was not surprised. Dian stood up quickly and said, “I’ll check with you later,” and then was gone. I gave her a goodbye nod and punched for audio-visual.
It was Tucker. He’s my boss. His office is in Old Town Chicago, in Great Lakes City, but scuttlebutt travels fast, and by now he’d probably heard from a half dozen sources that I was in my office.
Tucker is the Old Man to me. He can’t be much more than twenty years older than I am, but he has one of those midwestern faces that’s etched with weathered lines: laugh lines, worry lines, and all the rest. His face is a contour map. And since he is a practicing antiquarian, he affects steel-rimmed glasses. Naturally, he has a drawl.
“Okay, son. Want to tell me about it?” were his first words of greeting.
“Not particularly,” I said. “Since when do you need progress reports?”
“Something has your wind up,” he said. As I said, he cultivates Quaint Sayings.
“Ayup,” I said, giving him one of his own. “But I’ll handle it.”
“I hope so,” he said. “I suppose you know your boy is out on the streets?”
“No,” I said, feeling a shock of alarm. “I thought he’d stay put. After all, he just came down from the Moon.”
“Better think it through again, son.”
