Clark is, however, a very satisfactory person to fume with, because, if he isn’t busy, he is always willing to help a person hate anything that needs hating; he can even dig up reasons why a situation is even more vilely unfair than you thought it was. But he was busy, so that left Uncle Tom. So I explained to him bitterly how outrageous I thought it was that we should be penned up like animals—free Mars citizens on one of Mars’ own moons!—simply because a sign read: Passengers must wait until called—by order of Three-Planets Treaty Authority.
“Politics!” I said bitterly. “I could run it better myself.”
“I’m sure you could,” he agreed gravely, “but, Flicka, you don’t understand.”
“I understand all too well!”
“No, honey bun. You understand that there is no good reason why you should not walk straight through that door and enjoy yourself by shopping until it is time to go inboard the Tricorn. And you are right about that, for there is no need at all for you to be locked up in here when you could be out there making some freeport shopkeeper happy by paying him a high price which seems to you a low price. So you say ‘Politics!’ as if it were a nasty word—and you think that settles it.”
He sighed. “But you don’t understand. Politics is not evil; politics is the human race’s most magnificent achievement. When politics is good, it’s wonderful . . . and when politics is bad—well, it’s still pretty good.”
“I guess I don’t understand,” I said slowly.
“Think about it. Politics is just a name for the way we get things done . . . without fighting. We dicker and compromise and everybody thinks he has received a raw deal, but somehow after a tedious amount of talk we come up with some jury-rigged way to do it without getting anybody’s head bashed in. That’s politics. The only other way to settle a dispute is by bashing a few heads in . . . and that is what happens when one or both sides is no longer willing to dicker. That’s why I say politics is good even when it is bad . . . because the only alternative is force—and somebody gets hurt.”
“Uh . . . it seems to me that’s a funny way for a revolutionary veteran to talk. From what I’ve heard, Uncle Tom, you were one of the bloodthirsty ones who started the shooting. Or so Daddy says.”
He grinned. “Mostly I ducked. If dickering won’t work, then you have to fight. But I think maybe it takes a man who has been shot at to appreciate how much better it is to fumble your way through a political compromise rather than have the top of your head blown off.” He frowned and suddenly looked very old. “When to talk and when to fight—That is the most difficult decision to make wisely of all the decisions in life.” Then suddenly he smiled and the years dropped away. “Mankind didn’t invent fighting; it was here long before we were. But we invented politics. Just think of it, hon—Homo sapiens is the most cruel, the most vicious, the most predatory, and certainly the most deadly of all the animals in this solar system. Yet he invented politics! He figured out a way to let most of us, most of the time, get along well enough so that we usually don’t kill each other. So don’t let me hear you using ‘politics’ as a swear word again.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Tom,” I said humbly.
“Like fun you are. But if you let that idea soak for twenty or thirty years, you may—Oh, oh! There’s your villain, baby girl—the politically appointed bureaucrat who has most unjustly held you in durance vile. So scratch his eyes out. Show him how little you think of his silly rules.”
I answered this with dignified silence. It is hard to tell when Uncle Tom is serious because he loves to pull my leg, always hoping that it will come off in his hand. The Three-Planets proctor of whom he was speaking had opened the door to our bullpen and was looking around exactly like a zookeeper inspecting a cage for cleanliness. “Passports!” he called out. “Diplomatic passports first.” He looked us over, spotted Uncle Tom. “Senator?”
Uncle Tom shook his head. “I’m a tourist, thanks.”
“As you say, sir. Line up, please—reverse alphabetical order”—which put us near the tail of the line instead of near the head. There followed maddening delays for fully two hours—passports, health clearance, outgoing baggage inspection—Mars Republic does not levy duties on exports but just the same there is a whole long list of things you can’t export without a license, such as ancient Martian artifacts (the first explorers did their best to gut the place and some of the most priceless are in the British Museum or the Kremlin; I’ve heard Daddy fume about it), some things you can’t export under any circumstances, such as certain narcotics, and some things you can take aboard ship only by surrendering them for safekeeping by the purser, such as guns and other weapons.
Clark picked outgoing inspection for some typical abnormal behavior. They had passed down the line copies of a long list of things we must not have in our baggage—a fascinating list; I hadn’t known that there were so many things either illegal, immoral, or deadly. When the Fries contingent wearily reached the inspection counter, the inspector said, all in one word: “ ’Nything-t’-d’clare?” He was a Marsman, and as he looked up he recognized Uncle Tom. “Oh. Howdy, Senator. Honored to have you with us. Well, I guess we needn’t waste time on your baggage. These two young people with you?”
“Better search my kit,” Uncle Tom advised. “I’m smuggling guns to an out-planet branch of the Legion. As for the kids, they’re my niece and nephew. But I don’t vouch for them; they’re both subversive characters. Especially the girl. She was soap-boxing revolution just now while we waited.”
The inspector smiled and said, “I guess we can allow you a few guns, Senator—you know how to use them. Well, how about it, kids? Anything to declare?”
I said, “Nothing to declare,” with icy dignity—when suddenly Clark spoke up.
“Sure!” he piped, his voice cracking. “Two kilos of happy dust! And whose business is it? I paid for it. I’m not going to let it be stolen by a bunch of clerks.” His voice was surly as only he can manage and the expression on his face simply ached for a slap.
That did it. The inspector had been just about to glance into one of my bags, a purely formal inspection, I think—when my brattish brother deliberately stirred things up. At the very word “happy dust” four other inspectors closed in. Two were Venusmen, to judge by their accents, and the other two might have been from Earth.
Of course, happy dust doesn’t matter to us Marsmen. The Martians use it, have always used it, and it is about as important to them as tobacco is to humans, but apparently without any ill effects. What they get out of it I don’t know. Some of the old sand rats among us have picked up the habit from the Martians—but my entire botany class experimented with it under our teacher’s supervision and nobody got any thrill out of it, and all I got was blocked sinuses that wore off before the day was out. Strictly zero squared.
But with the native Venerians it is another matter—when they can get it. It turns them into murderous maniacs and they’ll do anything to get it. The (black market) price on it there is very high indeed . . . and possession of it by a human on Venus is at least an automatic life sentence to Saturn’s moons.
They buzzed around Clark like angry jetta wasps.
But they did not find what they were looking for. Shortly Uncle Tom spoke up and said, “Inspector? May I make a suggestion?”
“Eh? Certainly, Senator.”
“My nephew, I am sorry to say, has caused a disturbance. Why don’t you put him aside—chain him up, I would—and let all these other good people go through?”
The inspector blinked. “I think that is an excellent idea.”
“And I would appreciate it if you would inspect myself and my niece now. Then we won’t hold up the others.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.” The inspector slapped seals on all of Uncle’s bags, closed the one of mine he had started to open, and said, “I don’t need to paw through the young lady’s pretties. But I think we’ll take this smart boy and search him to the skin and X-ray him.”
“Do that.”
So Uncle and I went on and checked at four or five other desks—fiscal control and migration and reservations and other nonsense—and finally wound up with our baggage at the centrifuge for weighing in. I never did get a chance to shop.
To my chagrin, when I stepped off the merry-go-round the record showed that my baggage and myself were nearly three kilos over my allowance, which didn’t seem possible. I hadn’t eaten more breakfast than usual—less actually—and I hadn’t drunk any water because, while I do not become ill in free fall, drinking in free fall is very tricky; you are likely to get water up your nose or something and set off an embarrassing chain reaction.
So I was about to protest bitterly that the weightmaster had spun the centrifuge too fast and produced a false mass reading. But it occurred to me that I did not know for surely certain that the scales Mother and I had used were perfectly accurate. So I kept quiet.
Uncle Tom just reached for his purse and said, “How much?”
The weightmaster said, “Mmm . . . let’s spin you first, Senator.”
Uncle Tom was almost two kilos under his allowance. The weightmaster shrugged and said, “Forget it, Senator. I’m minus on a couple of other things; I think I can swallow it. If not, I’ll leave a memo with the purser. But I’m fairly sure I can.”
“Thank you. What did you say your name was?”
“Milo. Miles M. Milo—Aasvogel Lodge number seventy-four. Maybe you saw our crack drill team at the Legion convention two years ago—I was left pivot.”
“I certainly did, I certainly did!” They exchanged that secret grip that they think other people don’t know and Uncle Tom said, “Well, thanks, Miles. Be seeing you.”
“Not at all—Tom. No, don’t bother with your baggage.” Mr. Milo touched a button and called out, “In the Tricorn! Get somebody out here fast for the Senator’s baggage.”
It occurred to me, as we stopped at the passenger tube sealed to the transfer station to swap our suction sandals for little magnet pads that clipped to our shoes, that we need not have waited for anything at anytime—if only Uncle Tom had been willing to use the special favors he so plainly could demand.
But, even so, it pays to travel with an important person—even though it’s just your Uncle Tom whose stomach you used to jump up and down on when you were small enough for such things. Our tickets simply read FIRST CLASS—I’m sure, for I saw all three of them—but where we were placed was in what they call the “Owner’s Cabin.” which is actually a suite with three bedrooms and a living room. I was dazzled!
But I didn’t have time to admire it just then. First they strapped our baggage down, then they strapped us down—to seat couches which were against one wall of the living room. That wall plainly should have been the floor, but it slanted up almost vertically with respect to the tiny, not-quite-nothing weight that we had. The warning sirens were already sounding when someone dragged Clark in and strapped him to one of the couches. He was looking mussed up but cocky.
“Hi, smuggler,” Uncle Tom greeted him amiably. “They find it on you?”
“Nothing to find.”
“That’s what I thought. I trust they gave you a rough time.”
“Naah!”
I wasn’t sure I believed Clark’s answer; I’ve heard that a skin and person search can be made quite annoying indeed, without doing anything the least bit illegal, if the proctors are feeling unfriendly. A “rough time” would be good for Clark’s soul, I am sure—but he certainly did not act as if the experience had caused him any discomfort. I said, “Clark, that was a very foolish remark you made to the inspector. And it was a lie, as well—a silly, useless lie.”
“Sign off,” he said curtly. “If I’m smuggling anything, it’s up to them to find it; that’s what they’re paid for. ‘Any-thing-t’-d’clare?’ ” he added in a mimicking voice. “What nonsense! As if anybody would declare something he was trying to smuggle.”
“Just the same,” I went on, “if Daddy had heard you say—”
“Podkayne.”
“Yes, Uncle Tom?”
“Table it. We’re about to start. Let’s enjoy it.”
“But—Yes, Uncle.”
There was a slight drop in pressure, then a sudden surge that would have slid us out of our couches if we had not been strapped—but not a strong one, not at all like that giant whoosh! with which we had left the surface. It did not last long, then we were truly in free fall for a few moments . . . then there started a soft, gentle push in the same direction, which kept up.
Then the room started very slowly to turn around . . . almost unnoticeable except for a slight dizziness it gave one.
Gradually, gradually (it took almost twenty minutes) our weight increased, until at last we were back to our proper weight . . . at which time the floor, which had been all wrong when we came in, was where it belonged, under us, and almost level. But not quite—
Here is what had happened. The first short boost was made by the rocket tugs of Deimos Port picking up the Tricorn and hurling her out into a free orbit of her own. This doesn’t take much, because the attraction between even a big ship like the Tricorn and a tiny, tiny satellite such as Deimos isn’t enough to matter; all that matters is getting the very considerable mass of the ship shoved free.
The second gentle shove, the one that kept up and never went away, was the ship’s own main drive—one-tenth of a standard gee. The Tricorn is a constant-boost ship; she doesn’t dillydally around with economical orbits and weeks and months in free fall. She goes very fast indeed . . . because even 0.1 gee adds up awfully fast.
But one-tenth gee is not enough to make comfortable passengers who have been used to more. As soon as the Captain had set her on her course, he started to spin her and kept it up until the centrifugal force and the boost added up (in vector addition, of course) to exactly the surface gravitation of Mars (or 37 percent of a standard gee) at the locus of the first-class staterooms.
But the floors will not be quite level until we approach Earth, because the inside of the ship had been constructed so that the floors would feel perfectly level when the spin and the boost added up to exactly one standard gravity—or Earth-Normal.
Maybe this isn’t too clear. Well, it wasn’t too clear to me, in school; I didn’t see exactly how it worked out until (later) I had a chance to see the controls used to put spin on the ship and how the centrifugal force was calculated. Just remember that the Tricorn—and her sisters, the Trice and the Triad and the Tri angulum and the Tricolor are enormous cylinders. The thrust is straight along the main axis; it has to be. Centrifugal force pushes away from the main axis—how else? The two forces add up to make the ship’s “artificial gravity” in passenger country—but, since one force (the boost) is kept constant and the other (the spin) can be varied, there can be only one rate of spin which will add in with the boost to make those floors perfectly level.
For the Tricorn the spin that will produce level floors and exactly one Earth gravity in passenger country is 5.42 revolutions per minute—I know because the Captain told me so . . . and I checked his arithmetic and he was right. The floor of our cabin is just over thirty meters from the main axis of the ship, so it all comes out even.
As soon as they had the floor back under us and had announced the “all clear” I unstrapped me and hurried out. I wanted a quick look at the ship; I didn’t even wait to unpack.
There’s a fortune awaiting the man who invents a really good deodorizer for a spaceship. That’s the one thing you can’t fail to notice.
Oh, they try, I grant them that. The air goes through precipitators each time it is cycled; it is washed, it is perfumed, a precise fraction of ozone is added, and the new oxygen that is put in after the carbon dioxide is distilled out is as pure as a baby’s mind; it has to be, for it is newly released as a byproduct of the photosynthesis of living plants. That air is so pure that it really ought to be voted a medal by the Society for the Suppression of Evil Thoughts.
But nevertheless, even a new, extra-fare luxury liner like the Tricorn simply reeks of human sweat and ancient sin, with undefinable overtones of organic decay and unfortunate accidents and matters best forgotten. Once I was with Daddy when a Martian tomb was being unsealed—and I found out why xenoarchaeologists always have gas masks handy. But a spaceship smells even worse than that tomb.
It does no good to complain to the purser. He’ll listen with professional sympathy and send a crewman around to spray your stateroom with something which (I suspect) merely deadens your nose for a while. But his sympathy is not real, because the poor man simply cannot smell anything wrong himself. He has lived in ships for years; it is literally impossible for him to smell the unmistakable reek of a ship that has been lived in—and, besides, he knows that the air is pure; the ship’s instruments show it. None of the professional spacers can smell it.
But the purser and all of them are quite used to having passengers complain about the “unbearable stench”—so they pretend sympathy and go through the motions of correcting the matter.
Not that I complained. I was looking forward to having this ship eating out of my hand, and you don’t accomplish that sort of coup by becoming known first thing as a complainer. But other first-timers did, and I certainly understood why—in fact I began to have a glimmer of a doubt about my ambitions to become skipper of an explorer ship.
But—Well, in about two days it seemed to me that they had managed to clean up the ship quite a bit, and shortly thereafter I stopped thinking about it. I began to understand why the ship’s crew can’t smell the things the passengers complain about. Their nervous systems simply cancel out the old familiar stinks—like a cybernetic skywatch canceling out and ignoring any object whose predicted orbit has previously been programmed into the machine.
Podkayne of Mars Page 4
