* * * *
Someone was shaking Greg, trying to dislodge his consciousness from the black, cramped niche into which it was wedged. The hand at his shoulder gripped hard, shook roughly, and a voice was bellowing into Greg’s ears. Greg moved a hand, experimentally. Instantly he was jerked upright.
“Time to get to work,” the voice rumbled loudly. “Let’s get this show on the road. My name’s Moore. What’s yours?”
Greg poked with stiff fingers at his eyes. Light blinded him. He was in a small room that might have been an overgrown closet. He sat on the lower half of a two-tier bunk. There was a webbing of ropes at the other side, and a couple of small lockers around the other sides. The hand that had been shaking him belonged to a giant blond fellow who might have been in his forties.
“Feel better?” The blond giant steadied Greg in a sitting position.
“What’s this all about?” Greg felt for the lump on his head.
“Well, they haven’t told me about you,” the fellow grinned, “but I can guess. When someone starts to ask about a berth on a freighter, they figure that he’s either a potential crew member or a spy. Either way, they figure they’d better take him aboard. I got took just the same way, ten years ago. I’m not sorry now. It’s a pretty good life.”
“Look, I’ve got some money.” Greg struggled to his feet. “Who can I see to get out of here?”
“Too late,” Moore said. “We’ve blasted off. You’ve been out cold for two days. Don’t you feel the ship?”
Greg sat down again, and suddenly he felt better. After all wasn’t he on his way to Mars, where he had wanted to go all along? He could worry about smuggling himself onto the planet later, when they started to toss out the cargo.…
Moore introduced him to his duties in the hours that followed, and later joined him in their tiny cabin.
“You’ll have to take the upper bunk as soon as you feel better,” Moore warned. “I got seniority, you know.”
“Maybe I won’t be around long. How do you go about skipping ship at delivery point?”
“It can be done if you’ve got the money,” Moore said. “They run these boats to make money and they aren’t particular about where the money comes from. They never are sure what sort of a price they can get for the refrigeration equipment and dehumidifiers and stuff.”
“Refrigeration—dehumidifiers?” Greg stared at Moore. “Are they crazy? Mars is the last place in the world to dispose of stuff like that!”
“Mars? Who said anything about Mars, bud?” Moore looked at him curiously. “They need that stuff on Venus, because it gets hot and damp there in the summer time. We’re going to Venus, my friend!”
The words stunned Greg’s mind. “But my wife and kids were sent to Mars, and if I’m heading for Venus it’ll be too late—”
“But you ought to have known that these birds only go to Venus—” Moore began. Greg didn’t give him a chance to finish, rising abruptly and running from the cabin.
All the fear, worry and despair that he had felt since Dora’s check day transmuted magically into an alloy of anger and hatred against any authority.
He searched for the officers’ quarters, his feet stamping loudly against the metal flooring, the noise thrusting new aches into his head, the aches in his head increasing his fury.
Hopelessly lost after a moment, he opened one door and caught a glimpse of inferno and the insulation-clad men who tended the propulsion units. Twice he blundered into the space between the outer and inner hulls on the wrong side of the ship. One panel in the wall that looked like a door proved to be the lid for a viewer that gave a fantastically beautiful image of the stars and planets outside the ship. He had wandered into a storeroom when a voice came from behind him:
“Getting thirsty again?”
“Where’s the captain?” Greg yelled back. The man who had called to him straightened from behind a row of boxes.
“Last time I saw you, you were more interested in drinks than in the captain.”
* * * *
Greg looked hard at muscular fingers, and the ghost image of a bar back on Earth materialized for an instant in the stockroom around the man. It was the doctor who had given him instructions on how to find the freighter recruiting office!
“So you’re the one who had me shanghaied to Venus!” Greg sprang at the man, fists flying.
The doctor ducked. Greg sprawled clumsily at the opposite wall, thrown off balance by the slighter gravity maintained in the ship. He started to rise, then dropped to his knees as knife-like pain shot through his ankle. The doctor stood over him with that strange half-smile.
“You shouldn’t be angry. You wanted transportation, didn’t you?” He kneeled to look at Greg’s ankle and the pain conquered Greg’s impulse to smash a fist into his face.
“Exactly what I wanted,” Greg answered bitterly. “Of course I wanted to get shanghaied on a freight headed for Venus while my family’s on Mars!”
“I think it’s just a sprain, not a break,” the doctor said, running a finger over the swelling ankle. “But we’d better take a picture. Come on.” He hoisted Greg to a standing position with unexpected strength, and walked him out of the storeroom to his cabin. Medical equipment lined the room.
“Did it ever occur to you that someday you’re going to get the lawbooks thrown at you?” Greg asked, quietly but with hatred. “They stopped tolerating this sort of thing centuries ago.”
The doctor laughed. “Fine talk from a man who tried to smuggle himself on Mars.”
“You don’t have any proof. I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Coleridge. You can put doctor in front of it, too. I really did study and get a diploma. Then I decided I could have more fun out in space than in some stuffy office back on Earth. Maybe you’d enjoy this sort of life, too, if you haven’t congealed completely.” He sat Greg before a small X-ray machine.
“I’ve always wanted to spend the rest of my life fighting dinosaurs on Venus while my family is on Mars and my career is on Earth.” Greg said acidly.
“You know very well there aren’t any dinosaurs on Venus,” Coleridge replied mildly. “It’s practically perfect as a planet, with a few gadgets to keep things dry and cool.” He looked straight at Greg. “You know it’s the most desirable planet in the system but they’ve discouraged emigration because they need the spaceships to handle the cancer colonies on Mars. It’s only tramp freighters like this that can get away with trips to Venus.” He pulled the film from its fixing bath and squinted at it. “Not a sign of a fracture.”
* * * *
Greg began to wonder what Coleridge was leading up to. Everything he said appeared to be a case of diverting attention from Greg’s problem by talking about Venus’ merits. He decided to play along until he found out.
“You think I could find something to keep myself occupied on Venus?”
“Sure, they need smart men, and you can tell the employment agencies that your wife and kids are on the way.”
Greg stared at him, feeling the torment return.
Coleridge grinned. “Haven’t you ever put two and two together about the population figures?”
“You mean there’s a chance for my family to get from Mars to Venus?”
“Look. You remember that they started to send people from Earth to Mars a century ago, because the population had overgrown Earth. Emigration has gone on all that time, millions of people have been sent to Mars, and once they get there they have children and raise families just as they would do on Earth. Now, if you weren’t a lawyer, always splitting hairs and quibbling, you’d have guessed long ago what other intelligent people sooner or later realize. Mars is smaller than Earth, only part of it is warm enough for Earthmen—so Mars got overpopulated, too, a few years back.
“Remember what I told you in the bar about metastasis? I thought you’d catch on then, when I tried to draw an analogy about migrating cancer cells and migrating people.
“They’ve been afraid
to tell people on Earth the real situation, because Venus has been held up for so long as the second Eden where we’ll all live as soon as the cancer problem is licked. But actually, they’ve had to ship new arrivals on Mars off to Venus in recent years, because there’s no more room on Mars. I suppose they’ll break the news to Earth some of these days, formally. If you were closer to the grapevine, you probably would have heard the rumor long ago.”
Greg sat there gaping at Coleridge. Finally he asked, in humbled tones: “If Venus is such a paradise, how come you don’t drop off there and stay there yourself?”
“Well,” the doctor said, beginning to put away his equipment, “I’ve been thinking of it, but I wanted to save up some money first, and this seemed to be about the best way to do it. It’s a little more humane than the way some doctors do, implanting cancer conditions into people who have to undergo operations to get themselves deported. Of course, it’s a little more uncertain.
“For instance,” he said, eyeing Greg sharply, “now that you have that bum ankle, I could probably tell the captain that you’ll be no good as a crew member, and I could have you dumped overboard when we begin to circle Venus. That way you wouldn’t have done a thing illegal and you’d have a clean slate to meet your family a few days later.”
Greg rubbed the lump on his head, gingerly flexed his sore ankle, remembered the emotions of the past three or four days, and then reached for his check book.
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” Greg smiled. “Got a pen?”
EGOCENTRIC ORBIT, by John Cory
Near the end of his fifteenth orbit, as Greenland slipped by noiselessly below, he made the routine measurements that tested the operation of his space capsule and checked the automatic instruments which would transmit their stored data to Earth on his next pass over Control. Everything normal; all mechanical devices were operating perfectly.
This information didn’t surprise him, in fact, he really didn’t even think about it. The previous orbits and the long simulated flights on Earth during training had made such checks routine and perfect results expected. The capsules were developed by exhaustive testing both on the ground and as empty satellites before entrusting them to carry animals and then the first human.
He returned to contemplation of the panorama passing below and above, although as he noted idly, above and below had lost some of their usual meaning. Since his capsule, like all heavenly bodies, was stable in position with respect to the entire universe and, thanks to Sir Isaac Newton and his laws, never changed, the Earth and the stars alternated over his head during each orbit. “Up” now meant whatever was in the direction of his head. He remembered that even during his initial orbit when the Earth first appeared overhead he accepted the fact as normal. He wondered if the other two had accepted it as easily.
For there had been two men hurled into orbit before he ventured into space. Two others who had also passed the rigorous three-year training period and were selected on the basis of over-all performance to precede him. He had known them both well and wondered again what had happened on their flights. Of course, they had both returned, depending upon what your definition of return was. The capsules in which they had ventured beyond Earth had returned them living. But this was to be expected, for even the considerable hazards of descent through the atmosphere and the terrible heating which occurred were successfully surmounted by the capsule.
Naturally, it had not been expected that the satellites would have to be brought down by command from the ground. But this, too, was part of the careful planning—radio control of the retro-rockets that move the satellite out of orbit by reducing its velocity. Of course, ground control was to be used only if the astronaut failed to ignite the retro-rockets himself. He remembered everyone’s surprise and relief when the first capsule was recovered and its occupant found to be alive. They had assumed that in spite of all precautions he was dead because he had not fired the rockets on the fiftieth orbit and it was necessary to bring him down on the sixty-fifth.
Recovery alive only partially solved the mystery, for the rescuers and all others were met by a haughty, stony silence from the occupant. Batteries of tests confirmed an early diagnosis: complete and utter withdrawal; absolute refusal to communicate. Therapy was unsuccessful.
* * * *
The second attempt was similar in most respects, except that command return was made on the thirty-first orbit after the astronaut’s failure to de-orbit at the end of the thirtieth. His incoherent babble of moons, stars, and worlds was no more helpful than the first.
Test after test confirmed that no obvious organic damage had been incurred by exposure outside of the Earth’s protective atmosphere. Biopsy of even selected brain tissues seemed to show that microscopic cellular changes due to prolonged weightlessness or primary cosmic-ray bombardment, which had been suggested by some authorities, were unimportant. Somewhat reluctantly, it was decided to repeat the experiment a third time.
The launching was uneventful. He was sent into space with the precision he expected. The experience was exhilarating and, although he had anticipated each event in advance, he could not possibly have foreseen the overpowering feeling that came over him. Weightlessness he had experienced for brief periods during training, but nothing could match the heady impression of continuous freedom from gravity.
Earth passing overhead was also to be expected from the simple laws of celestial mechanics but his feeling as he watched it now was inexpressible. It occurred to him that perhaps this was indeed why he was here, because he could appreciate such experiences best. He had been told the stars would be bright, unblinking, and an infinitude in extent, but could mere descriptions or photographs convey the true seeing?
On his twenty-first orbit he completed his overseeing the entire surface of the planet in daylight. He had seen more of Earth than anyone able to tell about it, but only he had the true feeling of it. The continents were clearly visible, as were the oceans and both polar ice caps. The shapes were familiar but in only a remote way. A vague indistinctness borne of distance served to modify the outlines and he alone was seeing and understanding. On the dark side of the planet large cities were marked by indistinct light areas which paled to insignificance compared to the stars and his sun.
He speculated about the others who had only briefly experienced these sights. Undoubtedly they weren’t as capable of fully grasping or appreciating any of these things as he was. It was quite clear that no one else but he could encompass the towering feeling of power and importance generated by being alone in the Universe.
At the end of the twenty-fifth orbit he disabled the radio control of the retro-rockets and sat back with satisfaction to await the next circuit of his Earth around Him.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
FORREST J ACKERMAN (1916 – 2008) was the world’s most famous collector of science fiction books and movie memorabilia, editor of Famous Monsters of Filmland and other books and magazines, and for over seven decades one of science fiction’s staunchest spokesmen and promoters. He wrote a small number of science fiction short stories.
* * * *
NEAL ASHER lives sometimes in England, sometimes in Crete and mostly at a keyboard. He climbed the writing ladder up through the small presses, publishing short stories, novellas and collections over many years, until finally having his first major book, Gridlinked, published in 2000 by Macmillan, who have since published sixteen of his books and whose schedule is now two years behind him. These books have been translated into 12 languages and some have appeared in America from Tor. 2013 marks a return to his other US publisher, Night Shade Books, who produced Prador Moon and Shadow of the Scorpion and will be bringing out his Owner trilogy—The Departure, Zero Point & Jupiter War, respectively in February, May & September. For more information check out:
http://freespace.virgin.net/n.asher/
http://theskinner.blogspot.com/
* * * *
REGINALD BRETNOR (born Alfred Reginald Kahn; 1911 – 199
2) was a science fiction author who flourished between the 1950s and 1980s. Most of his fiction was in short story form, and usually featured a whimsical story line or ironic plot twist. He also wrote on military theory and public affairs, and edited some of the earliest books to consider SF from a literary theory and criticism perspective.
* * * *
HANNES BOK, pseudonym for Wayne Francis Woodard (July 2, 1914 – April 11, 1964), was an American artist and illustrator, as well as an amateur astrologer and writer of fantasy fiction and poetry. He painted nearly 150 covers for various science fiction, fantasy, and detective fiction magazines, as well as contributing hundreds of black and white interior illustrations. Bok’s work graced the pages of calendars and early fanzines, as well as dust jackets from specialty book publishers like Arkham House, Shasta, and Fantasy Press. His paintings achieved a luminous quality through the use of an arduous glazing process, which was learned from his mentor, Maxfield Parrish. Bok was the first artist to win a Hugo Award.
* * * *
RAY BRADBURY (1920 – 2012) was an American fantasy, science fiction, horror and mystery fiction writer. Best known for his dystopian novel Fahrenheit 451 (1953) and for the science fiction and horror stories gathered together as The Martian Chronicles (1950) and The Illustrated Man (1951), Bradbury was one of the most celebrated 20th-century American writers. Many of Bradbury’s works have been adapted into comic books, television shows and films.
* * * *
ADAM-TROY CASTRO is a science fiction, fantasy, and horror writer living in Miami, FL. He has more than ninety stories to his credit and has been nominated for numerous awards, including the Hugo, Nebula, and Stoker. These stories include four Spider-Man novels, including the Sinister Six trilogy, and stories involving characters of Andrea Cort, Ernst Vossoff, and Karl Nimmitz. Castro is also known for his Gustav Gloom series of middle-school novels and has also authored a reference book on The Amazing Race.
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