'Self-defence,' said Ryan. 'Self-defence isn't murder. All right, Fred—Henry—you go and help everybody get off this bloody plane.'
The woman said: 'He was no more Irish than I am. Anyway, what does it matter?"
'No wonder your people are losing,' Ryan answered contemptuously.
When everyone was off the ship Ryan shot the crew. It was the only safe thing to do. While they were alive there was a chance that they would seize control of the Albion and do something foolish.
Tishchenko was a harried-looking man of about fifty. He gravely shook hands with Ryan and then guided him by the elbow across the barren concrete towards the control buildings. The wind was cold and moaned. Beyond the launching site, the plain stretched in all directions, featureless and green-grey. Ryan's people trudged behind them.
Tishchenko was the man whom Ryan had contacted originally.
The contact had been made through Allard who had been one of the people vainly trying to keep the U. N. together in the last days.
Allard, an old school-friend of Ryan's, had been sent to a Patriot camp not long after he had put Ryan in touch with Tishchenko.
'It is a great pleasure,' said Tishchenko as they entered the building that had been converted to living quarters. It was cold and gloomy. 'And something of an achievement that, in the midst of all this insane xenophobia, a little international group of sane men and women can work together on a project as important as this one.'
He smiled. 'And it's good to be able to look at a woman again, I can tell you.'
Ryan was tired. He nodded, rubbing his eyes. One of the reasons the Russian group had been so eager to deal with his group was because of the number of women he could bring with him.
'You are weary?' Tishchenko said. 'Come.'
He led them up two flights of stairs and showed them their accommodation. Camp beds had been lined around the walls of three rooms. 'It is about the best we can provide,' Tishchenko apologised. 'Amenities are few. Every thing had to go to the ship.'
He went to the window and drew back the blankets that covered it.
There she is.'
They gathered around the window and looked at the spacecraft.
She towered into the sky.
'She has been ready to fly for two years.' Tishchenko shook his head. 'It has taken two years to provision her. The civil war here, and then the Chinese invasion, is what protected us. We were all but forgotten about...'
'Who else is here now?' Ryan asked. 'Just Russians?'
Tishchenko smiled. 'Just two Russians—myself and Lipche. A couple of Americans, a Chinese, two Italians, three Germans, a Frenchman. That's it.'
Ryan drew a deep breath. He felt odd. The shock of the killings, he supposed.
'I'll be back in a few minutes to take you down to dinner,'
Tishchenko told him.
Ryan looked up.'What?'
'Dinner. We all eat together on the floor below.'
'Oh, I see...'
'I couldn't,' said Josephine Ryan. 'I really couldn't...'
'We're not used to it, you see,' said James Henry. 'Our customs —well...'
Tishchenko looked puzzled and very slightly perturbed. 'Well, if you'd like to arrange to bring the food up here, I suppose we can do that... Then perhaps we can meet after meals. You have been in the thick of things, of course. We have been isolated. We haven't really experienced...'
'Yes,' said Ryan, 'it has been very nasty. I'm sorry. Some of our social sicknesses have rather rubbed off on us. Give us a day or two to settle. We'll be all right then, I'm sure.'
'Good,' said Tishchenko.
Ryan watched him leave. He sensed a certain antipathy in the Russian's manner. He hoped there would not be trouble with him.
Russians could not always be trusted. For one moment he wondered if they had been led into a complicated trap. Could this team of scientists just be after the women? Would they dispense with the men now that they had served their purpose?
Ryan pulled himself together. An irrational idea. He would have to watch himself more carefully. He had had no sleep for two nights. Get some rest now, he told himself, and you'll be your old self in the morning.
*
The thirteen English people and the eleven scientists toured the ship.
'It is all completely automatic,' said Schonberg, one of the Germans. He smiled and patted Alexander on the head. 'A child could run it.'
The English party, rested and more relaxed, were in better spirits. Even James Henry, who had been the most suspicious of all, seemed better.
'And your probes proved conclusively that there are two planets in the system capable of supporting human life,' he said to Boulez, the Frenchman.
The French scientist smiled. 'One of them could be Earth. About the same amount of land and sea, very similar ecology. There was bound to be a planet like it somewhere—we were just lucky to discover one this early.'
Buccella, one of the Italians, was taking a strong interest in pointing out certain features of the ship to Janet Ryan.
Typical Italian, thought Ryan.
He glanced at his brother John who was listening carefully as Shan, the Chinese, tried to explain about the regeneration units.
Shan's English was not very good.
*
Back in their own quarters, Ryan asked his brother: 'Did you notice that Italian, Buccella, and Janet together?'
'What do you mean "together"?' John said with a grin.
Ryan shrugged. 'It's your problem.'
The preparations continued swiftly. News came in of massive nuclear bombardments taking place all over the globe. They took to working night and day, resting when they could no longer keep their eyes open. And at length the ship was ready.
Buccella, Shan and Boulez were going on the ship with the others. The rest were staying behind. Their job was to get the ship off the ground. They were taking over the duties of some fifty technicians.
Lift-off day arrived.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ryan scratches his nose with the tip of his stylus. He writes: One could not afford to be sentimental in those days. Perhaps when we land on the new planet we can relax and indulge all those pleasant human vices. It would be nice to feel at peace again, the way one did as a child.
He shifts in his bunk and looks up.
'Good God, Janet. You're up!'
Janet Ryan smiles down at him. 'We're all up. John thought it wisest.'
'I suppose he knows what he's doing. It's not part of the original plan.'
'John wants to see how it works out. Can I get you anything?'
He grins. 'No thanks, love. I've got my Proditol to keep me cool.
It seems to be working fine. I've been doing some pretty sober thinking since I decided to stay in bed for a bit.'
'John says you'd got pretty obsessive—were following ship routine to the point of your own breakdown...'
'I can see I was half crazy now. I'm very well—very relaxed.'
'You'll soon be in control of things again,' she smiles.
'I certainly will!'
Janet leaves the cabin.
Ryan writes: Janet has just been in to see me. Apparently brother John feels it's best for everybody to be up and about. I expect Josephine and the boys will be along soon. Janet looks as beautiful as ever. You couldn't really blame that Italian chap for going overboard for her.., A sick joke that, I suppose. When I caught him with her in John's own cabin, I felt sick. The man was a complete stinker, playing around like that. He had to be dealt with. His friends had their eyes on the girls, too, that was plain. They were only waiting for a chance to get their hands on them while our backs were turned. I was a fool to trust a pack of foreigners. I know that now.
It became evident that his friends were in on the plot with him, the way they took his part. They threatened the security of the whole mission with their utterly irrational intentions on the girls—and the boys, too, I shouldn't wonder. I suppose it was that they hadn't s
een any women for so long. It went to their heads. They couldn't control themselves. In a way one can sympathise, of course. It showed just what a threat to the safety of the ship they were when they tried to steal my gun. I had to shoot Buccella then and his friends, when they wouldn't stop coming at me. We pushed the corpses through the airlock. Everybody agreed I had done the right thing.
He sighs. It has been hard, keeping control of everything for so long. Making unpleasant decisions...
Strange that Josephine and the boys haven't come in, yet. John is probably staging the wake-up procedure.
He closes the log and puts it and the stylus under his pillow. He leans back, looking forward to seeing his wife and children.
He dozes.
He sleeps.
He dreams.
*
Q: WHO ARE YOU KIDDING?
A: HAD A NOISE TROUBLE
*
He stands in the control room. He is sure he has forgotten something, some crucial operation. He checks the computer, but it is babbling nonsense. Puns and facetious remarks flow from it. He casts around for the source of the trouble, looks for a way to switch off the computer. But it will not switch off. The life of the ship depends on the computer. But it is the ship or Ryan, as Ryan sees it. He starts to batter at the computer with a chair.
******YOURE KILLING ME**********HAHAHAHAHA HA*********************************************** says the computer.
Ryan turns. Through the porthole he sees the dancers again, their faces pressed against the glass.
'You're in league with them,' he tells the computer. 'You're on their side.'
*******! AM ONEVERYONESSIDE***********! AM A**
SCIENTIFIC INSTRUMENT******! AM UTTERLY PRAGMATIC******************************************** says the computer.
'You're laughing at me now,' Ryan says almost pathetically.
'You're taking a rise out of me, aren't you?'
*******MY DUTY IS TO LOOK AFTER YOU ALL AND KEEP YOU SAFE AND SOUND"
"REPEAT SAFE AND SOUND*******************************************
'You cynical bugger.'
He sees a sweet old lady shaking her head, a wry smile on her face. 'Language,' she says. 'Language.'
It is his mother. Her maiden name was Hope Dempsey. He christened the ship after her.
'You tell the computer to stop getting at me, ma!' he begs.
'Naughty thing,' says his mother. 'You leave my little boy alone.'
But the computer continues to mock him.
'You were never a sweet old lady anyway,' says Ryan. She turns into the hag who haunts him and he screams.
*
Josephine stands over him. She is holding an empty ampoule of Proditol. 'You'll feel better in a moment, darling,' she says. 'How are you now?'
'Better already,' he says, smiling in relief. 'You don't know how pleased I am to see you, Jo. Where are the boys?'
'They're not quite awake yet. You know it takes a bit of time.'
She sits on the edge of his bunk. 'They'll be here soon. You should have woken us up earlier, you know. It's too much of a strain for one man—even you.'
'I realise that now,' he says.
She gives the old slightly nervous, slightly tender smile. 'Take it easy,' she says. 'Let the Proditol do its stuff.'
She catches sight of the red log-book sticking from under his pillow. 'What's that, darling?'
'My log-book,' he says. 'A sort of private diary, really.'
'If it's private...'
'I'd rather keep it that way until I've had a look through it.
When I feel better.'
'Of course.'
'It's the only thing that kept me halfway sane,' he explains.
'Of course.'
*
With one hand supporting his head, Ryan lies in his bunk and writes: Alexander and Rupert both look fit and well and everybody seems singularly cheerful. It seems as if we have all benefited from rest and with breaking ties with Earth. We feel free again. I can hear them bustling about in the ship. Laughter. A general mood of easy cooperation. What a change from the early days on the ship, when even Uncle Sidney seemed jealous of my command! Even sullen, suspicious old James Henry has an almost saintly manner I My morbid thoughts melt like snow in springtime. My obsession for Janet has disappeared—part of the same morbid mood, I suppose. James Henry's new attitude surprises me most. If it wasn't for the fact that everybody is in better spirits I'd suspect that he was once again harbouring plans to get rid of me and run the ship himself. It is amazing what a change of environment can do! John was wise to awaken everybody. Plainly, I had become too worried that the tensions would start up again. We're going to make a fine colony on New Earth.
And thank God for Proditol. Those scientists certainly covered every angle. I've decided to put all morbid thoughts of the past out of my mind. I was a different person—perhaps a sick person—when I did what I did. To indulge in self-recrimination now is stupid and benefits nobody.
My breakdown was caused by the chaos that crept over society.
It reflected the breakdown of that society. I could almost date its beginning for me—when our own air force (or, at least, what had been our own air force) dropped napalm and fragmentation bombs on London. My psyche, I suppose, reflected the environment.
But enough of that! I've made up my mind. No more morbid selfexamination. No need for it now, anyway.
The days will pass more quickly now that everybody is up and about and so cheerful. We'll be landing on that planet before we realise it!
He signs the page, closes the book and tucks it under his pillow.
He feels a little weak. Doubtless the effects of the drug. He sleeps and dreams that the ship has landed on the Isle of Skye and everyone is swimming in the sea. He watches them all swim out. James Henry, Janet Ryan, Josephine Ryan, Rupert Ryan, Sidney Ryan, Fred Masterson, Alexander Ryan, Ida and Felicity Henry, Tracy Masterson. Isabel Ryan. They are laughing and shouting. They all swim out into the sea.
*
A week passes.
Ryan spends less time writing in his log book and more time sleeping. He feels confident that John and the others are running the ship well.
One night he is awakened by pangs of hunger and he realises that nobody has thought to bring him any food. He frowns. An image of the Foreigners comes into his mind. He saw a camp only once, but it was enough. They were not being gassed or burned or shot—they were being systematically starved to death. The cheapest way. His stomach rumbles.
He gets up and leaves his cabin. He enters the storeroom and takes a meal pack from a bin. Chewing at the pack, he pads back to his cabin.
He has a slight headache—probably the effects of the Proditol.
They have given him a dose every day for the past ten days or so. It will be time to finish the doses soon.
He sleeps.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ryan makes an entry in his log: I have now been resting for two weeks and the difference is amazing. I have lost weight—I was too heavy anyway—and my brain has cleared. I have had insights into my own behaviour (amazing what a clever rationaliser I am!) and my body is relaxed. I will soon be ready to resume control of the ship.
Josephine enters. She is holding an ampoule of Proditol in her hand.
'Time for your shot, dear,' she smiles.
'Hey! What are you trying to do to me.' He grins at her. 'Fourteen days is the maximum period for that stuff. I don't need it any more.'
Her smile fades. 'One more shot can't do you any harm, dear, can it?'
He swings himself out of the bunk. 'What's up?' be jokes. 'Is there something you don't want me to know about?'
'Of course not!'
Ryan unfolds a suit from the pack in the cupboard. He lays it on the bed. 'I'm going to take a shower,' he says. 'Then I'll go into the control room and see how everyone's getting along without me.'
'You're not well enough yet, dear,' says Josephine, her pink face anxious. 'P
lease stay in bed a bit longer, even if you won't let me give you the Proditol.'
'I'm fine.' Ryan frowns. He feels a return of his old feelings of suspicion. Maybe he should have something more to keep him calm—yet if he has any more Proditol, he exceeds the dose and risks his life. 'I'd like to stay in my bunk all the time,' he smiles.
'Honest, I would. But the suggested dosage period is over, Jo. I've got to get up sometime.'
He leaves the cabin and takes his shower. He comes back in.
Josephine has gone. She has laid out a fresh disposable suit on the bed. He puts it on.
He walks along the passage towards the main control room and be remembers that he has left his diary under his pillow. There is a chance that someone will give in to the temptation to read it. It would be better if no one saw his comments. After all, some of them were pretty insane. Some of it is a bit like a prisoner of the Inquisition, confessing to anything that is suggested to him!
He smiles and returns to his cabin. He picks up the log-book and puts it in his locker, sealing the locker.
He still feels weak. He sits on the edge of the bunk for a moment.
For some time now he has been aware of a sound. Now it impinges on his consciousness. A high-pitched whine. He recognises the noise. An emergency in the control room.
He gets up and runs out of his cabin, down the passage, into the main control room.
The computer is flashing a sign: URGENT ATTENTION REQUIRED URGENT ATTENTION REQUIRED James Henry is at the control. He turns as Ryan enters. "Hello, Ryan. How are you now?'
'I'm fine. What's the emergency?'
'Nothing much. I'm coping with it.'
'What is it, though?'
'A new circuit needed in the heat control unit in the hydroponics section. Cut out the emergency signal would you?'
Ryan automatically does as Henry asks him.
Henry makes a few adjustments to the controls then turns to Ryan with a smile. 'Glad to see you're okay again. I've been managing pretty well to your absence.'
'That's great...' Ryan feels a touch of anger at Henry's slightly patronising tone.
Ryan looks around the control room. Everything else seems to be as he left it at the time of his breakdown. 'Where's everybody else?' he asks.
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