“That’s an insult,” Huff said, frowning. “Do you really think I’d keep that kind of superstitious prejudice? Maybe outside UNEPS, they think the G-Ns aren’t human, but, damn it, I know Ching’s human. I’ve seen her bleed, I’ve seen her cry when she was hurt. Logically, I know the only difference between Ching and the rest of us is that somebody tinkered with her mother’s ovaries about ten months before she was born, and as a result, she has perfect genes for high IQ, musical talent, superior muscular tone, slow heartbeat, efficient hemoglobin use, perfect inner ear channels, and so forth.”
“And yet—” Fontana said.
“And yet. I’m human. I resent the G-Ns. Who wouldn’t? The G-Ns are phasing out the human students in the Academy. In the class below us, there are already twenty G-Ns; humans can’t compete with them. G-N cadets will make us all obsolete some day.”
“Don’t be silly,” Fontana said with some heat. “The G-Ns are just as human as we are. They’re the best of humanity, that’s all. Would you prefer to deny humanity the best, just to preserve some of the worst? Is there any moral Tightness to a person being born tone deaf or with hemophilia or sickle-cell anemia? By that reasoning, you’d think women had some god-given right to have a Mongoloid child, or one with something horrible like Tay-Sachs disease!”
“But they all act so superior! The ones in next year’s class aren’t so bad. But Ching was the first, and she knows it, and I can’t stand that damn superiority of hers!”
Fontana said, “That’s not fair. Put yourself in her place, Huff. She knows she’s different; she is superior. Yet she hasn’t made herself hated. All of us here have IQs somewhere between 150 and 185. Ching’s is so far over 200 that they can’t even measure it, because there’s no one who could make up a test. She’s — careful. Not that anyone here would hate her — anyone who’s capable of real hate gets weeded out of the Academy a lot younger than this. Ching’s not arrogant; she’s diffident, that’s all. She doesn’t want to — to swing her weight. Understand?”
“No,” Huff confessed, “but I don’t expect to. When you decided to specialize in Psychology, you lost me. And,” he added, hugging her suddenly, “I’m going to miss you, Fontana. Listen—” he said shyly, “do you know I don’t even know your name?”
“You never asked,” Fontana said, touching his cheek. “I know yours, because I worked one year with the Rosters. You’re Jurgen Hoffmeister, and I think Huff is a lot better as a name. The names people out there give to their kids!”
“It’s funny,” Huff said softly, “I keep forgetting, but sometimes, when I’m half asleep, I hear my mother saying my name. Jurgen. I called her Mutti or Mutterl. I’m never speak anything but English, here. But when I’m asleep I remember.”
“I know,” Fontana whispered, “I don’t remember my mother. I don’t think I had one. But I remember I had a sister. She was bigger than I was. Her name was Consuelo. I wonder if she’s still alive? I wish sometimes they’d let us know. But she would think of me as Maria, and wonder who Fontana was. She’ll — if I’m chosen or the Ship — she’ll see me and never know that I’m her sister.”
“I think that’s why they give us nicknames,” Huff murmured, “so that every mother, or father, can look at us and wonder, is that my son, or daughter, is that my Jurgen, my Maria? And never be sure, but always think it could be.”
Fontana rolled over and buried her head in his shoulder. She said roughly, “Hey, you’re not so bad a psychologist yourself, at that. Cut it out before I start to cry.”
“Sure,” he agreed, and began fondling her again. But she was crying, and so was he.
Before nightfall, Teague had requested permission to leave the Academy grounds, and had driven his flitter up to the Observatory. The official who gave it had stared at the chunky, freckled lad in sloppy fatigue uniform, but he had signed the permission slip; there was no reason not to. Except for class hours, the students had unrestricted freedom. Teague had explained that his final examinations, and the ceremony earlier that day, had interfered with some photographic studies he had made of a transit of Venus last week, and he wanted to examine them carefully before leaving.
In the Observatory darkroom he worked away happily for many hours, unnoticed, until one of the night watchmen — all of whom knew him, for he spent a substantial part of his time there — asked, “Isn’t it your class that’s graduating tomorrow?”
And then James MacTeague had blinked, grinned, and thought to himself; so that’s why they looked at me so funny when I signed out. Our last night, and all that. It is tomorrow, isn’t it?
But then the buzz on the developer sounded, and he went back to his slides. He didn’t have much time to finish up.
Moira was in the Jacuzzi, neck-deep in hot water, the bubbling jets streaming against her naked body, her red hair streaming on the surface. There were eight or ten other cadets in the Jacuzzi with her, crowded so close that the water spilled out on the fiberglas deck; most of them male, and each convinced that he was the one Moira wanted there.
Not that Moira was a tease; it was only high spirits and good nature. She had done the usual amount of sexual experimentation, but never to the point where it interfered with her standing in her classes — right at the top, just below Ravi, Peake and Ching, who were the intellectual standouts in her year, and had been so since they were nine years old — and she had left no broken hearts in the wake of her good-natured sexiness.
She moved sensuously in the tub, revelling in the feel of the bubbling hot water against her long limbs. Next to her, Scotty said, “Has your ESP told you anything about which of us is going to be on the crew, Moira?”
She chuckled. “No luck there, Scotty. Too bad. I don’t have even a clue; it only kicks in when there’s a real emergency, which is why they could never manage to test it in laboratory conditions. They can’t fake an emergency, because I know — and as long as there’s no real danger, the ESP just sits there, and isn’t the least good to me! It doesn’t even warn me ahead of time if I’m going to break a cello string in the middle of a quartet,“ she added, with a rueful headshake. ”It’s only for real disasters.”
“I’d think a Wild Talent like that would make you a top choice for crew,” Mei Mei, the only other woman in the tub, said, and Moira shook her head.
“Too unreliable. And they think it’s phasing out as I get older, anyhow. More likely they’ll try cloning me, and see if it’s genetic or reproducible.” Moira frowned, remembering the time she had absolutely refused, for no reason she could identify, to go on a piece of play-ground equipment. She had been given a severe lecture on obedience and antisocial behavior by the playground director, who had been killed, five minutes later, when the equipment collapsed under five children, under Moira’s horrified eyes.
Would that special talent be a handicap or a benefit on a Survey Ship? Moira didn’t know. Tuning her ears to the sound of the Jacuzzi, amusing herself by locating from that soft sound the hidden flaw in the machinery which would, if not fixed, put the pump out of commission within four or five days, she reminded herself to tell the maintenance man before she left the pool area. That was the talent that would win her a place on the Ship, if she did win a place, she told herself. The knowledge, so deep-rooted that it was almost instinctive, of how machines worked, and what could interfere with the working. Nobody had noticed the flaw in the sound of the pump, which increasingly grated on her ears like a false note in a Haydn quartet. The pump was like an apparently healthy man with a small, asthmatic rasp which ought to warn a doctor of ncipient emphysema, but seldom did. Scotty was murmuring to her, caressing her freckled breast under the hot water, but she pushed him impatiently away.
“Later, Scotty. Something’s wrong with the pump, I’ve got to go and tell the janitor.” “It sounds fine to me,” Mei Mei said. “Are you having psychic flashes again, Moira?”
“No, no,” Moira said, impatiently. “Can’t you hear it?” Machines, she thought, climbing wet and dripping out of
the Jacuzzi and draping a huge towel about her body, had to be perfect. They were so much more reliable than human talents. She listened, frowning, to the almost-imperceptible sound, tilting her head, grit-ting her teeth. Poor old fellow, she whispered to the laboring machinery, just take it easy, we’ll have you fixed up and comfortable pretty soon, I’ll make sure they take good care of you.
And in her solitary cubicle in the dormitory where the other students, alone or together, tried to forget tomorrow and the impending finality of the choices, the small, slight, dark-haired girl who had been dubbed “Ching” in her first week in the Academy, stood brushing her teeth before the mirror. The teeth were perfect — any predisposition toward dental or gum disease had been eliminated from her altered genetic makeup. Academy nutrition and conscientious brushing kept them that way.
She had the Oriental eye-fold; the insemination do-nor who had “fathered” her, she had been told, was a Japanese architect. But her face was too much a racial blend to have any other distinguishing characteristics. Even a touch of ugliness, she thought, would have made her more interesting. But, like all G-Ns — Genetically ENgineered Superiors — her face was boringly average and ordinary. She wondered if the scientists who had created the G-Ns had done it that way so that there would not be one more thing for the ordinary, genetically mixed humans to envy; great beauty would have set them even further apart from everyone else.
Tonight she had kept to the exact routine she had known all her life; she had put on a tape of one of her favorite violin sonatas, later practiced a half hour on the viola as she had every night since her fifth year, and now, her teeth brushed and tingling with cleanliness, she showered and went peacefully to bed, wondering how showers and other hygienic maneuvers would be managed in the low gravity of a Ship. Alone among her classmates, she knew she would be chosen. The experiment which had created the G-Ns was an unqualified success; in the class below Ching, there were twenty of them; two classes below her, there were forty, and not one had dropped out due to illness or physical or mental incompetence. The other G-N in Ching’s class, the one that would graduate tomorrow, had left them on her fifteenth birthday; some unsuspected randomness in the engineered musical talent had given her such a soprano voice as was heard only once or twice in a generation, and she had left, with the blessing of the Academy, to pursue a concert career. Ching thought, a little wistfully, of Zora —who had been given back her own name, Suzanne Hayley, and her own nationality, which was Canadian. She, Ching, would never be anything but Ching, of the UNEPS Academy. No name, no country, only a Ship, and fame she would not be able to enjoy. Zora had been allowed to follow her own choice and her own destiny.
But the G-Ns were certainly the wave of the future; some day, no doubt, the G-Ns would be the staff of all the Survey Ships. Ching had no doubt that next year’s class would be the full Ship complement often, instead of leaving it to competitiveness. And she, Ching, had been chosen to be the first to test the sufficiency of G-Ns, and that ought to be enough.
She was an experiment; she had been lonely, having no real peers. And no real friends, either, she thought with a touch of cynicism. They tolerated her, because there was no room in the Academy for anyone who could not get along with all kinds, and any dislike or unfairness shown to Ching would have damaged that person’s career more than Ching’s. But she sometimes envied Moira’s hordes of admirers and her easy sexuality, even admired the close tenderness of Peake and Jimson while she recognized its unwisdom. There was no one she had ever cared for that much, and no one who had cared so much for her; she supposed, a little wryly, that she was the only virgin in her class.
It was worse, she supposed, than being a member of a racial minority in the old days. But she was different, and there was no point in resenting it. Ching turned on her side, and within minutes was peacefully asleep.
CHAPTER TWO
The Ship had been constructed in free orbit, free of the limitations of gravity — on Earth it would have weighed so many tons that the fuel costs of lifting and moving would have been multiplied exponentially. The hull had been constructed from metal refined and manufactured within a Lunar Dome, and the machinery assembled and tested there. The Ship had a name; for political reasons — there were still some of those on Earth — she had been called after a little-known general in the Space Service a hundred years ago. But not one of the crew ever called her, or were ever to call her, anything except The Ship. Anyone who needed to refer to this particular Ship, as distinguished from others, would have had to look up the name in an official register, by the year.
The six members of the crew had their first sight of the Ship from the observation deck of the Lunar shuttle. Only Moira and Teague, both of whom had specialized in the drive units and had helped, with the others in their class who had studied space engineering, to assemble her, had ever seen her before. Ching had worked with identical computers, but had never seen this particular one. She picked out the small, spherical computer module. Peake and Ravi had studied deep-space navigation on simulators and mockups. As for Fontana, she had never been in free-fall, except in the training centrifuge, and brief trips in free-fall transit rockets; she spent the trip out trying to conquer her faint queasi-ness.
From space the Ship looked something like a collection of paper sculptures, strung together in a cluster anyhow, without need for the high-speed streamlining of Earth or gravity, and without any kind of linear organization. There would be sufficient gravity to make the crew comfortable and keep them fit — the DeMag gravitators were the only thing which had made deep-space voyages practicable from a human biological standpoint. But gravity could be sharply localized for the crew’s comfort in a given spot or area; there was no need to orient the Ship on any given axis. Inside, the arrangements made sense; but from outside it looked chaotic. Teague thought the Ship looked like a collection of helium balloons which had somehow drifted together — balloons which just happened to be spherical, cubical, octahedral, or conical.
Moira was wondering what it would look like from the outside when the enormous sheets of thin mylar, the light-sails which operated on solar pressure, were spread out around the conglomeration of shapes. Peake thought, sadly, that Jimson had never seen the Ship — then revised that thought. Jimson was probably seeing it right now, or at least, he had seen it this morning from the space station; he had probably had a good look at it from the Lunar Shuttle, too. Jimson had been assigned as an administrative assistant on the space station, and would probably be in charge of it, a few years from now.
I wonder if he feels like Moses, looking from afar at the Promised Land?
Jimson hadn’t spoken to Peake when the announcements were made. Not once.
And then the Shuttle was drawing up alongship, and they were going through the motions of getting into pressure suits — second nature now, after years of drill on it — and decanting through the airlock. Only minutes later, they were in the DeMagged main cabin, watching the airlock close and the Lunar Shuttle pull away, and Peake realized that there was no one to give the order, this time, to get out of pressure suits. So he checked the pressure of the cabin, shrugged, and unfastened his own helmet, hanging it meticulously in the rack.
Six of us, Moira thought, alone with the Ship which has been our goal, our summit, our daydream for the best part of twelve years. Is that al] there is to it? They had all been expecting some more formality than this. But what more could there be? They were the graduates, they had been given the final sink-or-swim test. If they had not been capable of functioning on their own, without further instruction, they would be now among the failures, serving apprenticeships on space stations, satellites, governing the Earth colonies some day — but they were the independent ones. This Ship gave them the freedom of the universe, and they had to prove themselves in it. They would evolve their own procedures, they would make themselves into a crew — or they would not; it was just as simple, and as enormous, as that.
Suddenly she was frightene
d, and, looking around at her five shipmates, she was sure they were frightened too. ESP? she wondered, and thought; no; just common sense. If we weren’t scared, we wouldn’t be as bright as we have to be, just to have come this far.
“Look,” said Peake, “there is your cello, Moira. And my violin.”
Ching looked at her viola, in its case. These were the only really personal articles they would retain from Earth and the life that was past. She said into the lengthening silence, “Well, here we all are. What do we do first?”
“I was taught,” Teague said dryly, “that the first thing you do on any Ship is to check the Life-Support system, and I imagine that’s my job — I don’t think there’s anyone else here who specialized in Life-Support systems.”
“My second specialty,” Fontana said. “I suppose I’ll be your standby.”
“Well — shall I go and do it?” Teague looked around, then realized there was no one to tell him to do it or not to do it. He said “Right. As I remember from the plan, the main Life-Support system should be through the door there — airlock — sphincter — whatever you call it.” He turned toward it. Peake said, “We might as well all go. We’ll have to learn our way around,” and followed Teague and Fontana. The others came crowding after.
As Teague thrust himself through the dilating sphincter, he experienced a sudden, violent shift of orientation. His feet had been “down”; suddenly he was head-down, his feet somehow “over his head.” Even though he knew instantly what had happened, that he had moved from a DeMag gravitator located toward the floor of the main cabin, into a DeMag field located at the other apex of the corridor he had entered, it took him a moment to get his flailing feet “down.” Peake actually tumbled and fell. Moira did an athlete’s flip and came up standing. And then, to all of them, “down” was where it was, and they looked back at the crazy, somehow disoriented airlock which seemed to be in the “ceiling” of the present room,
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