Mysteries of Motion

by Hortense Calisher

“Say it.”

  “Universalist.”

  “You must have read The Sheet,” Gilpin says sadly.

  “The Department always did. I even heard you once.”

  “Did you now.” He claps his hands. “Okay, lads. Why don’t I start now. Take Mr. William Wert—in particular. Now let’s see. Ah, Mr. Wert’s—hesitancy? A form of administration. He’s administering you and me, Jack, right now.”

  Wert bows.

  “And now—Mr. John Mulenberg. John T. Mulenberg, in the dossier. I make a guess: Theocritus. Your father being a famous nurseryman.”

  “Tehachapi,” Mulenberg said. “Mountains where my mother was born.”

  “Ha. At odd moments Mr. Mulenberg swings thumb and forefinger under chin. As if fingering a tie? Left to right. That’s it. One of those Western metal-tipped string ties.”

  Caught in the very act, Mulenberg bows too.

  “And now me, boys,” Gilpin cries. “What about me?”

  It takes him a minute to catch on that those two are brimming with a silent belly-laugh which at his look splutters over. Jack’s the first to wheeze to a final Haw. Wert waves a weak hand, wiping his eyes. “Okay. I’ll do it.” He clears his throat. “Ahem. Mr. Gilpin is always—himself. A ver-ee consistent personali-tee. How can a man possibly be himself, and so faithfully like himself—at the same time? Tom Gilpin will give us a little lecture on how.” Wert’s a fine mimic. “But we listen.” He has returned to his own voice. “And it helps.”

  Jack chimes in musically: “He—can’t hel-lup it, pip, pip. But—it helps. And—we lis-ten, yes, we listen—”

  Wert joins in, baritone. “To this man so ma-ha-hah-velously like himself.”

  Both men beam. They share a joke he’s not onto. Jack lunges for the table, grabbing the soft-drink nozzle. Holding it high he squirts a stream into his mouth, then at Wert lightly, at Gilpin harder, on himself hardest, and at last high over the table, drenching it until the nozzle hangs limp on its stem. “Piña colada, boys. Let’s all have some.”

  They know him, they’ve read him. Maybe not the full dossier, only the selected Gilpin, but they know that long-ago young man making up his recipe, which will last him for life.

  Wert says low, “I liked your island.” The big fellow studies his own wet legs.

  Gilpin says shakily, “Drove for a hayload-ride concession that next summer, out of Newburyport. Kept the wagonful in giggles, every moonlit night. Finally the concession fired me. ‘The front seat has to be quiet,’ they said.”

  This time his friends’ joint laughter laps him, old friends sherry-voiced at dusk. There almost could be dusk here.

  “Ah—rr—haven’t had a laugh like that—since,” the big one says. “Almost takes the place of sex.”

  “I haven’t laughed yet,” Gilpin says. “But I will.”

  They’re three stubbled men who’ve lost the passenger’s gloss. Not dirty yet—no dirt can appear here, but each day their human smell is stronger, maybe working to preserve its particular. In spite of all drills, they have the lounger’s smell, and though not prisoners, they have some of the prisoner’s undependability, hoarding certain secrets as if these are privately designated work.

  Mulenberg won’t yet tell about yesterday’s chat with Dove, who’d explained the blank dossiers in the Free Room as belonging to listed passengers at the last minute motel-detained. For whom “substitute personnel”—not further described, has been arranged. The corner of perforated wall off the flight deck, where Mulenberg had been allowed to send and receive his own messages, had reminded him of the complimentary long-lines telephone his own company offered visitors. “That telex booth—” he says. “Or whatever it is. Not too private. But it seems to get there.”

  Gilpin’s been wondering when to tell them of the facsimile Sheet he’s received here, headlined: Architect’s Son Injured Tokyo; subheaded, Eminent Architect Questioned on Identity Fred Kim on Courier. He says, “The computer sends me The Sheet once a week. Yes, it’s a miracle.” On-Island, when he was ten, the teacher, preachy but heeded because she was their first, used the same wintry, shining word, drawing on the wet blackboard, pale with January sun, the structure of a snow-flake.

  Wert smiles tiredly. In every camaraderie there’s a point where one becomes solo again. Too often, he achieves it first. The enormity of this voyage will disappear like a shipboard romance the minute they touch down on habitat. And the enormity of the living-station will begin.

  He sees the cool gray barracks he hasn’t told them of, entered matter-of-factly at the top by maintenance crews in from non-G, and the startling lawns, which seem to be acting out green, in front of land-rises like false bosoms; both saying: This was Scenery, once. In one factory great weights hung like parallelograms done on paper, the craftsmen appearing to manipulate shadows. In another, crystals worked to form themselves in intense cold, behind doors tiger-striped for danger. The white labs are the shrines, hissing small table-size blessings. It’s all small scale, a nursery for what comes next in the universe. In one of those labs his wife will have her labor. He won’t be there—no room. The child is known to be a boy. To think of him is like testing the beautiful ache of a new tooth. He plunges into that deep, saline comfort, then opens his eyes, “Beer—” Wert grunts, “that’ll be welcome.”

  Mole enters the galley in one bravura sweep.

  “Perfect landing,” Mulenberg says acidly.

  “Just practicing.” He stands there weaving a little in the way they do at that age, as if their muscles are eating them—and they have to battle everybody else because of it.

  “Thought you et.”

  “Did, Tom. With the whistlers. Wonderful rendition they have, when they’re high.”

  Mulenberg juts at him. “Smoking stuff?”

  Mole gives him a cool look. “Not after today. This time they nibbled it.”

  “You too?”

  “Not my bag.”

  “What is?”

  “Sir?”

  Mulenberg’s never been to boarding school. It shows. “Your bag.”

  Mole has a mooching elegance, but he’s not lounging, he’s patronizing. A young blood gazing past the sports car salesman’s paunch at the future only he can afford. “Space user, sir. Runs in my family.”

  “Oh yes, your father. The architect.”

  Gilpin and Wert stare like abbots at their own thumbs.

  “The Kim who turned us down on subcontracting for the Courier? Any idea why?”

  “Yes, sir. But maybe Mr. Gilpin’ll want to tell you something first. About my father. About me.”

  “That can wait,” Mulenberg says. “What’s happening to the discipline on this ship?”

  Mole grins at him.

  “Stop wanting to be a hero, Mole,” Gilpin says.

  “Why shouldn’t the boy want to be one? Since he’s found out none of us are,” Wert says lightly. “How elated you look at the news you bring, Mole. Like a—son.” He reaches out to tap Mole’s shoulder. “Like the first time we met.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mole said. “How did you tell?”

  “I was on my way. To being a father.”

  “So you did recognize me. When we came aboard. Dumb of me. Like I underestimate people. So whyn’t you come out with it?”

  “Thought maybe you had a bargain going. With your father.”

  “On my way to it,” Mole said.

  “Who the devil is he?” Mulenberg hates to ask.

  Mole gives Wert a nod.

  “Met him at his father’s house. He’s not the architect Kim’s son. He’s—Admiral Perdue’s.”

  Mole heaves forgetfully high, smacking his fists against aluminum. Crouching bright-eyed, he nurses them happily.

  “And I fancy he has news for us,” Wert says under his breath.

  Mulenberg’s roar interrupts. “Perdue? Wait’ll I see that son-of-a.” It’s half a laugh. “So he shipped on after all…After letting the entire industry beg.”

  Mole’s caught s
hort. What have been his hopes?

  “Afraid not. Not till the second trip out, he told me. The admiral.” Under Mole’s stare Gilpin shrinks as if caught name-dropping. “I was in his office to check the civilian list.”

  “Sure, Tom. Sure. So here you are. All three of you. Plus Wolf. Plus the girls.” Mole stretches again, in that curious well-being. Is he even relieved?

  Gilpin sits up sharp. Do the others know what they’re watching—youth the stowaway, about to come into its own?

  “Plus me,” Mole says.

  Jack rears up. “Been meaning to tell you two. They’ve explained about the blank dossiers. Seems certain people, ah, were held back, at the motel. So they’ve had to fill the slots with new people. From the waiting list.” He veers around to Mole. “But you mean—we’re the only civilians aboard? That Seat Six was right?” He veers to Wert. “What your wife said. That we’re the only—passengers.”

  “Not that, Jack. But I was wrong to try and keep it from her. That we have a—military presence here. Dear God, we always have.” Wert has the clearest hazel irises. Their clarity will attract some women like the murk in the irises of men who drink. The wife now in Switzerland, or in South America, would she flee from it, feeling it most? “I can’t say how many. But I felt I had been—misrepresented too.” He has spent a lifetime at that. “So I—bowed out.”

  “You should have—stayed on?” Instead of me, Jack means.

  “They—put it to me.” Wert must be unaware of how straight he’s standing. For the many times his peculiar honor must have had to be maintained.

  Gilpin is watching the death of heroes, on Mole’s face. First that of Gilpin himself, begun long since. Now the flick of interest that for a moment had been for Wert. Not enough. Maybe the son in Soraya’s womb, of whose existence Wert’s confided, already feels the same.

  “More’s the bloody fool you,” Mulenberg says, mimicking Wert’s occasional Pall Mall overlay. “Now then. What about Perdue? You there. Kid. You’re not here because of your father?”

  Mole’s very still—for him.

  “I mean—you’re not with him?”

  “No!”

  Gilpin closes his eyes. Oh, Mole, I begin to see your bargain. I don’t want to.

  “Then—who’s in real command here, that asshole with the signet ring? That born-again subordinate?”

  “How well you describe us all, Jack.” Wert’s voice is acid. “But Dove’s an astronaut, not a captain of industry. He’ll do well enough.”

  Gilpin’s eyes remain shut. The better to hear Mole say it.

  “Nobody is. In command.”

  It should be said all at once, for dignity. Or sung to get used to, like in church. No-bo-dee-ee is in space-command.

  “What do you mean, you—”

  “Kid—?” Mole says. Gilpin can hear the smile on him. “But out here, I’m learning. Lot of heavy fathers in the world. But maybe no captains.”

  Oh, Mole. You could have learned that at home.

  Wert has. “That all your news?”

  “No. Take a look at that diagram Mr. Mulenberg’s always toting. Let him open it.”

  There’s a rustling.

  “There. The flight deck—see? The tenth seat.”

  “What about it, kid?”

  “Nobody in it.”

  At the yell from Mulenberg, Gilpin opens his eyes.

  “That’s the dummy seat, boy. Has no controls. Never has had. They cut the specifications, cost-estimate went to sky-high. Perdue’s own command okayed every cut. You have to decide between the human element and the—” By now Mulenberg’s braying. “Every spacecraft they tested unmanned they could have cut the test and flown manned the first time. And been okay. Or most of them. But people remember what’s in a budget proposal. So you cut the human equivalent. When it helps make a five-hundred-million-dollar difference. After all—you people are on computer here.” He stops short, his jaw hanging. It’s an awesome sight. The president, catching up with the passenger.

  “Yeah.” Mole coughs. “Dad always said the human component wore out first, anyway. So, maybe that’s why discipline’s a little hard to maintain. Now they know the equipment specifications they’re flying. And that’s why Kim—my friend Kim’s father, Mr. Mulenberg—wouldn’t subcontract. Any more questions?”

  “No,” Gilpin groans.

  “Yes, Moleson,” Wert says. “What have you really come to tell us?”

  He’s choosing. He’s being as specific as he can. He’s going to be better at it than they are. “Lievering’s on EVA. With four others from the flight deck…We keep veering.”

  The word bounces off the galley’s shining surfaces, coming to rest on the table. Is the frail waste there moving, very slightly or not?

  “Who says, kid?”

  “The whistlers.”

  “Who the hell are they to—”

  “Second crew, Jack. But no drop in quality.” Gilpin hopes he’s right. “But I thought a rocket couldn’t veer.” Too late he remembers they no longer are one.

  “Hell no. Woman got the patent on it some years back. Or applied.” Mulenberg winks. “Nowadays a rocket can change orbit, mid-flight. But we’re on Orbiter. Canaveral must know what they’re doing.” He bends suddenly toward his left boot. It’s sliding almost imperceptibly toward his right one, which is creeping also. Away from it. All their boots are moving similarly. All of them stand up, vainly pressing their boots to the floor.

  Gilpin is reminded of his briefcase, gallantly upright in the draining sea.

  “Simpler to lean the other way.” Mole, with a queasy expression, is doing so.

  “We may be imagining this, you know.” Mulenberg is making for the door, touching walls deftly. “I’ll get on to Canaveral.”

  “Dove already has.” Mole has turned his back to them. “Or to wherever Joint Command now is.”

  “And?” Wert’s worry-hand is already in action, seeking its mate.

  “They’re having trouble keeping in touch with us.”

  Wert, too, makes for the hatch. Not doing quite so well as Jack.

  The slanting is more pronounced now. A ship would be almost on its side. Gilpin, a good sailor, steadies Mole from behind. “If you have to toss up, go on.”

  “No.” Mole lifts his head, turning. “I don’t barf at it anymore. Any of it.”

  Suddenly they’re righted. Feet solid on the floor again, or as solid as here can be. All three men expel their breath, testing. It lasts, it hangs firm—this particular vertical.

  There was a time, Gilpin thinks, when I was under the impression there was only one vertical to a man. Later on, I settled for a few, wreathing around the once-and-former true like Saturday afternoon hang-gliders.

  It’s Mole who shakes his clasped hands at what used to be heaven—or up. “Little EVA. Wuddya know.”

  From the hatch Mulenberg snarls, “That kid know the answer to everything?”

  Mole slowly lowers his hands. “Not hard to.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Wert says, “Shut up, Mulenberg. Yes, Mole?”

  If Mole doesn’t hide his face again, it’ll break up. He doesn’t. His lip quivers for that hero within who might die on him. “Ship’s a bummer.”

  THE DOCUMENTS BOX

  AND THAT WAS NO NEWS to him, Gilpin thinks. Gilpin is back in the cabin, poring over his section of the documents locker. If the ship is a bummer, it’s no news to Mole. But the glory is. Some kind of glory—I can’t yet figure it. Maybe the horrendous bargain he made by coming here—he’s facing up to it. But what a time for the glory to hit him. Maybe that’s when it does. I wouldn’t know.

  He’s alone in the cabin. All in the galley had dispersed, Mulenberg and Wert to go to Dove, the one to demand he be put in touch with Canaveral “direct,” the other to suggest that before docking they all be informed of the real terms of the flight, that is, who and how many others are here with them?—or are absent. And by whose leave?—Gilpin reminded him. Ah, tha
t’s maybe harder, Wert said. Mole’s gone off in awed expectancy of his gym period with a Lievering down from the heights. Though Gilpin has guessed Mole’s quixotic reason for being here and feels a responsible pain when he thinks of it, he’s as grateful as the others at getting rid of him, a valued dog, but ever at heel.

  All along the way here the video screens said ON COURSE. Behind him now the cabin’s screen says the same, though reassurance is unnecessary. Restored balance is in his limbs like a convalescence. He can’t even find ominous the item now seeping along the bottom of the screen in reduced letters. Jettisoning schedule, the craft will be trying for a docking tomorrow. Or whenever tomorrow is. For psychological reasons alone this would be well advised. They are beginning to confuse space with time.

  The locker, communal yet ingeniously private for each, has an oriental capacity beyond its size, suggesting it may have been one of the small preliminaries Kim did design. Its smell is heartening; there’s wood in it. At the top of his own pile of goods is the Moore drawing of the sleepers. He’s glad it’s a reproduction, which at home it mightn’t have been. It must stand for all the world scenery he’s left behind. Air travel must have been the first to be without scenery either human or animal or vegetable—until then that tender or cruel cottage industry always set before the traveler on train or horse or car, or even under or over the sea.

  In the air age, the long preamble to his kneeling here, men and women in flight had become their own scenery and any airliner a kind of mass play-action between passenger and crew, ritualized with music and warnings, entr’acte strolling—and conversation passed along like a rope.

  Here men and women are the only originals. And in a new world ought to be? Excitement tremors him. In middle age one has so few reversals of thought. On habitat—a word he’s finally given in to—he expects the scenery not to be much advanced. Conversation has these past days been their drama, the talk that on any voyage is a song hiding the shuddering of the wheel. Now that’s over. Exchange has stopped. In the last hour a familiar self-hoarding mood has overtaken all of them. God knows it’s premature, but they’re all passing each other with that hurried reticence which means destination is near.