And the chess games were about the only games I won, those three and a half years. There was no way for me to win anything in the big one that kept going on between my wife, Lurvy, and her horny fourteen-year-old half-sister, Janine. Old Payter was a long time between begats, and Lurvy tried to be a mother to Janine, who tried to be an enemy to Lurvy. And succeeded. It wasn’t all Janine’s fault. Lurvy would take a few drinks-that was her way of relieving the boredom-and then she would discover that Janine had used her toothbrush, or that Janine had unwillingly done as she had been told and cleaned up the food-preparation area before it began to stink, but hadn’t put the organics in the digester. Then they were off. From time to time they would go through ritualized performances of woman talk, punctuated by explosions- “I really love those blue pants on you, Janine. Do you want me to tack that seam?”
“All right, so I’m getting fat, is that what you’re saying? Well, it’s better than drinking myself stupid all the time!”-and then back to blow-drying each other’s hair. And I would go back to playing chess with Vera. It was the only safe thing to do. Every time I tried to intervene I achieved instant success by uniting them against me: “Fucking male chauvinist pig, why don’t you scrub the kitchen floor?”
The funny thing was, I did love them both. In different ways, of course, though I had trouble getting that across to Janine.
We were told what we were getting into when we signed up for the mission. Besides the regular long-voyage psychiatric briefing, all four of us went through a dozen session hours on the problem during the preflight, and what the shrink said boiled down to “do the best you can.” It appeared that during the refamilying process I would have to learn to parent. Payter was too old, even if he was the biological father. Lurvy was undomestic, as you would expect from a former Gateway pilot. It was up to me; the shrink was very clear about that. It just didn’t say how.
So there I was at forty-one, umpty zillion kilometers from Earth, way past the orbit of Pluto, about fifteen degrees out of the plane of the ecliptic, trying not to make love to my halfsister-in-law, trying to make peace with my wife, trying to maintain the truce with my father-in-law. Those were the big things that I woke up with (every time I was allowed to go to sleep), just staying alive for another day. To get my mind off them, I would try to think about the two million dollars apiece we would get for completing the mission. When even that failed I would try to think about the long-range importance of our mission, not just to us, but to every human being alive. That was real enough. If it all worked out, we would be keeping most of the human race from dying of starvation.
That was obviously important. Sometimes it even seemed important. But it was the human race that had jammed us all into this smelly concentration-camp for what looked like forever; and there were times when-you know?-I kind of hoped they would starve.
Day 1283. I was just waking up when I heard Vera beeping and crackling to herself, the way she does when there’s an action message coming in. I unzipped the restraining sheet and pushed myself out of our private, but old Payter was already hanging over the printer.
He swore creakily. “Gott sel dammt! We have a course changing.” I caught hold of a rail and pushed myself over to see, but Janine, busily inspecting her cheekbones for pimples in the wall mirror, got there ahead of me. She ducked her head in front of Payter’s, read the message, and slid herself away disdainfully. Payter worked his mouth for a minute and then said savagely, “This does not interest you?” Janine shrugged minutely without looking at him.
Lurvy was coming out of the private after me, zipping up her skivvies. “Leave her alone, Pa,” she said. “Paul, go put some clothes on.” It was better to do what she said, besides which she was right. The best way to stay out of trouble with Janine was to behave like a puritan. By the time I fished my shorts out of the tangle of sheets, Lurvy had already read the message. Reasonably enough; she was our pilot. She looked up, grinning. “Paul! We have to make a correction in about eleven hours, and maybe it’s the last one! Back away,” she ordered Payter, who was still hanging over the terminal, and pulled herself down to work Vera’s calculator keys. She watched while the trajectories formed, pressed for a solution and then crowed: “Seventy-three hours eight minutes to touchdown!”
“I myself could have done that,” her father complained.
“Don’t be grouchy, Pa! Three days and we’re there. Why, we ought to be able to see it in the scopes when we turn!”
Janine, back to picking at her cheekbones, commented over her shoulder, “We could have been seeing it for months if somebody hadn’t busted the big scope.”
“Janine!” Lurvy was marvelous at holding her temper in-when she was able to do it at all-and this time she managed to stay in control. She said in her voice of quiet reason, “Wouldn’t you say this was an occasion for rejoicing, not for starting arguments? Of course you would, Janine. I suggest we all have a drink-you, too.”
I stepped in quickly, belting my shorts-I knew the rest of that script. “Are you going to use the chemical rockets, Lurvy? Right, then Janine and I will have to go out and check the side-cargos. Why don’t we have the drink when we come back?”
Lurvy smiled sunnily. “Good idea, dear. But perhaps Pa and I will have one short one now-then we’ll join you for another round later, if you like.”
“Suit up,” I ordered Janine, preventing her from saying whatever inflammatory remark was in her mind. She obviously had decided to be placatory for the moment, because she did as she was told without comment. We checked each other’s seals, let Lurvy and Payter double-check us, crowded one by one into the exit and swung out into space on our tethers. The first thing we both did was look toward home-not very satisfying; the sun was only a bright star and I couldn’t see the Earth at all, though Janine usually claimed she could.. The second thing was to look toward the Food Factory, but I couldn’t see anything there. One star looks a lot like another one, especially down to the lower limits of brightness when there are fifty or sixty thousand of them in the sky.
Janine worked quickly and efficiently, tapping the bolts of the big ion-thrusters strapped to the side of our ship while I inspected for tightness in the steel straps. Janine was really not a bad kid. She was fourteen years old and sexually excitable, true, but it was not at all her fault that she had no satisfactory person to practice being a woman on. Except me and, even less satisfactorily, her father. Everything checked out, as of course we bad been pretty sure it would. She was waiting by the stub of the big telescope’s mounting by the time I finished, and a measure of her good humor was that she didn’t even say anything about who let it crack loose and float away in the crazy time. I let her go back in the ship first. I took an extra couple of minutes to float out there. Not because I particularly enjoyed the view. Only because those minutes in space were about the only time I had had in three and a half years to be anything approaching alone.
We were still moving at better than three kilometers a second, but of course you couldn’t tell that with nothing around to compare. It felt a lot as though we weren’t moving at all. It had felt that way, a lot, for all of the three and a half years. One of the stories we had all been hearing for all that time from old Peter- he pronounces it “Pay-ter”-was about his father, the S.S. Werewolf. The werewolf couldn’t have been more than sixteen when The Big One ended. His special job was transporting jet engines to a Luftwaffe squadron that had just been fitted out with ME210s. Payter says his daddy went to his death apologizing for not getting the engines up to the squadron in time to cream the Lanes and the B-17s and change the outcome of the war. We all thought that was pretty funny-anyway, the first time we heard it. But that wasn’t the real funny part The real funny part was how the old Nazi freighted them. With a team. Not horses. Oxen. Not even pulling a wagon-it was a sledge! The newest, up to the minute, state of the art jet turbines-and what it took to get them operational was a tow-headed kid with a willow switch, ankle deep in cowflop.