‘So you consider it purely fortuitous that this surface is as truly spherical as the texture of the medium will permit?’ she asked, loftily.
‘No, I don’t, and you know I don’t—and don’t misquote me, woman! It’s too fantastically accurate to be accidental. And that ties right in with the previous paradox—that vortices can’t possibly be either accidental or deliberate,’
‘From a semantic viewpoint, your phraseology is deplorable. The term “paradox” is inadmissible—meaningless. We simply
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haven’t enough data. I simply can’t believe, Storm, that those horrible things were set off on purpose.’
‘Deplorable phraseology or not, I’ve got enough data to put the probability out beyond the nine-sigma point—the same probability as that an automatic screw-machine running six-thirty-two brass hex nuts would accidentally turn out a thirty-six-inch jet-ring made of pure titanite, diamond ground, finished, and fitted. We’re getting nowhere faster and faster— with an acceleration of about 12 G’s instead of any simple velocity.’
He fell silent; remained silent so long that the woman spoke. ‘Well… what do you think we’d better do next?’
‘All I can think of is to find out what’s out there at the center of that sphere … and then to see if we can find any other leads in this mess on the chart. I’ll call Phil.’
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12: Vesta Practices Spaceal
The connection was made and he brought Lensman Strong up to date, concluding: ‘So will you please get hold of Planetography with a crash priority on anything they know about that point?’
Til do that, Storm. I’ll call you back.’
Since Lensmen are potent beings, the call came soon.
‘There’s one sun there,’ Strong reported, ‘but it doesn’t amount to much. A red dwarf—it may or may not be a single. Unexplored. Astronomical data only.’
‘How close did I come to it?’
‘Allowing for proper motion, you speared it. Less than two hundredths of a parsec off. And there’s nothing else within twelve parsecs—stars are mighty thin out beyond the Rim, you
know.’
‘I know. That nails it, Phil. They don’t know, of course,
whether it has any planets or not?’
‘No … I see what you mean … shall I get a special on it for
you?’
‘I wish you would. It’d be worth while, I think.’ ‘So do I. I’ll call Haynes and ask him to rush a ship out there to get us a fine-tooth on it.’ ‘Thanks, Phil.’
‘And there was something else … Oh yes, your friend Fair-child. Narcotics wants him, badly.’
‘I’m not surprised. Alive? That might take some doing.’ ‘Or dead. No difference, as long as they have his head for positive identification,’ and at Cloud’s surprised expression Strong went on: “They don’t want him planting any more Trenconian broadleaf, is all, which he’ll keep on doing as long as he’s alive and loose.’
‘I see. Wish I’d known sooner; we probably could have caught
him on Tominga.’
‘I doubt it. They’ve been checking back on him, and he’s a very, very sharp operator. He makes long flits, fast … in peculiar directions. But if you stumble across him again, grab him or blast…’
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‘Just a minute, chief. You mean to say the Patrol can’t find him?’
‘Just that. He’s in with a big, strong mob; probably heads it. They’ve been looking for him ever since you found out that he wasn’t killed on Deka.’
‘I’m … I’m speechless. But Graves … but Graves was dead, of course … didn’t anybody know Fairchild’s personal pattern?’ ‘That’s exactly it; nobody that they could get hold of knows his real pattern at all. All we’ve got that we can depend on are his retinals. That shows the kind of operator he is. So if you get a chance, blast him, but leave at least one eye whole and bring it in, in deep-freeze. Nothing else at the moment, is there?’ ‘Not that I know of. Clear ether, Phil!’ ‘Clear ether, Storm!’
The plate went black and Cloud turned soberly to Joan.
‘Well, that clears Fairchild up, but doesn’t help with the real
mystery. So, unless we can dig some more dope out of this
stuff on the chart, we can’t do much until we get that fine-tooth.’
Joan left the room, and Cloud, after racking his brain for an
hour, got up, shook himself, and went down the corridor to his
‘private’ office—which had long since ceased to be private, as
far as his friends were concerned—where he found Vesta and
Thlaskin talking busily in spaceal. Or, rather the Vegian was
talking; the pilot was listening attentively.
‘… think I’m built, you ought to have seen this tomato,’ Vesta was narrating blithely. ‘What I mean, she’s a dish!’ She went into a wrigglesome rhythm which, starting at the neck, flowed smoothly down her splendidly-modeled body to the ankles. ‘Stacked? She’s stacked like Gilroy’s Tower, Buster—an honest-to-god DISH, believe me, and raring to go. We were on one of those long-week-end jaunts around the system—you know, one of those deals where things are pretty apt to get just a hair off the green at times …’
‘But hey!’ Thlaskin protested. ‘You said yourself a while back you wasn’t old enough for that kind of monkey-business!’ ‘Oh, I wasn’t” Vesta agreed, candidly enough. ‘I still ain’t. I just went along for the ride.’
‘And your folks let you?’ Thlaskin was shocked. ‘Natch.’ Vesta was surprised. ‘Why not? If a tomato don’t learn the facts of life while she’s young how’s she going to decide what’s good for her when she grows up?’
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‘With or without a license, I got to butt into this,’ Cloud announced, also in spaceal; seating himself on a couch and crossing his legs. He, too, was shocked; but he was also intensely curious. ‘Did you decide, Vesta?’
Before the girl could answer, however, Joan Janowick came strolling in.
‘Is this a private brawl, or can anybody get in on it?’ she
asked, gaily.
‘I invited myself in, so I’ll invite you, too. Come in and sit down.’ He made room for her beside him and went on in English, speaking for her ear alone: ‘Just as well you don’t know spaceal. This story Vesta is telling would curl your hair.’
‘Wake up, Junior.’ Joan did not speak, but poured the thought directly into his mind. ‘D’you think that cat-girl—that kitten— can block me out of her mind?’
‘Oick! What a whiff! ‘Scuse, please; my brain was out to lunch. But you’ll get an earful, sister Janowick,’
‘It’ll be interesting in a way you haven’t thought of, too,’ Joan went on. ‘Vegians are essentially feline, you know, and cats as a race are both fastidious and promiscuous. Thus, conflict. Is that what this is about?’
‘Could be—I haven’t tried to read her.’ Then, aloud: ‘Go ahead, Vesta. Did the experience help you decide?’ ‘Oh, yes. I’m too finicky to be a very good mixer. There’s just too many people I simply can’t stand the smell of.’
‘There’s that smell thing again,’ Thlaskin said. ‘You’ve harped on it before. You mean to say you people’s noses are that sensitive?’
‘Absolutely. No two people smell alike, you know. Some smell nice and some just plain stink. F’rinstance, the boss here smells just wonderful—I could hug him all day and love it. Doctor Janowick, too, she smells almost like the skipper. You’re nice, too, Thlaskin, and so is Maluleme, and Nadine. And Tom-mie ain’t bad; but a lot of the others are just too srizonified much for my stomach.’
‘I see,’ Cloud said. ‘You do give some people a lot of room around here.’
“Yeah, and that’s what got this chick I was telling Thlaskin here about in such a jam. She’s been bending her elbow pretty free, and taking a jab or so of this and that between drinks. But she ain’t sozzled, y’understand, not by many a far piece; just
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lit up like Nyok spaceport. She’s maybe been a bit on the friendly side with a few of her friends, so this big bruiser—not a Vegian; no tail, even; an Aldebaranian or some-such-like and a Class A-Triple-Prime stinker—gets interested in a big way. Well, he smells just like a Tellurian skunk, so she brushes him off, kind of private-like, a few times, but he don’t take, so she finally has to give him the old heave-ho right out in front of everybody.
‘ “You slimy stinker, I’ve told you a dozen times it’s no dice— you stink!” she says loud, clear, and plain. “This ship ain’t big enough to let me get far enough away from you to hold my breakfast down,” she says, and this burns the ape plenty.
‘ “Lookit here, babe,” he says, coming to a boil, “Bend an ear while I tell you something. No klevous Vegian chippie is going to play high and mighty with me, see? I’m fed up to the gozzle. So come down off your high horse right now, or I’ll…”
‘ “You’ll what?” she snarls, and puts a hand behind her back. She’s seeing red now, and fit to be tied. “Make just one pass at me, you kedonolating slime-lizard,” she says, “and I’ll bust your pfztikated skull wide open!”