I mentioned earlier that I would tell you about Stopovers. If you are going a distance of a hundred forty-five light years and are taking maybe a hundred-fifty actual years to do it, why stop and stretch your legs? Well, first of all and mainly, almost nobody sleeps out the whole jaunt. There are lots of little gadgets which require human monitoring at all times. No one is going to sit there for a hundred-fifty years and watch them, all by himself. So everyone takes a turn or two, passengers included. They are all briefed on what to do til the doctor comes, and who to awaken and how to go about it, should troubles crop up. Then everyone takes a turn at guard mount for a month or so, along with a few companions. There are always hundreds of people aboard, and after you’ve worked down through the role you take it again from the top. All sorts of mechanical agents are backing them up, many of which they are unaware of (to protect _against_ them, as well as _with_ them–in the improbable instance of several oddballs getting together and deciding to open a window, change course, murder passengers, or things like that), and the people are well-screened and carefully matched up, so as to check and balance each other as well as the machinery. All of this because gadgets and people both bear watching. After several turns at ship’s guard, interspersed with periods of cold sleep, you tend to grow claustrophobic and somewhat depressed. Hence, when there is an available Stopover, it is utilized, to restore mental equilibrium and to rearouse flagging animal spirits. This also serves the purpose of enriching the life and economy of the Stopover world, by whatever information and activities you may have in you. Stopover, therefore, has become a traditional holiday on many worlds, characterized by festivals and celebrations on some of the smaller ones, and often by parades and world-wide broadcast interviews and press conferences on those with greater populations. I understand that it is now pretty much the same on Earth, too, whenever colonial visitors stop by. In fact, one fairly unsuccessful young starlet, Marilyn Austin, made a long voyage Out, stayed a few months, and returned on the next vessel headed back. After appearing on tri-dee a couple times, sounding off about interstellar culture, and flashing her white, white teeth, she picked up a flush contract, a third husband, and her first big part in tapes. All of which goes to show the value of Stopovers.
I landed us atop Helix, Betty’s largest apartment-complex, wherein Eleanor had her double-balconied corner suite, affording views both of the distant Noble and of the lights of Posh Valley, Betty’s residential section. Eleanor prepared steaks, with baked potato, cooked corn, beer–everything I liked. I was happy and sated and such, and I stayed till around midnight, making plans for our future. Then I took a cab back to Town Square, where I was parked. When I arrived, I thought I’d check with the Trouble Center just to see how things were going. So I entered the Hall, stamped my feet, brushed off excess waters, hung my coat, and proceeded up the empty hallway to the elevator. The elevator was too quiet. They’re supposed to rattle, you know? They shouldn’t sigh softly and have doors that open and close without a sound. So I walked around an embarrassing corner on my way to the Trouble Center. It was a pose Rodin might have enjoyed working with. All I can say is that it’s a good thing I stopped by when I did, rather than five or ten minutes later. Chuck Fuller and Lottie, Eleanor’s secretary, were practicing mouth to mouth resuscitating and keeping the victim alive techniques, there on the couch in the little alcove off to the side of the big door to T.C. Chuck’s back was to me, but Lottie spotted me over his shoulder, and her eyes widened and she pushed him away. He turned his head quickly. “Juss…” he said. I nodded. “Just passing by,” I told him. “Thought I’d stop in to say hello and take a look at the eyes.” “Uh–everything’s going real well,” he said, stepping back into the hallway. “It’s on auto right now, and I’m on my–uh, coffee break. Lottie is on night duty, and she came by to–see if we had any reports we needed typed. She had a dizzy spell, so we came out here where the couch…” “Yeah, she looks a little–peaked,” I said. “There are smelling salts and aspirins in the medicine chest.” I walked on by into the Center, feeling awkward. Chuck followed me after a couple of minutes. I was watching the screens when he came up beside me. Things appeared to be somewhat in hand, though the rains were still moistening the one hundred thirty views of Betty. “Uh, Juss,” he said, “I didn’t know you were coming by…” “Obviously.” “What I’m getting at is–you won’t report me, will you?” “No, I won’t report you.” “…And you wouldn’t mention it to Cynthia, would you?” “Your extracurricular activities,” I said, “are your own business. As a friend, I suggest you do them on your own time and in a more propitious location. But it’s already beginning to slip my mind. I’m sure I’ll forget the whole thing in another minute.” “Thanks Juss,” he said. I nodded. “What’s Weather Central have to say these days?” I asked, raising the phone. He shook his head, so I dialed listened. “Bad,” I said, hanging up. “More wet to come.” “Damn,” he announced and lit a cigarette, his hands shaking. “This weather’s getting me down.” “Me too,” said I. “I’m going to run now, because I want to get home before it starts in bad again. I’ll probably be around tomorrow. See you.” “Night.” I elevated back down, fetched my coat, and left. I didn’t see Lottie anywhere about, but she probably was, waiting for me to go. I got to my car and was halfway home before the faucets came on full again. The sky was torn open with lightnings, and a sizzlecloud stalked the city like a long-legged arachnid, forking down bright limbs and leaving tracks of fire where it went. I made it home in another fifteen minutes, and the phenomenon was still in progress as I entered the garage. As I walked up the alley (cane switched on) I could hear the distant sizzle and the rumble, and a steady half-light filling the spaces between the buildings, from its _flash-burn-flash-burn_striding. Inside, I listened to the thunder and the rain, and I watched the apocalypse off in the distance. Delirium of city under storm– The buildings across the way were quite clear in the pulsing light of the thing. The lamps were turned off in my apartment so that I could better appreciate the vision. All of the shadows seemed incredibly black and inky, lying right beside glowing stairways, pediments, windowsills, balconies; and all of that which was illuminated seemed to burn as though with an internal light. Overhead, the living/not living insect-thing of fire stalked, and an eye wearing a blue halo was moving across the tops of nearby buildings. The fires pulsed and the clouds burnt like the hills of Gehenna; the thunders burbled and banged; and the white rain drilled into the roadway which had erupted into a steaming lather. Then a _snapper_, tri-horned, wet-feathered, demon-faced, sword-tailed, and green, raced from around a corner, a moment after I’d heard a sound which I had thought to be a part of the thunder. The creature ran, at an incredible speed, along the smoky pavement. The eye swooped after it, adding a hail of lead to the falling raindrops. Both vanished up another street. It had taken but an instant, but in that instant it had resolved a question in my mind as to who should do the painting. Not El Greco, not Blake; no: Bosch. Without any question, Bosch–with his nightmare visions of the streets of Hell. He would be the one to do justice to this moment of the storm. I watched until the sizzlecloud drew its legs up into itself, hung like a burning cocoon, then died like an ember retreating into ash. Suddenly, it was very dark and there was only the rain.