downward. Until, suddenly, it happened.
There was a blast beside which the most terrific flash of lightning ever seen on Earth
would have seemed like a firecracker. Although she was in what was almost a vacuum,
the Procyon was hurled upward like the cork of a champagne bottle. And as for what it
felt like-the sensation was utterly indescribable. As Bernice said, long afterward, when
she was being pressed by a newsman, “Just tell ’em it was the living end.”
The girls were unwrapped and, after a moment of semi-hysteria and after making sure
that the babies were all right, were as good as new. Then Deston aimed his plate and
gulped. Without saying a word he waved a hand and the others looked. The sharp tip of
the mountain was gone: it had become a seething, flaming lake of incandescent lava.
“And what,” Deston managed, “do you suppose happened to the other side of the ship?”
The boom was gone. So were all twenty of the grounding cables that had fanned out in
all directions to anchorages welded to the vessel’s skin and frame. The anchorages, too,
were gone; and tons upon tons of steel plating and of structural members for many feet
around where each anchorage had been. Many tons of steel had been completely
volatilized; other tons had run like water.
“Shall I try the subspace radio now, Doc?” Deston . asked.
“By no means. This first blast would of course be the worst, but there will be several
more, of decreasing violence.”
There were. The second, while it volatilized the boom and its grounding network, merely
fused small portions of the anchorages. The third took only the boom itself; the fourth,
only the dangling miles of wire. At the fifth trial nothing-apparently-happened; whereupon
the wire was drawn in and a two-hundred-pound mass of steel was lowered into firm
contact with solid rock.
“Now you may try your radio,” Adams said.
Deston flipped a switch and spoke into his microphone. “Procyon One to Control Six.
Flight eight four nine.
Subspace radio test number nine five-I think. How do you read me, Control Six?”
The reply was highly unorthodox. It was a wild yell, followed by words not addressed to
Deston at all. “Captain Reamer! Captain French! Captain Holloway! ANYBODY! It’s the
Procyon, that was lost over a year ago! IT’S THE PROCYON!”
“Line it up! If it’s some damn fool’s idea of a joke . . .” a crisp authoritative voice grew
louder as its source approached the distant pickup “. . . he’ll rot in jail for a hundred
years!”
“Procyon One to Control Six,” Deston said again. His voice was not quite steady this
time; both girls were crying openly and joyfully. “How do you read me, Frenchy old
horse?”
“It is the Procyon-that’s the Runt himself-hi, Babel I read you nine and one. Survivors?”
“Five. Second Officer Jones, our wives, and Doctor Andrew Adams, a fellow of the
College of Study.”
“It can’t be a lifecraft after this long-what shape is the bulk in?”
“Bad. Can’t immerge. The whole Top is an ungodly mess and some of the rest of her
won’t hold air-air, hell! Section Fourteen won’t hold shipping crates! The Chaytors are
okay, but five of the Wesleys arc shot, and all of the Q-converters. Most of the Grahams
are leaking like sieves, and . . .”
“Hold it, Babe. They want this on a recorder downstairs, too. The newshawks are
knocking the doors down. This marriage bit. The brides-who are they?”
Deston told him. Just that; no more.
“Okay. They want a lot more than that; especially the sobbers, but that can wait. What
happened?”
“I don’t know. You’d better fly a Fellow of the College over there to talk to Doc Adams.
Maybe he can explain it to another Big Brain, but I wouldn’t bet, even on that.”
“Okay. Downstairs is hooked in and so is Brass. Give us everything you know or can
guess at.”
Deston spoke steadily for thirty minutes. He did not mention the gangsters, nor psionics,
nor the extraordinarily long periods of gestation; otherwise his report was accurate and
complete. When it was done, French said:
“Mark off. Off the air, Babe-nice job. Now, Here, on the air. Mark on. Second Officer
Theodore Jones reporting. You’re orbiting the fourth planet of a sun. What sun? Where?”
“I don’t know. Unlisted; we’re in unexplored territory. Standard reference data as
follows,” and Jones read off a long list of observations; not only of the brightest stars of
the galaxy, but also of the standard reference points, such as S-Doradus, lying outside it.
“When you get that stuff all plotted you’ll find a hell of a big confusion, but I hope there
aren’t enough stars in it but what you’ll be able to find us sometime.”
“Mark off. Don’t make me laugh, Here; your probable center will spear it. If there’s ever
more than one star in any confusion you set up I’ll eat all the extras. But there’s a dozen
Big Brains, gnawing their nails off to the elbows to talk to Adams. So put him on and let’s
get back to sleep, huh? They’re cutting this mike now.”
“Hold it!” Deston snapped. “I want some information too, dammit! What’s your
Greenwich?”
“Zero seven one four plus thirty seven seconds. So go to bed, you night-prowling owl.”
“Of what day, month, and year?” Deston insisted. “Friday, Sep . . .” French’s voice was
replaced by that of a much older man; very evidently that of a Fellow of the College.
After listening for less than a minute, Barbara took Deston’s arm and led him away. “Any
at all of that gibberish is exactly that much too much, husband mine. So I think we’d
better take Captain French’s advice, don’t you?”
Since there was only one star in Jones’ “confusion” (by the book, “Volume of
Uncertainty”) finding the Procyon was no problem at all. High Brass came in quantity and
the whole story, except for one bit of biology, was told. Two huge subspace going
machine-shops also came, and a battalion of mechanics, who worked on the crippled
liner for over three weeks.
Then the Procyon started back for Earth under her own subspace drive, under the
command of Captain Theodore Jones. His first and only command for the Interstellar
Corporation, of course, since he was a married man. Deston had tendered his
resignation while still a First Officer, but his superiors would not accept it until after his
promotion “for outstanding services” had come through. Thus Captain Carlyle Deston and
his wife and son were dead-heading, not quite back to Earth, but to the transfer point for
Newmars.
Just before that transfer point was reached, Deston went “up Top” to take leave of his
friend, and Jones greeted him with:
“I’ve been trying to talk to Doc again; but wherever he starts or whatever the angle of
approach he always boils it down to this: `Subjective time is measured by the number of
learning events experienced.’ I ask you, Babe, what in hell does that mean? If anything?”
“I know. Me, too. It sounds like it ought to mean something, but I’ll be damned if I know
what. However, if it makes the old boy happy and gives the College a toehold on
subspace, what do we care?”
And at this same time Barbara had been visiting Bernice. They had of course been
talking about the babies, and an awkward silence had fallen.
“Oh,” Barbara licked her lips. “So you get those feelings too.”
“Too?” Bernice’s face paled. “But they’re absolutely normal, Bobby. Perfect. Absolutely
perfect in every respect.”
“I know . . . but once in a while … an aura or something … it scares me simply witless.”
“I have them too. Not often, but … well, they began even before she was born.”
“Oh? So did mine! But they aren’t monsters, Bun! I just know they aren’t!”
“So do I. Of course they aren’t. They aren’t even mutants. Look, Bobby, let’s think
instead of emoting. All four of us are very strongly psychic, but each of us got it from only
one side of the family. With both parents psychic the effect would have to be intensified,
wouldn’t it?”
“It would, at that. That’s the answer, Bun, you solved the mystery. They have the same
thing we have, except more of it. But they can’t have real powers without experience or
knowledge, so when they grow up they’ll be stronger than we are and we’ll learn from
them.”
“That’s the way it is. I’m sure of it.”
“So am I, now. I feel a lot better, Bun. I’ve got to gallop. This isn’t goodbye, dear-I’ll see
you soon and often-it’s just so long.”
Chapter 3
DESTON THE DOWSER
For a week the Destons were busy settling down in their low, sprawling home on
Newmars. Deston had not had time to think about a job, and Barbara did not intend to let