And, of course, there was even the remote possibility that both back-ups would take the same escape route. But that was something that did not bear thinking about….
At last Bowman spoke. For the first time there seemed a trace of emotion in his voice, as if he had long ago made up his mind, and would not be deflected or diverted by any external force.
“I . . . am . . . going . . . to . . . Jupiter,” he said.
And so, each after his fashion, presently answered Whitehead and Poole and Kimball and Hunter and Kaminski. And not one of them ever knew that he had been asked.
MIDNIGHT, WASHINGTON
The reception at the Little White House, as the vice-president’s mansion was invariably called, was one of the events of the season. There was much heart-burning because invitations were restricted to those associated with the project; but if this had not been done, most of official Washington would have been there. Moreover, everyone wanted to keep this as small and intimate as possible; it would be the last time all six astronauts would be gathered together on Earth, and the last opportunity for many of their friends to say farewell to them.
No one mentioned this, but everybody was aware of it. So this was no ordinary reception; there was a curious emotional atmosphere-not one of sadness or foreboding, but rather of excitement and exaltation.
“Look at them!” said Anita Andersen as she and Floyd orbited together across the dance floor. “What do you suppose they’re really thinking?” She nodded her head toward the little group around the Vice-President and Mrs. Kelly; their hosts were talking to Bowman, Kaminski, Whitehead, and Poole.
“I can probably tell you,” Floyd said. “By this time, I know as much about them as any of the psychologists. But why are you interested?”
His curiosity was genuine, quite unaffected by any taint of jealousy or sexual rivalry. (Besides, who could be jealous of six men about to leave Earth for years, perhaps forever?)
“It’s hard for a woman to understand,” Anita murmured above the background of the music, as they swirled round the little island of trees in the center of the dance floor. “Leaving all this behind, going off into space, not knowing what they’re going to find, or even if they’ll come
“I thought there was Viking blood in your veins,” Floyd chided gently.
“I was always sorry for their women; they must have spent half their lives wondering if they were widows.”
“At least we’ve avoided that problem here. There will be some unhappy girl friends, but that’s all.” He lowered his voice. “Here comes one of them.”
Jack Kimball swirled by, his arms around a rather plump, vivacious blonde. As they were swept away by the other dancers, the girl suddenly began to laugh at something her consort had said.
“She certainly doesn’t sound unhappy,” commented Anita.
“Excellent. I shouldn’t tell tales, but Jack has quite a reputation. Perhaps she realized that she couldn’t hold on to him, and is making the best of a bad job.”
“Bowman’s the one who fascinates me, I’ve heard such conflicting stories about him. Is he really unpopular?”
“It depends on the point of view. He’s a perfectionist. He can’t stand people who aren’t fit, or machines that won’t work-and that makes life tough for his associates. Incidentally, he also seems to be lucky-he’s never been involved in an accident. Maybe he’s earned his luck; either way, we want to share it.”
“But his crewmates?” persisted Anita. “Do they like him?”
“They like him, otherwise, he wouldn’t be there. He has that indefinable quality we call leadership-people will trust his decisions, and feel confident that he’s made the correct ones. And ninety-nine percent of the time, he has. We can only hope he’ll keep up that batting average, when he gets out to Jupiter.”
“The one I really like,” confided Anita, “is Dr. Poole. There’s something warm and friendly about him-not that the others are unfriendly, of course.”
“Everyone feels the same way about Kelvin. He cares for people-but sometimes I wonder if he cares enough for himself.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s hard to express, and I may be seeing things that aren’t there. Probably I can’t understand the medical viewpoint-to an astronomer, physiology is so damn messy. But sometimes I think that Kelvin takes too many risks with himself. He’s had several narrow escapes; he was nearly drowned-twice-testing artificial lungs. He’s always breathing peculiar atmospheres, riding centrifuges, trying out medical gadgets. And I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s hibernated.”
“You make him sound just a little peculiar. I’m surprised he passed the psychological tests.”
Floyd laughed.
“He helped to set most of them, and you know what a tight labor union the doctors have. But I don’t mean that Kelvin is psychotic. I suspect he’s just an unusually dedicated medical researcher, who finds that he’s his own best guinea pig. Hello, Paul.”
As Hunter and his companion swept past, Anita commented, “She’s stunning. “Who is she?”
“Australian friend of Paul’s-he has some business in Queensland.”
“So it seems.”
“Darling-are we going to dance or talk? I’m running out of gas.”
“Mrs. Kelly seems to be signaling to us-let’s break off when we reach her.”
A few seconds later, a little breathless, they came to a halt at the Vice-President’s group. Bowman and Poole had now disappeared, but Kaminsky and Whitehead were talking animatedly with the Kellys.
“Hello, Miss Andersen,” said the Vice-President. “I hope you don’t mind us interrupting for a moment.”
There was the very faintest of underlining to the “Miss”, the Kellys were very old-fashioned, and like the rest of Washington knew perfectly well that Floyd and his lady were not particularly interested in matrimony. But they liked Anita, even if they did not altogether approve of her.
“Mr. Whitehead was telling us about your Council’s report on extraterrestrial life forms, Heywood. He says you’ve worked out the design of a perfectly efficient creature. Is that really true?”
“I was referring,” Whitehead said hastily, “to that last Rand Corporation study. But I don’t think the Vice President altogether believed me.”
Everyone laughed at this, for Whitehead’s hobby had been well publicized. Though he was one of the world’s experts on life-support systems, and had once, by miracles of improvisation, kept a team of six men alive on Mars for a week when they had lost their oxygen reserve, he was also extraordinarily imaginative and could have earned a good living as a professional writer. That he had published some excellent science fiction under the pseudonym “Paul Black” was an open secret, and he had been responsible for negotiating the serialization, book, film, and TV rights for the mission. It often seemed that he spent most of his time in the old Life building; there were rumors that he had been observed in the picket lines protesting the demolition of that venerable antique.
It took Floyd several seconds to recall the details of the study; he must have read-or at any rate skimmed-at least a thousand reports in the last couple of years, and they tended to blur together. The Space Agency was always issuing contracts to universities, research organizations, and industrial firms for astronautical studies. Sometimes the result was a thick volume of graphs or equations, and sometimes it was what one acute congressional critic had called “high-priced science fiction.”
“As I remember,” he said, collecting his thoughts rapidly, “the biologists asked themselves the question, ‘If we had no preconceived ideas, and were starting with a blank sheet of paper-how would we design an intelligent organism?”‘
“I’m not much of an artist,” Floyd apologized, after he had managed to borrow paper and pencil, “but the general conclusion was something like this.”
He sketched quickly, and when he had finished Mr. Kelly said, “Ugh!”
“Well,” chuckled Floyd, “beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. And talking of eyes, there would be four of them, to provide all-round vision. They have to be at the highest part of the body, for good visibility-so.”
He had drawn an egg-shaped torso surmounted by a small, conical head that was fused into it with no trace of a neck. Roughly sketched arms and legs were affixed at the usual places.
“Getting rid of the neck removes a fundamental weakness, we only need it because our eyes have a limited field of view, and we have to turn our heads to compensate.”
“Why not a fifth eye on top, for upward vision?” asked Kaminski, in a tone of voice which showed what he, thought of the whole concept.
“Too vulnerable to falling objects. As it is, the four eyes would be recessed, and the head would probably be covered with a hard protective layer. For the brain would be somewhere in this general region-you want the shortest possible nerve connections to the eyes, because they are the most important sense organs.”