They met wordlessly, as usual—only the constraints of habit and civility kept them from grabbing their trays and retreating to their own lairs. Instead they hovered on opposite sides of the little convenience table, each perched in midair at a careful angle, not quite looking at or looking away from the other. If McNeil noticed any increasing nervousness on Grant’s part as the meal progressed, he said nothing; indeed they ate in perfect silence, having long since exhausted the possibilities of light conversation.
When the last course, succotash, had been served in those bowls with the incurved rims, designed to restrain their contents, Grant cleared the litter and went into the adjacent galley unit to make coffee.
He took quite a long time, considering the coffee was, as always, instant—for at the last moment something maddening happened. He was on the point of squeezing boiling water from one container into another, looking at the two hot-liquid bulbs in front of him, when he remembered an ancient silent film he’d seen on a chip somewhere, featuring a clown who usually wore a bowler hat and a funny mustache—Charlie somebody—who in this movie was trying to poison an unwanted wife. Only he got the glasses accidentally reversed.
No memory could have been more unwelcome. Grant nearly lapsed into psychopathic giggles. Had the erudite McNeil known what was going on in Grant’s mind (assuming he could have retained his equanimity and humor), he might have suggested that Grant had been attacked by Poe’s “Imp of the Perverse,” that demon who delights in defying the careful canons of self-preservation.
A good minute passed before Grant, shivering, managed to regain control. His nerves must be in even worse condition than he had imagined.
But he was sure that outwardly at least he was quite calm as he carried in the two plastic containers and their drinking tubes. There was no danger of confusing them now: the engineer’s had the letters M A C painted boldly around it. He pushed that one toward McNeil and watched, fascinated—trying hard to disguise his fascination—as McNeil toyed with the bulb. He seemed in no great hurry; he was staring moodily at nothing. Then, at last, he put the drinking tube to his mouth and sipped— —and spluttered, staring at the drinking bulb with shock. An icy hand seized Peter Grant’s heart. McNeil cleared his throat, then turned to him and said evenly— “Well na’, Grant, you’ve made it properly for once. And very hot, too.”
Slowly Grant’s heart resumed its interrupted work. He did not trust himself to speak, but he did manage a noncommittal nod.
McNeil parked the bulb carefully in midair, a few inches from his face. His fleshy face settled into a ponderously thoughtful expression, as if he were weighing his words in preparation for some momentous pronouncement.
Grant cursed himself for making the coffee so hot. Just the sort of detail that hanged murderers. And if McNeil waited any longer to say whatever he was going to say, Grant would probably betray himself through nervousness.
Not that it would do McNeil any good now.
At last McNeil spoke. “I suppose it’s occurred to you,”
he said in a quietly conversational way, “that there’s still enough air to last one of us to Venus.”
Grant forced his jangling nerves under control and tore his eyes away from McNeil’s fatal bulb of coffee; his throat seemed very dry as he answered. “It . . . it had crossed my mind.”
McNeil touched the floating bulb, found it still too hot, and continued thoughtfully: “Then it would be more sensible —wouldn’t it?—if one of us simply decided to walk out the airlock, say—or take some of the poison in there.”
He jerked his head toward the medicine chest, on the curve of the wall not far from where they were floating.
Grant nodded. Oh yes, that would be quite sensible.
“The only trouble, of course,” McNeil mused, “is deciding which of us is to be the unlucky fella’. I suppose we could draw a card . . . or something equally arbitrary.”
Grant stared at McNeil with a fascination that almost outweighed his mounting nervousness. He never would have believed the engineer could discuss the subject so calmly. Obviously McNeil’s thoughts had been running on a line parallel with his own, and it was scarcely even a coincidence that he had chosen this time, of all times, to raise the question. From his talk it was certain that he suspected nothing.
McNeil was watching Grant closely, as if judging his reaction.
“You’re right,” Grant heard himself say. “We must talk it over. Soon.”
“Yes,” McNeil said impassively. “We must.” And then he reached for the bulb of coffee and brought the drinking tube to his lips. He sucked at it slowly, for a long time.
Grant could not wait for him to finish. Yet the relief he had hoped for did not come; indeed, he felt a stab of regret. Regret, not quite remorse. It was a little late now to think of how lonely he would be aboard Star Queen, haunted by his thoughts, in the days to come.
He knew he did not wish to see McNeil die. Suddenly he felt rather sick. Without another glance at his victim he launched himself toward the flight deck.
XII
Immovably fixed, the fierce sun and the unwinking stars looked down on Star Queen, which on the grand scale of cosmic affairs was as motionless as they were.
There was no way for a naive observer to know that the tiny model molecule of a spaceship had now reached its maximum velocity with respect to Earth and was about to unleash massive thrust to brake itself into a parking orbit near Port Hesperus. Indeed, there was no reason for an observer on the cosmic scale to suspect that Star Queen had anything to do with intelligent purpose, or with life— —until the main airlock atop the command module opened and the lights of the interior glowed yellow in the cold darkness. For a moment the round circle of light hung oddly within the black shadow of the falling ship; then it was abruptly eclipsed, as two human figures floated out of the ship.
One of the two bulky figures was active, the other passive.
Something not easy to perceive happened in the shadows; then the passive figure began to move, slowly at first but with rapidly mounting speed. It swept out of the shadow of the ship into the full blast of the sun. And now the cosmic observer, given a powerful telescope, might have noted the nitrogen bottle strapped to its back, the valve evidently left open—a crude but effective rocket.
Rolling slowly, the corpse—for such it was—dwindled against the stars, to vanish utterly in less than a minute.
The other figure remained quite motionless in the open airlock, watching it go. Then the outer hatch swung shut, the circle of brilliance vanished, and only the reflected sunlight of bright Venus still glinted on the shadowed wall of the ship.
In the immediate vicinity of Star Queen, nothing of consequence happened for the next seven days.
PART FOUR
A QUESTION OF HONOR
XIII
When she caught up with the uniformed man, he was marching along the river walk in the Council of Worlds grounds, heading away from the Earth Central offices of the Board of Space Control. The formal gardens were green with the tender new leaves of budding trees; another spring had come to Manhattan . . .
“Assistant Inspector Troy, Commander. They told me to catch you before you left.”
He kept walking. “I’m not going anywhere, Troy. Just getting out of the office.” She fell into step beside him.
He was a gaunt man, of Slavic ancestry by the look of him, with an iron-gray crewcut and a Canadian-accented voice so hoarse it was hardly more than a whisper. His blue uniform was pressed and spotless; the gold insignia on his collar gleamed; his chest was pinned with only a few ribbons, but they were the ones that count. Despite the blue suit and the headquarters job, the commander’s deeply creased face, burned almost black, betrayed his years in deep space. He opened a silver pill case and popped a tiny purple sphere into his mouth—then seemed to remember Sparta, marching beside him. He paused at the steel railing and held out the open case. “Care for one?
Rademas.” When she hesitated he said, “Lots of us use them, I’m sure you know that—mild boost, wash out of your system in twenty minutes.”
“No thank you, sir,” she said firmly.
“I was kidding,” he rasped. “Actually they’re breath mints. Violet flavor. Strongest thing in ’em is sugar.” He stretched his face into a shape that was not much like a grin. He still held out the open case. Sparta shook her head again and he flipped it closed. “As you wish.” Grimacing in distaste, he spit the mint he’d been holding under his tongue over the rail, into the gelid East River. “Guess I’ve pulled that dumb stunt too often; you rookies are wise.”