XIII.
“In the land of Chinchanchou,
Where the winds blow tender
From a sea like purple wine
Foaming to defend her,
Lives a princess beautiful
(May the gods amend her!) Little known for virtue, but
Of most female gender.”
A
S he came around the gyro housing and pulled himself forward to the observation deck, David Ryerson heard
the guitar skitter through half a dozen chords and Maclaren’s voice come bouncing in its wake. He sighed, pushed the lank yellow hair back out of his eyes, and braced himself.
Maclaren floated in the living section. It was almost an insult to see him somehow clean all over, in a white tunic, when each man was allowed a daily spongeful of water for such purposes. And half rations had only leaned the New Zealander down, put angles in his smooth brown countenance; he didn’t have bones jutting up under a stretched skin like Ryerson, or a flushed complexion and recurring toothache like Nakamura. It wasn’t fair!
“Oh, hullo, Dave.” Maclaren continued tickling his strings, but quietly. “How does the web progress?”
“I’m done.”
“I just clinched the last bolt and spotwelded the last connection. There’s not a thing left except to find that germanium, make the transistors, and adjust the units.” Ryerson hooked an arm around a stanchion and drifted free, staring out of sunken eyes toward emptiness. “God help me,” he murmured, “what am I going to do now?”
“Wait,” said Maclaren. “We can’t do much except wait.” He regarded the younger man for a while. “Frankly, both Seiichi and I found excuses not to help you, did less out there than we might have, for just that reason. I’ve been afraid you would finish the job before we found our planet.”
Ryerson started. Redness crept into his chalky face. “Why, of all the—” His anger collapsed. “I see. All right.”
“These weeks since we escaped have been an unparalleled chance to practice my music,” remarked Maclaren. “I’ve even
been composing. Listen.
“In their golden-masted ships
Princes come a-wooing
Over darkling spindrift roads
Where the gales are brewing.
Lusty tales have drawn them thence,
Much to their undoing:
When they seek the lady’s hand
She gives them the—”
“Will you stop that?” screamed Ryerson.
“As you like,” said Maclaren mildly. He put the guitar back into its case. “I’d be glad to teach you,” he offered.
“I”~o.”
“Care for a game of chess?”
“I’~o.”
“I wish to all the hells I’d been more of an intellectual,” said Maclaren. “I never was, you know. I was a playboy, even in science. Now . . . I wish I’d brought a few hundred books with me. When I get back, I’m going to read them.” His smile faded. “I think I might begin to understand them.”
“When we get back?” Ryerson’s thin frame doubled in midair as if for a leap. “If we get back, you mean!”
N
AKAMURA entered. He had a sheaf of scribbled papers in one hand. His face was carefully blank. “I have completed the calculations on our latest data,” he said.
Ryerson shuddered. “What have you found?” he cried. “Negative.”
“Lord God of Israel,” groaned Ryerson. “Negative again.”
“That pretty well covers this orbit, then,” said Maclaren calmly. “I’ve got the elements of the next one computed— somewhere.” He went out among the instruments.
A muscle in Ryerson’s cheek began to jump of itself. He looked at Nakamura for a long time. “Isn’t there anything else we can do?” he asked. “The telescopes, the—Do we just have to sit?”
“We are circling a dead sun,” the pilot reminded him. “There is only feeble starlight to see by. A very powerful instrument might photograph a planet, but not the telescopes we have. Not at any distance greater than we could find them gravitationally. S-s-so.”
“We could make a big telescope!” exclaimed Ryerson. “We have glass, and . . . and silver and—”
“I’ve thought of that.” Maclaren’s tones drifted back from the observation section. “You’re welcome to amuse yourself with it, but we’d starve long before a suitable mirror could be ground with the equipment here.”
“But—Maclaren, space is so big! We could hunt for a million years and never find a planet if we can’t . . . can’t see them!”