Between Planets (12 page)

A nice maneuver! It required both precise mathematical calculation of times, orbits, fuel expenditure, and upper air weather and piloting virtuosity beyond mathematical calculation—but it saved pennies. Once the shuttle was loaded at the spaceship it was necessary only to nudge it with its rockets against the orbital direction whereupon the shuttle would drop into a lower orbit which would eventually intersect the atmosphere and let the pilot take a free ride back to the surface, glider fashion, killing his terrible speed by dipping ever lower into the thickening air. Here again the pilot must be an artist, for he must both kill his momentum and conserve it so that it would take him where he wanted to go. A shuttle, which landed out in the bush, a thousand miles from a port, would never make another trip, even if pilot and passengers walked away from the landing.

Don went down in the
Cyrus Buchanan
, a trim little craft of hardly three hundred feet wingspread. From a port Don watched her being warped in to match air locks and noticed that the triple globes of Interplanet Lines had been hastily and inadequately painted out on her nose and over had been stenciled: MIDDLE GUARD—VENUS REPUBLIC. This defaced insignia brought the rebellion home to him almost more than had the bombing of Circum-Terra. Interplanet was strong as government—some said it
was
the government. Now hardy rebels had dared to expropriate ships of the great transport trust, paint out the proud triple globes.

Don felt the winds of history blowing coldly around his ears. McMasters was right; he now believed that no ship would run from here to Mars.

When his turn came he pulled himself along through the air locks and into the
Cyrus Buchanan
. The craft’s steward was still in the uniform of Interplanet but the company’s insignia had been removed and chevrons had been sewed to his sleeves. With this change had come a change in manner; he handled the passengers efficiently but without the paid deference of the semi-servant.

The trip down was long, tedious, and hot, as an atmosphere-braking series always is. More than an hour after touch off the airfoils first took hold; shortly Don and the other passengers felt almost full weight pressing them into the cushions, then the pilot lifted her as he decided his ship was growing too hot, let her ride out and upward in free fall. Over and over again this happened, like a stone skipping on water, a nauseating cosmic roller coaster, vastly uncomfortable.

Don did not mind. He was a spaceman again; his stomach was indifferent to surges of acceleration or even the absence thereof. At first he was excited at being back in the clouds of Venus; presently he was bored. At long, long last he was awakened by a change in motion; the craft was whistling down in its final glide, the pilot stabbing ahead with radar for his landing. Then the
Cyrus Buchanan
touched, bounced, and quivered to the rushing water under her hull. She slowed and stopped. After a considerable wait she was towed to her berth. The steward stood up and shouted, “New London! Republic of Venus! Have your papers ready.”

MATTHEW VIII
:20

D
ON
’
S
immediate purpose was to ask his way to the I.T.&T. office, there to file a radiogram to his parents, but he was unable to leave at once; the passengers had to have their papers inspected and they themselves were subjected to physical examinations and questioning. Don found himself, hours later, still sitting outside the security office, waiting to be questioned. His irregular status had sent him to the end of the line.

In addition to being hungry, tired, and bored, his arms itched—they were covered from shoulders to wrists with needle pricks caused by extensive testing for immunities to the many weird diseases and funguslike infections of the second planet. Having once lived there he retained immunity to the peculiar perils of Venus—a good thing, he mused, else he would have had to waste weeks in quarantine while being inoculated. He was rubbing his arms and wondering whether or not he should kick up a fuss when the door opened and his name was called.

He went inside. An officer of the Middle Guard sat at a desk, looking at Don’s papers. “Donald Harvey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Frankly, your case puzzles me. We’ve had no trouble identifying you; your prints check with those recorded when you were here before. But you aren’t a citizen.”

“Sure I am! My mother was born here.”

“Mmmm—” The official drummed on his desk top. “I’m not a lawyer. I get your point, but, after all, when your mother was born, there wasn’t any such nation as Venus Republic: Looks to me as if you were a test case, with precedent still to be established.”

“Then where does that leave me?” Don said slowly.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure you have any legal right to stay here at all.”

“But I don’t want to stay here! I’m just passing through.”

“Eh?”

“I’m on my way to Mars.”

“Oh, that! I’ve seen your papers—too bad. Now let’s talk sense, shall we?”

“I’m going to Mars,” Don repeated stubbornly.

“Sure, sure! And I’m going to heaven when I die. In the meantime you are a resident of Venus whether we like it or not. No doubt the courts will decide, eventually, whether you are a citizen as well. Mr. Harvey, I’ve decided to turn you loose.”

“Huh?” Don was startled; it had not occurred to him that his liberty could be in question.

“Yes. You don’t seem like a threat to the safety of Venus Republic and I don’t fancy holding you in quarantine indefinitely. Just keep your nose clean and phone in your address after you find a place to stay. Here are your papers.”

Don thanked him, picked up his bags and left quickly. Once outside, he stopped to give his arms a good scratching.

At the dock in front of the building an amphibious launch was tied up; its coxswain was lounging at the helm. Don said, “Excuse me, but I want to send a radio. Could you tell me where to go?”

“Sure. I.T.&T. Building, Buchanan Street, Main Island. Just down in the
Nautilus
?”

“That’s right. How do I get there?”

“Jump in. I’ll be making another trip in about five minutes. Any more passengers to come?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t sound like a fog-eater.” The coxswain looked him over.

“Raised on the stuff,” Don assured him, “but I’ve been away at school for several years.”

“Just slid in under the wire, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Lucky for you. No place like home, I guess.” The coxswain looked happily around at the murky sky and the dark waters.

Shortly he started his engine and cast off lines. The little vessel slopped its way through narrow channels, around islands and bars barely above water. A few minutes later Don disembarked at the foot of Buchanan Street, main thoroughfare of New London, capital of the planet.

There were several people loafing around the landing dock; they looked him over. Two of them were runners for rooming houses; he shook them off and started up Buchanan Street. The street was crowded with people but was narrow, meandering, and very muddy. Two lighted signs, one on each side of the street, shone through the permanent fog. One read: ENLIST NOW!!! YOUR NATION NEEDS YOU; the other exhorted in larger letters:
Drink COCA-COLA—New London Bottling Works
.

The I.T.&T. Building turned out to be several hundred yards down the street, almost at the far side of Main Island, but it was easy to find as it was the largest building on the island. Don climbed over the coaming at the entrance and found himself in the local office of Interplanetary Telephone and Televideo Corporation. A young lady was seated behind a counter desk. “I’d like to send a radiogram,” he said to her.

“That’s what we’re here for.” She handed him a pad and stylus.

“Thanks.” Don composed a message with much wrinkling of forehead, trying to make it both reassuring and informative in the fewest words. Presently he handed it in.

The girl raised her brows when she saw the address but made no comment. She counted the words, consulted a book, and said, “That’ll be a hundred and eighty-seven fifty.” Don counted it out, noting anxiously what a hole that made in his assets.

She glanced at the notes and pushed them back. “Are you kidding?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Offering me Federation money. Trying to get me in trouble?”

“Oh.” Don felt again a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach that was getting to be almost a habit. “Look—I’m just down in the
Nautilus
. I haven’t had time to exchange this stuff. Can I send the message collect?”

“To
Mars
?”

“What should I do?”

“Well, there’s the bank just down the street. If I were you I’d try there.”

“I guess so. Thanks.” He started to pick up his message; she stopped him.

“I was about to say that you can file your message if you like. You’ve got two weeks in which to pay for it.”

“Huh? Why, thanks!”

“Don’t thank me. It can’t go out for a couple of weeks and you don’t have to pay until we are ready to send it.”

“Two weeks? Why?”

“Because Mars is right smacko back of the Sun now; it wouldn’t punch through. We’ll have to wait on the swing.”

“Well, what’s the matter with relay?”

“There’s a war on—or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Oh—” Don felt foolish.

“We’re still accepting private messages both ways on the Terra-Venus channel—subject to paraphrase and censoring—but we couldn’t guarantee that your message would be relayed from Terra to Mars. Or could you instruct someone on Earth to pay for the second transmission?”

“Uh—I’m afraid not.”

“Maybe it’s just as well. They might not relay it for you even if you could get someone to foot the bill. The Federation censors might kill it. So give me that traffic and I’ll file it. You can pay for it later.” She glanced at the message. “Looks like you sort of ran into hard luck. How old are you—” She glanced again at the form. “—Don Harvey?”

Don told her.

“Hmmm…you look older. I’m older than you are; I guess that makes me your grandmother. If you need any more advice, just stop in and ask Grandmother Isobel—Isobel Costello.”

“Uh, thanks, Isobel.”

“Not at all. Usual I.T.&T. service.” She gave him a warm smile. Don left feeling somewhat confused.

The bank was near the center of the island; Don remembered having passed it. The sign on the glass read: BANK OF AMERICA & HONGKONG. Over this had been stuck strips of masking tape and under it was another sign handwritten in whitewash:
New London Trust & Investment Company
. Don went in, picked the shortest queue, and presently explained his wants. The teller hooked a thumb toward a desk back of a rail. “See him.”

At the desk was seated an elderly Chinese dressed in a long black gown. As Don approached he stood up, bowed, and said, “May I help you, sir?”

Don again explained and laid his wad of bills on the banker’s desk. The man looked at it without touching it. “I am so sorry—”

“What’s the matter?”

“You are past the date when one may legally exchange Federation currency for money of the Republic.”

“But I haven’t had a chance to before! I just got in.”

“I am very sorry. I do not make the regulations.”

“But what am I to do?”

The banker closed his eyes, then opened them. “In this imperfect world one must have money. Have you something to offer as security?”

“Uh, I guess not. Just my clothes and these bags.”

“No jewelry?”

“Well, I’ve got a ring but I don’t suppose it’s worth much.”

“Let me see it.”

Don took off the ring Dr. Jefferson had mailed to him and handed it over. The Chinese stuck a watchmaker’s loop in his eye and examined it. “I’m afraid you are right. Not even true amber—merely plastic. Still—a symbol of security will bind the honest man quite as much as chains. I’ll advance fifty credits on it.”

Don took the ring back and hesitated. The ring could not possibly be worth a tenth of that sum…and his stomach was reminding him that flesh has its insistent demands. Still—his mother had spent at least twice that amount to make sure that this ring reached him (or the paper it had been wrapped in, he corrected himself) and Dr. Jefferson had died in a fashion somehow connected with this same bauble.

He put it back on his finger. “That wouldn’t be fair. I guess I had better find a job.”

“A man of pride. There is always work to be found in a new and growing city; good luck. When you have found employment come back and we can arrange an advance against your wages.” The banker reached into the folds of his gown, pulled out a single credit note. “But eat first—a full belly steadies the judgment. Do me the honor of accepting this as our welcome to the newcomer.”

His pride said no; his stomach said
YES!
Don took it and said, “Uh, thanks! That’s awfully kind of you. I’ll pay it back, first chance.”

“Instead, pay it forward to some other brother who needs it.” The banker touched a button on his desk, then stood up.

Don said goodbye and left.

There was a man loitering at the door of the bank. He let Don get a step or two ahead, then followed him, but Don paid him no attention, being very busy with his own worries. It was slowly beginning to grow on him that the bottom had dropped out of his world and that there might be no way to put it back together. He had lived in security all his life; he had never experienced emotionally, in his own person, the basic historical fact that mankind lives always by the skin of its teeth, sometimes winning but more often losing—and dying.

But never quitting. In a hundred yards of muddy street he began to grow up, take stock of his situation. He was more than a hundred million miles from where he meant to be. He had no way at once to let his parents know where be was, nor was it a simple matter of waiting two weeks—he was flat broke, unable to pay the high tariff.

Broke, hungry, and no place to sleep…no friends, not even an acquaintance—unless, he recalled, you counted “Sir Isaac,” but, for all he knew, his dragon friend might be on the other side of the planet. Certainly not close enough at hand to affect the ham-and-eggs problem!