By ROGER DEE
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine April 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
If this story holds true in real
practice, it may reveal something
about us that we've never known.
"We're just starting on the first one—Walraven, ship's communicationsman," Costain said, low-voiced. "Captain Maxon and Vaughn have calledin. There's been no word from Ragan."
Coordinator Erwin took his seat beside the psychologist, his bearingas militarily authoritative in spite of civilian clothing as the room'sair was medical.
"Maybe Ragan won't turn up," Erwin said. "Maybe we've still got a manout there to bring the ship back."
Costain made a quieting gesture, his eyes on the three-man psychteam grouped about Walraven's wheeled reclining chair. "They've givenWalraven a light somnolent. Not enough to put him out, just enough tomake him relive the flight in detail. Accurately."
The lead psych man killed the room's lighting to a glow. "LieutenantWalraven, the ship is ready. You are at your post, with Captain Maxonand Lieutenants Vaughn and Ragan. The first Mars flight is about toblast off. How do you feel?"
Walraven lay utterly relaxed, his face dreaming. His voice had thewaning sound of a tape running down for lack of power.
"Jumpy," he said. "But not really afraid. We're too well conditionedfor that, I guess. This is a big thing, an important thing. Exciting."
It had been exciting at first. The long preparation over, training andstudy and news interviews and final parties all dreamlike and part ofthe past. Outside now, invisible but hearteningly present beyond theship's impermeable hull, the essential and privileged people waiting tosee them off. The ship's power plant was humming gently like a giant,patient cat.
Captain Maxon passed out muscle-relaxant capsules. The total bonelessrelaxation that was their defense against acceleration came quickly.
The ship was two hours out, beyond lunar orbit and still accelerating,when, trained for months against the moment, set each about his task.Readings occupied Maxon and Vaughn and Ragan while Walraven checked hiscommunications and telemetering gear.
It was not until the transmitter slot had licked up its first codedtape—no plain text here, security before even safety—and reported allwell, the predicted borne out, that they became aware of the Feeling.
The four of them sat in their unsqueaking gimbaled seats and lookedat each other, sharing the Feeling and knowing that they shared it,but not why. Vaughn, who was given to poetry and some degree ofsoul-searching, made the first open recognition.
"There's something wrong," he said.
The others agreed and, agreeing, could add nothing of explanation tothe wrongness. Time passed while they sat, seeing within themselves forthe answer—and if not for answer, at least for identification—butnothing came and nothing changed except that with time the steadypressure of the Feeling grew stronger.
Vaughn, again, was first to react to the pressure. "We've got todo something." He twisted out of his seat and wavered in the smallpseudogravity of the ship's continuing acceleration. "I've never in mylife felt so desolate, so—"
He stopped. "There aren't any words," he said helplessly.
Less articulate than Vaughn and knowing it, the others did not try t