A HITCH IN SPACE
My Space-partner was a goodreliable sidekick—but hispartner was something else!
Once when I was doing ahitch with the Shaulan SpaceGuard out Scorpio way, my partnerJeff Bogart developed justabout the most harmless psychosisyou could imagine: he got himselfan imaginary companion.
And the imaginary companionturned out to be me.
Well, I’m a pretty nice guy andso having two of me in the shipdidn’t seem a particularly bad idea.At first. In fact there’d be advantagesof it, I thought. For instance,Jeff liked to talk a weary lot ... andthe imaginary Joe Hansencould spell me listening to him,while I projected a book or justharkened to the wheels goingaround in my own head against thefaint patter of starlight on the hull.
I met Jeff first at a space-rodeo,oddly enough, but now the two ofus were out on a servicing check ofthe orbital beacons and relays andrescue depots of the five planets ofthe Shaulan system. A completelyroutine job, its only drawback thatit was lengthy. Our ship was anionic jeep that looked like a fancyfountain pen, but was very roomyfor three men—one of themimaginary.
I caught on to Jeff’s little maniaby overhearing him talking to me.I’d be coming back from the heador stores or linear accelerator ormy bunk, and I’d hear him yakkingat me. It embarrassed me the firsttime, how to go back into the cabinwhen the other me was there. ButI just swam in, and without anytransition-strain at all that I couldobserve Jeff looked around at me,smiling sort of glaze-eyed, and saidwarmly, “Joe. My buddy Joe. AmI glad they paired us.”
If Jeff had a major fault, as opposedto a species of nuttiness, itwas that he was strictly a speak-only-good,positive-thinking guywho always deferred to me. Evenidolized me, if you can imaginethat. He’d give me such fulsomepraise I’d be irked ten times anorbit.
Another thing that helped mecatch on was that he always calledthe other me Joseph.
At first I thought the wholething might be a gag, or maybea deliberate way of letting offsteam against me without violatinghis always-a-sweet-guy code—likehappy husbands cursing in thebathroom—but then came thescrambled eggs.
I’d slept late and when I squintedinto the cabin there was Jeff hoveringover a plate of yellow fluff andshaking his finger at my empty seatand saying, “Dammit, Joseph, eatyour scrambled eggs, I cooked ’em’specially for you,” and when hecrawfished out toward the galleya couple seconds later he was saying,“Now you start on those eggs,Joseph, before I get back.”
I thought for a bit and then Islid into my place and polishedthem off.
When he floated in with the coffeehe gave me another of thoseglaze-eyed God-fearing looks—butjust a mite disappointed, Ithought—and said, “Dammit, Joe,you’re perfect! You always cleanyour plate.”
Apparently when I was there,Joseph just didn’t exist for Jeff.And vice versa. It was sort of eerie,especially with the hum of space inmy ears like a seashell and nobodyelse for five million miles.
Beginning with the scrambledeggs, I discovered that Jeff didn’texactly idoli