Galaxy

  BEAUCLAIRE was given his first ship at Sirius. He was called up before the Commandant in the slow heat of the afternoon, and stood shuf­fling with awkward delight upon the shaggy carpet. He was twenty-five years old, and two months out of the Academy. It was a wonderful day.

  The Commandant told Beau­claire to sit down, and sat look­ing at him for a long while. The Commandant was an old man with a face of many lines. He was old, was hot, was tired. He was also very irritated. He had reached that point of oldness when talking to a young man is an irritation because they are so bright and certain and don't know anything and there is nothing you can do about it.

  "All right," the Commandant said, "there are a few things I have to tell you. Do you know where you are going?"

  "No, sir," Beauclaire said cheerfully.

  "All right," the Commandant said again, "I'll tell you. You are going to the Hole in Cygnus. You've heard of it, I hope? Good. Then you know that the Hole is a large dust cloud—estimated diameter, ten light-years. We have never gone into the Hole, for a number of reasons. It's too thick for light speeds, it's too big, and Mapping Command ships are being spread thin. Also, until now, we never thought there was anything in the Hole worth looking at. So we have never gone into the Hole. Your ship will be the first."

  "Yes, sir," Beauclaire said, eyes shining.

  "A few weeks ago," the Com­mandant said, "one of our ama­teurs had a lens on the Hole, just looking. He saw a glow. He reported to us; we checked and saw the same thing. There is a faint light coming out of the Hole —obviously, a sun, a star inside the cloud, just far enough in to be almost invisible. God knows how long it's been there, but we do know that there's never been a record of a light in the Hole. Apparently this star orbited in some time ago, and is now on its way out. It is just approaching the edge of the cloud. Do you follow me?"

  "Yes, sir," Beauclaire said.

  "Your job is this: You will investigate that sun for livable planets and alien life. If you find anything—which is highly unlikely—you are to decipher the language and come right back. A Psych team will go out and de­termine the effects of a starless sky upon the alien culture—ob­viously, these people will never have seen the stars."

  THE Commandant leaned forward, intent now for the first time.

  "Now, this is an important job. There were no other linguists available, so we passed over a lot of good men to pick you. Make no mistake about your qualifications. You are nothing spectacular. But the ship will be yours from now on, permanently. Have you got that?"

  The young man nodded, grin­ning from ear to ear.

  "There is something else," the Commandant said, and abruptly he paused.

  He gazed silently at Beauclaire —at the crisp gray uniform, the baby-slick cheek—and he thought fleetingly and bitterly of the Hole in Cygnus which he, an old man, would never see. Then he told himself sternly to leave off self-pity. The important thing was coming up, and he would have to say it well.

  "Listen," he said. The tone of his voice was very strong and Beauclaire blinked. "You are re­placing one of our oldest men. One of our best men. His name is Billy Wyatt. He—he has been with us a long time." The Com­mandant paused again, his fingers toying with the blotter on his desk. "They have told you a lot of stuff at the Academy, which is all very important. But I want you to understand something else: This Mapping Command is a weary business—few men last for any length of time, and those that do aren't much good in the end. You know that. Well, I want you to be very careful when you talk to Billy Wyatt; and I want you to listen to him, because he's been around longer than any­body. We're relieving him, yes, because he is breaking down. He's no good for us any more; he has no more nerve. He's lost the feeling a man has to have to do his job right."

  The Commandant got up slow­ly and walked around in front of Beauclaire, looking into his eyes.

  "When you relieve Wyatt, treat him with respect. He's been farther and seen more than any man you will ever meet. I want no cracks and no pity for that man. Because, listen, boy, sooner or later the same thing will happen to you. Why? Because it's too big—" the Commandant gestured helplessly with spread hands—"it's all just too damn big. Space is never so big that it can't get bigger. If you fly long enough, it will finally get too big to make any sense, and you'll start think­ing. You'll start thinking that it doesn't make sense. On that day, we'll bring you back and put you into an office somewhere. If we leave you alone, you lose ships and get good men killed—there's nothing we can do when space gets too big. That is what hap­pened to Wyatt. That is what will happen, eventually, to you. Do you understand?"

  The young man nodded uncer­tainly.

  "And that," the Commandant said sadly, "is the lesson for today. Take your ship. Wyatt will go with you on this one trip, to break you in. Pay attention to what he has to say—it will mean something. There's one other crewman, a man named Cooper. You'll be flying with him now. Keep your ears open and your mouth shut, except for questions. And don't take any chances. That's all."

  Beauclaire saluted and rose to go.

  "When you see Wyatt," the Commandant said, "tell him I won't be able to make it down before you leave. Too busy. Got papers to sign. Got more damn papers than the chief has ulcers."

  The young man waited.

  "That, God help you, is all," said the Commandant.

  WYATT saw the letter when the young man was still a long way off. The white caught his eye, and he watched idly for a moment. And then he saw the fresh green gear on the man's back and the look on his face as he came up the ladder, and Wyatt stopped breathing.

  He stood for a moment blink­ing in the sun. Me? he thought … me?

  Beauclaire reached the plat­form and threw down his gear, thinking that this was one hell of a way to begin a career.

  Wyatt nodded to him, but didn't say anything. He accepted the letter, opened it and read it. He was a short man, thick and dark and very powerful. The lines of his face did not change as he read the letter.

  "Well," he said when he was done, "thank you."

  There was a long wait, and Wyatt said at last: "Is the Commandant coming down?"

  "No, sir. He said he was tied up. He said to give you his best."

  "That's nice," Wyatt said. After that, neither of them spoke. Wyatt showed the new man to his room and wished him good luck. Then he went back to his cabin and sat down to think.

  After 28 years in the Mapping Command, he had become necessarily immune to surprise; he could understand this at once, but it would be some time before he would react. Well, well, he said to himself, but he did not feel it.

  Vaguely, flicking cigarettes onto the floor, he wondered why. The letter had not given a reason. He had probably flunked a physical. Or a mental. One or the other, each good enough reason. He was 47 years old, and this was a rough business. Still, he felt strong and cautious, and he knew he was not afraid. He felt good for a long while yet . . . but ob­viously he was not.

  Well, then, he thought, where now?

  He considered that with inter­est. There was no particular place for him to go. Really no place. He had come into the business easily and naturally, knowing what he wanted—which was simply to move and listen and see. When he was young, it had been adventure alone that drew him; now it was something else he could not define, but a thing he knew he needed badly. He had to see, to watch . . . and under­stand.

  It was ending, the long time was ending. It didn't matter what was wrong with him. The point was that he was through. The point was that he was going home, to nowhere in particular.

  When evening came, he was still in his room. Eventually he'd been able to accept it all and examine it clearly, and had de­cided that there was nothing to do. If there was anything out in space which he had not yet found, he would not be
likely to need it.

  He left off sitting, and went up to the control room.

  COOPER was waiting for him. Cooper was a tall, bearded, scrawny man with a great temper and a great heart and a small capacity for liquor. He was sit­ting all alone in the room when Wyatt entered.

  Except for the pearl-green glow of dashlights from the panel, the room was dark. Cooper was lying far back in the pilot's seat, his feet propped up on the panel. One shoe was off, and he was carefully pressing buttons with his huge bare toes. The first thing Wyatt saw when he entered was the foot glowing luridly in the green light of the panel. Deep within the ship he could hear the hum of the dynamos starting and stopping.

  Wyatt grinned. From the play of Coop's toes, and the attitude, and the limp, forgotten pole of an arm which hung down loosely from the chair, it was obvious that Coop was drunk. In port, he was usually drunk. He was a lean, likable man with very few cares and no manners at all, which was typical of men in that Command.

  "What say, Billy?" Coop mum­bled from deep in the seat. Wyatt sat down. "Where you been?"

  "In the port. Been drinkin' in the goddam port. Hot!"

  "Bring back any?"

  Coop waved an arm floppily in no particular direction. "Look around."

  The flasks lay in a heap by the door. Wyatt took one and sat down again. The room was warm and green and silent. The two men had been together long enough to be able to sit without speaking, and in the green glow they waited, thinking. The first pull Wyatt took was long and numbing; he closed his eyes.

  Coop did not move at all. Not even his toes. When Wyatt had begun to think he was asleep, he said suddenly:

  "Heard about the replace­ment."

  Wyatt looked at him.

  "Found out this afternoon," Coop said, "from the goddam Commandant."

  Wyatt closed his eyes again. "Where you goin'?" Coop asked.

  Wyatt shrugged. "Plush job."

  "You got any plans?"

  Wyatt shook his head.

  Coop swore moodily. "Never let you alone," he muttered. "Miserable bastards." He rose up suddenly in the chair, pointing a long matchstick finger into Wyatt's face. "Listen, Billy," he said with determination, "you was a good man, you know that? You was one hell of a good god-dam man."

  Wyatt took another long pull and nodded, smiling.

  "You said it," he said.

  "I sailed with some good men, some good men," Coop insisted, stabbing shakily but emphatically with his finger, "but you don't take nothin' from nobody."

  "Here's to me, I'm true blue," Wyatt grinned.

  COOP sank back in the chair, satisfied. "I just wanted you should know. You been a good man."

  "Betcher sweet life," Wyatt said.

  "So they throw you out. Me they keep. You they throw out. They got no brains."

  Wyatt lay back, letting the liquor take hold, receding with­out pain into a quiet world. The ship was good to feel around him, dark and throbbing like a living womb. Just like a womb, he thought. It's a lot like a womb.

  "Listen," Coop said thickly, rising from his chair. "I think I'll quit this racket. What the hell I wanna stay in this racket for?"

  Wyatt looked up, startled. When Coop was drunk, he was never a little drunk. He was always far gone, and he could be very mean. Wyatt saw now that he was down deep and sinking; that the replacement was a big thing to him, bigger than Wyatt had expected. In this team, Wyatt had been the leader, and it had seldom occurred to him that Coop really needed him. He had never really thought about it. But now he let himself realize that, alone, Coop could be very bad. Unless this new man was worth anything and learned quickly, Coop would very likely get himself killed.

  Now, more than ever, this re­placement thing was ridiculous; but for Coop's sake, Wyatt said quickly:

  "Drop that, man. You'll be on this ship in the boneyard. You even look like this ship—you got a bright red bow."

  When the tall man was dark and silent, Wyatt said gently, "Coop. Easy. We leave at mid­night. Want me to take her up?" "Naw." Coop turned away abruptly, shaking his head. "T'hell with you. Go die." He sank back deeply in the seat, his gaunt face reflecting the green glow from the panel. His next words were sad, and, to Wyatt, very touching.

  "Hell, Billy," Coop said weari­ly, "this ain' no fun."

  Wyatt let him take the ship up alone. There was no reason to argue about it. Coop was drunk; his mind was unreachable.

  At midnight, the ship bucked and heaved and leaped up into the sky. Wyatt hung tenuously to a stanchion by a port, watched the night lights recede and the stars begin blooming. In a few moments the last clouds were past, and they were out in the long night, and the million mil­lion speckled points of glittering blue and red and silver burned once more with the mighty light which was, to Wyatt, all that was real or had ever meant living. In the great glare and the black he stood, as always, waiting for something to happen, for the huge lonely beauty to resolve itself to a pattern and descend and be un­derstood.

  It did not. It was just space, an area in which things existed, in which mechanized substance moved. Wondering, waiting, Wy­att regarded the Universe. The stars looked icily back.

  At last, almost completely broken, Wyatt went to bed.

  BEAUCLAIRE' S first days passed very quickly. He spent them in combing the ship, seeking her out in her deepest layers, watching and touching and lov­ing. The ship was to him like a woman; the first few days were his honeymoon. Because there is no lonelier job that a man can have, it was nearly always this way with men in the Command.

  Wyatt and Cooper left him pretty much alone. They did not come looking for him, and the few times that he did see them he could not help but feel their surprise and resentment. Wyatt was always polite. Cooper was not. Neither seemed to have any­thing to say to Beauclaire, and he was wise enough to stay by himself. Most of Beauclaire's life until now had been spent among books and dust and dead, ancient languages. He was by nature a solitary man, and therefore it was not difficult for him to be alone. On a morning some weeks after the trip began, Wyatt came look­ing for him. His eyes twinkling, Wyatt fished him up, grease-coated and embarrassed, out of a shaft between the main dynamos. Together they went up toward the astrogation dome. And under the great dome, beneath the mas­sive crystal sheet on the other side of which there was nothing for ever and ever, Beauclaire saw a beauty which he was to remem­ber as long as he lived.

  They were nearing the Hole in Cygnus. On the side which faces the center of the Galaxy the Hole is almost flat, from top to bottom, like a wall. They were moving in on the flat side now, floating along some distance from the wall, which was so huge and incredible that Beauclaire was struck dumb.

  It began above him, light-years high., It came down in a black, folding, rushing silence, fell away beneath him for millions upon millions of miles, passed down be­yond sight so far away, so unbelievably far away and so vast, that there could be nothing as big as this, and if he had not seen the stars still blazing on either side he would have had to believe that the wall was just out­side the glass, so close he could touch it. From all over the wall a haze reflected faintly, so that the wall stood out in ridges and folds from the great black of space. Beauclaire looked up and then down, and then stood and gazed.

  After a while, Wyatt pointed silently down. Beauclaire looked in among the folds and saw it, the tiny yellow gleam toward which they were moving. It was so small against the massive cloud that he lost it easily.

  Each time he took his eyes away, he lost it, and had to search for it again.

  "It's not too far in," Wyatt said at last, breaking the silence. "We'll move down the cloud to the nearest point, then we'll slow down and move in. Should take a couple of days."

  Beauclaire nodded.

  "Thought you'd like to see," Wyatt said.

  "Thanks." Beauclaire was sin­cerely grateful. And then, unable to contain himself, he shook his head with wonder. "My God!" he said.

  Wyatt smiled. "It's a big show."
/>   Later, much later, Beauclaire began to remember what the Commandant had said about Wyatt. But he could not under­stand it at all. Sure, something like the Hole was incomprehen­sible. It did not make any sense—but so what? A thing as beautiful as that, Beauclaire thought, did not have to make sense.

  THEY reached the sun slowly. The gas was not thick by any Earthly standards—approximate­ly one atom to every cubic mile of space—but for a starship, any matter at all is too much. At normal speeds, the ship would hit the gas like a wall. So they came in slowly, swung in and around the large yellow sun. They saw one planet almost immediately. While moving in to­ward that one they scanned for others, found none at all.

  Space around them was abso­lutely strange; there was nothing in the sky but a faint haze. They were in the cloud now, and of course could see no star. There was nothing but the huge sun and the green gleaming dot of that one planet, and the endless haze. From a good distance out, Wy­att and Cooper ran through the standard tests while Beauclaire watched with grave delight. They checked for radio signals, found none. The spectrum of the planet revealed strong oxygen and water-vapor lines, surprisingly little nitrogen. The temperature, while somewhat cool, was in the livable range.

  It was a habitable planet. "Jackpot!" Coop said cheer­fully. "All that oxygen, bound to be some kind of life."

  Wyatt said nothing. He was sitting in the pilot chair, his huge hands on the controls, nursing the ship around into the long slow spiral which would take them down. He was thinking of many other things, many other landings. He was remembering the acid ocean at Lupus and the rotting disease of Altair, all the dark, vicious, unknowable things he had approached, unsuspecting, down the years.

  . . . So many years, that now he suddenly realized it was too long, too long.

  Cooper, grinning unconsciously as he scanned with the telescope, did not notice Wyatt's sudden freeze.

  It was over all at once. Wyatt's knuckles had gradually whitened as he gripped the panel. Sweat had formed on his face and run down into his eyes, and he blink­ed, and realized with a strange numbness that he was soaking wet all over. In that moment, his hands froze and gripped the panel, and he could not move them.