Race Against Time (17 page)

"The regular spacejack release," she said. "For the recompense. Put your ID here." She looked at him as though about to remark on his pale color, but courtesy restrained her.

Was this legitimate? Would they really give up the ship at the touch of an ID? Was spacejacking this common? John hesitated.

"...commanded to attend at his court. 'Why have you disobeyed my instructions?' the Creator said. 'You were supposed to show kindness to all strangers, but when I disguised myself and came among you...' "

But what could this ID card do except give away his location? By the time the Standards came in force, the ship would be in orbit.

John touched the ID to the small metallic panel she held out, aware that a unique magnetic imprint had been made. He was now officially a pirate.

The man stood up. "Good luck," he said. "She's a good vessel."

"...to the Eyes he sent blindness; to the Head, headaches; to the Hands, paralysis; to the Feet, rheumatism; only the Stomach escaped. But the Stomach was very stupid, and pleaded to be allowed to share the burdens of his brethren. So the Creator..."

"Might I inquire," the woman said as though she knew this was none of her business, "where you mean to voyage?"

Again, John hesitated.

"...decreed that all other members of the body should be forever subservient to the Stomach. The Head should think of its comfort, the Eyes must constantly watch for its benefit, the Hands must procure and prepare its food, the Feet must carry it whithersoever it needed to go..."

But again, why not? "Stomach," John said. "I mean, earth."

The Standards exchanged glances, then shrugged.

John stuck his head back through the phased port. "All ours!"

Ala looked at him, smiling. "And that is why the Stomach suffers pain and is exposed to many dangers, but still is the most favored part of the body," she said.

Takeoff was automatic once the order had been given. They abruptly shut down the guerrilla barrage, demanded a no-risk ascent, and got it. That meant their route was clear; no other ships would cross their coordinates and elevation until they were through.

John sat in the pilot's seat and watched the gauges intently. All registered in their safe ranges, as he understood them. This was no more difficult than giving the taxi a coordinate... fortunately.

There was no blast of vapors as the ship took off. It merely launched smoothly into the sky at an angle. They watched the viewscreen, fascinated, as the ground dropped away to reveal wider and wider expanses of field and forest. This world of Standard was beautiful and unspoiled, whatever else it was not. Bands of cloud came between the ship and the land. It was as though they were sailing through floating islands. Then the cloud cover became complete, and the world was featureless.

There was a lot of atmosphere to traverse. The ship continued to accelerate. The first time John looked at the air-passage gauge it registered six hundred knots. Next time it was up to thirteen hundred, and he realized they had passed through the sonic barrier without even a shudder. Then two thousand and on up, steadily and smoothly.

Apparently this was the way of it: an angling up, circling the planet, spiraling out until fully spaceborne. Perhaps it would level off when it achieved a full orbit. This didn't strike John as the most efficient mode of takeoff, but it certainly was easy on the passengers.

"What is your power source?" he asked the communicator.

"Total conversion," the ship's voice replied.

"Total conversion of
what
to
what?"

"Of matter to energy."

That didn't help much. "How long will it take to get to earth?"

"Variable."

John pondered how best to get the information he wanted without displaying his ignorance. Of course it was only a machine, but he still had his pride. There could be a thousand factors affecting their prospective journey—the relative motions of the two planets, the choice of trajectories, considerations of fuel consumption and timing (although this total conversion implied limitless fuel). No simple schedule was possible.

But he would have to tell the others something. He was the pilot and the present leader of the group; he had to evince confidence. "Can the journey be arranged to finish in—um, let me see—in two weeks? Without harm to ship or passengers or undue danger?"

"It can."

"Good enough. Execute."

That was it. They were on their way to earth.

John was pleased with himself. Much later he would learn that he had little reason to be. He had asked the wrong questions, letting his pride keep him ignorant of the most relevant fact.

The ship, which had seemed so large at first, became more confining with every passing hour. There were only two staterooms, each designed for two people. The cooking and sanitary facilities were small and hardly private. There was no way to get away from the crowd for any length of time. John decreed that at least two of them should be on duty at all times. That made the sleeping accommodations sufficient. Actually, one room might do for that, since each person slept only a third of the time. The other stateroom could be reserved for waking activities, and the main travel compartment would be open to everyone all the time.

"Humé and Pei sleep first," he said. "In eight hours Betsy and Meilan get the room. After that...." He paused as the others chuckled, realizing that he boxed himself into the third shift sleeping with Ala, but there was no way to make it come out even. "I'll sleep in the pilot's chair," he said finally.

"Another must pilot while you sleep," Pei pointed out. "Perhaps you can use the second room."

John nodded, disgruntled but seeing no better alternative. He was not being an effective leader if Pei had to bail him out like that, and he smarted. But that was the least of the problems he was to face. They had two weeks of close confinement to endure. It was amazing how rapidly purebred company palled. Personality conflicts began to develop in the first few hours of enforced idleness.

Betsy and Meilan did not get along. While Humé and Pei slept and John piloted (or pretended to, since he did not dare meddle with the ship's automatic program) and Ala occupied herself weaving some kind of basket in the spare stateroom, the two other girls sat in the main compartment and chatted. At first John thought it was innocent conversation, but gradually their voices sharpened, and the subtle rancor of it became obvious. They seemed to be jealous of each other, though he wasn't certain why.

Betsy was a smart, pretty, outspoken, positive Western girl, usually the first to voice an opinion and the most resentful of masculine prerogatives. Meilan was, despite her normally quiet demeanor and subdued expression, somewhat more feminine and considerably more intelligent, however. Good reason for jealousy, actually!

Of course there was Pei. Betsy liked him—that was obvious. But he was Chinese, and Meilan was the one intended for him, according to the Standard Plan. More jealousy!

"Why don't you girls see about something to eat?" John suggested, mainly to break it up.

And that was disaster, for the mechanisms of the food dispenser were mysterious and the tastes of the two girls differed strongly. Betsy wanted to order hamburgers on rye. Meilan was dismayed. "The ground body of a cow? This is not food to eat! Such animals are for work, not butchery."

"Oh?" Betsy said with mock sweetness. "What
do
you eat, in the civilized Middle Kingdom?"

"Fish, fowl, fruit, rice, sometimes pigs, and tea to drink."

"Fruit, rice, and tea! What a lovely meal!" Betsy said sarcastically. "Why don't we ask Ala what she wants?"

"Of course."

They called Ala in. "How would you like a nice fat slice of pig?" Betsy asked her.

Ala was shocked. "Swine? It is forbidden!"

"They like it in China."

Then John saw the snare. Betsy was playing one culture off against another. He was furious, but thought he'd better stay out of it.

They finally settled on coffee, bean curd and melon.

After intermediate hours the first shift ended. Humé and Pei reappeared, and Betsy and Meilan retired without coming to hair-pulling, much to John's relief. Ala continued her basket-weaving in the other room.

The companionship of the men was more congenial, at first. Humé was giving some gruesome but interesting detail on techniques of jungle combat when Ala joined them in the main compartment. She was nude.

John would have been amused at the horrified reaction of the other males, if he had not been so shocked himself. It was not that Ala was bad looking. She wasn't.

No one spoke, however. John realized that they were waiting for him. It was his place, as Captain, to handle the problem. "Put on some clothing," he muttered, his tongue thick.

Ala looked at him. "Why? It is not cold."

He found he had no sensible reason to give her. "Girls are supposed to be dressed, that's all."

"Not in Songhai. Not unmarried girls, in the heat of the day," she said.

"Songhai is primitive," Humé said. "No good Moslem woman exposes herself. At Kanem we would never tolerate—"

"Oh, who cares about Kanem!" she cried. "You hypocrites, you try to suppress the tribal gods!"

"We're
civilized!"
Humé shouted back. "There is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is—"

"Songhai was ancient before Muhammad ever existed," she said. "The kings of Mali and Songhai and Kanem only converted for political expedience. They never believed."

"Go and get clothed!" Humé said, furious. "A woman has no place talking of politics and religion."

"Hippo!" she said, leaving.

John turned on Humé. "It was
my
job to send her back. I'm leader now."

Humé shrugged massive shoulders and faced him with an assumed blandness. "Why did you not do so, then?"

"Because you butted in!" But he realized as he spoke that he was being irrational. He was jealous of Humé the same way Betsy was jealous of Meilan. When he was a third party he could be objective; when he was the second party his emotions got in the way. He resented Humé's authority over Ala.

"I had understood that you both were Moslem," Pei remarked to Humé.

"The royal houses are devout. The villages, the countryside—" Humé shrugged again. "Belief is slow to change, and there are many primitives. Even the king does not attempt to hold completely to Moslem custom. It isn't expedient."

"So she really believes in nature gods and things?" John asked, intrigued now.

"No," Ala said, reentering fully robed. "When a spirit grows too violent, I can tell him the wood he is made of. But I'm not sanctimonious about Allah, either."

"Well, we all have different religions, I guess," John said. "I'm Christian, and so is Betsy."

"Meilan and I are Confucian," Pei said. "Though she is also a Buddhist, while I am Taoist."

"You belong to
two
religions?" John asked, amazed.

"Certainly. They are complementary, not exclusive."

"That's ridiculous. You can't worship two gods!"

"Why not?"

"It just isn't—you
can't,
that's all!" But he felt his moral footing eroding. These new concepts were disquieting.

"What is there to prevent me? Though of course Confucius is not a god. The principle remains."

"There is no god but Allah," Humé put in.

"No!" John exclaimed.

"No?"
Humé stood up, looking very much the warrior.

"We must have religious tolerance," Pei said quickly.

"Why?" Humé demanded. "It only leads to a shameless exposure."

Ala looked angry now.

"We can't argue like this," John said. "We have an important mission to accomplish. We have to stick together."

Humé sat down slowly. "That is right. I would not care to begin my hajj in blood."

The respite was brief. Half and hour later Betsy burst into the main compartment in a Standard nightie, hair flouncing. She pointed an accusing finger at John. "Your damned animal! Do you know what he's done?"

Oh-oh. John could smell it now.

"Right on my dress!" she said indignantly.

John could understand her feelings, but had to defend Canute. "We're cooped up on a spaceship. He can't just go outside. So he looked for some newspaper, and if your tunic happened to be folded into a square—"

"If I catch him," she said, "I'll rub his ugly nose in it!"

"Stay away from him!" John said, alarmed. "He knows you don't like him. He's not vicious, but if you touch him—"

"Well, keep him out of my room! Who's going to clean it up?"

"I will," John said. "He's my dog. I won't punish him, though, because I know he was trying to do the right thing."

"Wait till he does it on
your
clothing!"

But John didn't have to clean it up. Humé had already taken care of the matter. Then Ala produced the basket she had been making. "It is for Canute," she said, "for he has no place to sleep except the floor."

"Oh. Thanks," John said, nonplussed. "But I'm not sure—I mean, he never slept in a basket before. He's a big dog—"

"Canute!" she called.

Tail wagging uncertainly, Canute approached. Humé came and lifted him into the basket. Canute was, as John said, a big dog; he weighed well over fifty pounds and did not like to be picked up. But he put up with this without protest, sniffed the basket from inside, turned around a couple of times, and settled down, the last six inches of his tail still wagging.

Canute had a home of his own, now.

John did not sleep well. He had supposed that everything would run smoothly once they got spaceborne and overcame the problems of escape from Standard. Instead, the purebred group seemed to be fragmenting. Every member was an individual with his own culture and his own interests, and these did not mesh neatly with each other. In the enclaves there had been little real friction, and he realized now that this was because the supporting cast of Standards had been playing parts. In this sense their present group was better, because people had to live real lives and have real interactions before they could get into real arguments. That didn't make those differences pleasant! John felt a cold ripple of anger whenever he thought of Humé's overbearing attitude. It was to this primitive that John would have to turn over the leadership of the group once they landed on earth. That galled him increasingly. How could an African native know anything about twentieth-century or twenty-fourth-century problems? What would become of the purebreds?