Читать книгу Fantastic Stories Presents the Fantastic Universe Super Pack #2 - William Logan - Страница 18

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

They asked me about it, of course, before I boarded the starship. All through the Western sector of the Galaxy, few rules are stricter than the one dividing human from nonhuman, and the little Captain of the Vesta—he was Terran, too, and proud in the black leather of the Empire’s merchant—man forces—hemmed and hawed about it, as much as was consistent with a spaceman’s dignity.

“You see, Miss Vargas,” he explained, not once but as often as I would listen to him, “this is not, strictly speaking, a passenger ship at all. Our charter is only to carry cargo. But, under the terms of our franchise, we are required to transport an occasional passenger, from the more isolated planets where there is no regular passenger service. Our rules simply don’t permit us to discriminate, and the Theradin reserved a place on this ship for our last voyage.”

He paused, and re—emphasized, “We have only the one passenger cabin, you see. We’re a cargo ship and we are not allowed to make any discrimination between our passengers.” He looked angry about it. Unfortunately, I’d run up against that attitude before. Some Terrans won’t travel on the same ship with nonhumans even when they’re isolated in separate ends of the ship.

I understood his predicament, better than he thought. The Theradin seldom travel in space. No one could have foreseen that Haalvordhen, the Theradin from Samarra, who had lived on the forsaken planet of Deneb for eighteen of its cycles, would have chosen this particular flight to go back to its own world.

At the same time, I had no choice. I had to get back to an Empire planet—any planet—where I could take a starship for Terra. With war about to explode in the Procyon sector, I had to get home before communications were knocked out altogether. Otherwise—well, a Galactic war can last up to eight hundred years. By the time regular transport service was reestablished, I wouldn’t be worrying about getting home.

The Vesta could take me well out of the dangerous sector, and all the way to Samarra—Sirius Seven—which was, figuratively speaking, just across the street from the Solar System and Terra. Still, it was a questionable solution. The rules about segregation are strict, the anti—discriminatory laws are stricter, and the Theradin had made a prior reservation. The captain of the Vesta couldn’t have refused him transportation, even if fifty human, Terran women had been left stranded on Deneb IV. And sharing a cabin with the Theradin was ethically, morally and socially out of the question. Haalvordhen was a non—human telepath; and no human in his right senses will get any closer than necessary even to a human telepath. As for a nonhuman one -

And yet, what other way was there?

The captain said tentatively, “We might be able to squeeze you into the crewmen’s quarters—” he paused uneasily, and glanced up at me.

I bit my lip, frowning. That was worse yet. “I understand,”

I said slowly, “that this

Theradin—Haalvordhen—has offered to allow me to share its quarters.”

“That’s right. But, Miss Vargas—”

I made up my mind in a rush. “I’ll do it,” I said. “It’s the best way, all around.”

At the sight of his scandalized face, I almost regretted my decision. It was going to cause an interplanetary scandal, I thought wryly. A human woman—and a Terran citizen—spending forty days in space and sharing a cabin with a nonhuman!

The Theradin, although male in form, had no single attribute which one could remotely refer to as sex. But of course that wasn’t the problem. The nonhuman were specifically prohibited from mingling with the human races. Terran custom and taboo were binding, and I faced, resolutely, the knowledge that by the time I got to Terra, the planet might be made too hot to hold me.

Still, I told myself defiantly, it was a big Galaxy. And conditions weren’t normal just now and that made a big difference. I signed a substantial check for my transportation, and made arrangements for the shipping and stowing of what few possessions I could safely transship across space.

But I still felt uneasy when I went aboard the next day—so uneasy that I tried to bolster up my flagging spirits with all sorts of minor comforts. Fortunately the Theradin were oxygen—breathers, so I knew there would be no trouble about atmosphere—mixtures, or the air pressure to be maintained in the cabin. And the Theradin were Type Two nonhumans, which meant that the acceleration of a hyperspeed ship would knock my shipmate into complete prostration without special drugs. In fact, he would probably stay drugged in his skyhook during most of the trip.

The single cabin was far up toward the nose of the starship. It was a queer little spherical cubbyhole, a nest. The walls were foam—padded all around the sphere, for passengers never develop a spaceman’s skill at maneuvering then: bodies in free—fall, and cabins had to be designed so that an occupant, moving unguardedly, would not dash out his or her brains against an unpadded surface. Spaced at random on the inside of the sphere were three skyhooks—nested cradles on swinging pivots—into which the passenger was snugged during blastoff hi shock—absorbing foam and a complicated Garensen pressure—apparatus and was thus enabled to sleep secure without floating away.

A few screw—down doors were marked LUGGAGE. I immediately unscrewed one door and stowed my personal belongings in the bin. Then I screwed the top down securely and carefully fastened the padding over it. Finally, I climbed around the small cubbyhole, seeking to familiarize myself with it before my unusual roommate arrived.

It was about fourteen feet in diameter. A sphincter lock opened from the narrow corridor to cargo bays and crewmen’s quarters, while a second led into the cabin’s functional equivalent of a bathroom. Planet—bound men and women are always surprised and a little shocked when they see the sanitary arrangements on a spaceship. But once they’ve tried to perform normal bodily functions in free—fall, they understand the peculiar equipment very well.

I’ve made six trips across the Galaxy in as many cycles. I’m practically an old hand, and can even wash my face in freefall without drowning. The trick is to use a sponge and suction. But, by and large, I understand perfectly why spacemen, between planets, usually look a bit unkempt.

I stretched out on the padding of the main cabin, and waited with growing uneasiness for the nonhuman to show. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before the diaphragm on the outer sphincter lock expanded, and a curious, peaked face peered through.

“Vargas Miss Helten?” said the Theradin in a sibilant whisper.

“That’s my name,” I replied instantly. I pulled upward, and added, quite unnecessarily, “You are Haalvordhen, of course.”

“Such is my identification,” confirmed the alien, and the long, lean, oddly—muscled body squirmed through after the peaked head. “It is kind, Vargas Miss, to share accommodation under this necessity.”

“It’s kind of you,” I said vigorously. “We’ve all got to get home before this war breaks out!”

“That war may be prevented, I have all hope,” the nonhuman said. He spoke comprehensibly in Galactic Standard, but expressionlessly, for the vocal chords of the Theradins are located in an auxiliary pair of inner lips, and their voices seem reedy and lacking in resonance to human ears.

“Yet know you, Vargas Miss, they would have hurled me from this ship to make room for an Empire citizen, had you not been heart—kind to share.”

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, shocked, “I didn’t know that!” I stared at him, disbelieving. The captain couldn’t have legally done such a thing—or even seriously have entertained the thought. Had he been trying to intimidate the Theradin into giving up his reserved place?

“I—I was meaning to thank you,” I said, to cover my confusion.

“Let us thank we—other, then, and be in accord,” the reedy voice mouthed. I looked the nonhuman over, unable to hide completely my curiosity. In form the Theradin was vaguely humanoid—but only vaguely—for, the squat arms terminated in mittened “hands” and the long sharp face was elfin, and perpetually grimacing.

The Theradin have no facial muscles to speak of, and no change of expression or of vocal inflection is possible to them. Of course, being telepathic, such subtleties of visible or auditory expression would be superfluous on the face of it.

I felt—as yet—none of the revulsion which the mere presence of the Theradin was supposed to inspire. It was not much different from being in the presence of a large humanoid animal. There was nothing inherently fearful about the alien. Yet he was a telepath—and of a nonhuman breed my species had feared for a thousand years. Could he read my mind?

“Yes,” said the Theradin from across the cabin. “You must forgive me. I try to put up barrier, but it is hard. You broadcast your thought so strong it is impossible to shut it out.” The alien paused. “Try not to be embarrass. It bother me too.”

Before I could think of anything to say to that a crew member in black leather thrust his head, unannounced, through the sphincter, and said with an air of authority, “In skyhooks, please.” He moved confidently into the cabin. “Miss Vargas, can I help you strap down?” he asked.

“Thanks, but I can manage,” I told him.

Hastily I clambered into the skyhook, buckling the inner straps, and fastening the suction tubes of the complicated Garensen apparatus across my chest and stomach. The nonhuman was awkwardly drawing his hands from their protective mittens and struggling with the Garensens.

Unhappily the Theradin have a double thumb, and handling the small—size Terran equipment is an almost impossibly delicate task. It is made more difficult by the fact that the flesh of their “hands” is mostly thin mucous membrane which tears easily on contact with leather and raw metal.

“Give Haalvordhen a hand,” I urged the crewman. “I’ve done—this dozens of times!” I might as well have saved my breath. The crewman came and assured himself that my straps and tubes and cushions were meticulously tightened. He took what seemed to me a long time, and used his hands somewhat excessively, I lay under the heavy Garensen equipment, too inwardly furious to even give him the satisfaction of protest.

It was far too long before he finally straightened and moved toward Haalvordhen’s skyhook. He gave the alien’s outer straps only a perfunctory tug or two, and then turned his head to grin at me with a totally uncalled—for—familiarity.

“Blastoff in ninety seconds,” he said, and wriggled himself rapidly out through the hook. Haalvordhen exploded in a flood of Samarran which I could not follow. The vehemence of his voice, however, was better than a dictionary. For some strange reason I found myself sharing his fury. The unfairness of the whole procedure was shameful. The Theradin had paid passage money, and deserved in any case the prescribed minimum of decent attention.

I said forthrightly, “Never mind the fool, Haalvordhen. Are you strapped down all right?”

“I don’t know,” he replied despairingly. “The equipment is unfamiliar—”

“Look—” I hesitated, but in common decency I had to make the gesture. “If I examine carefully my own Garensens, can you read my mind and see how they should be adjusted?”

He mouthed, “I’ll try,” and immediately I fixed my gaze steadily on the apparatus. After a moment, I felt a curious sensation. It was something like the faint, sickening feeling of being touched and pushed about, against my will, by a distasteful stranger. I tried to control the surge of almost physical revulsion. No wonder that humans kept as far as possible from the telepathic races. . .