"Just relax and don't tense up," his father was saying. 'You won't black out that way. Don't forget to… "
"I Won't forget. I don't have to fly the shuttle, you know. Besides, it isn't like it used to be."
"I wish your mother could see you. She would be so proud." "I know, Dad. I know."
"Do you think you could write now and then? I know I don't know much about what you're doing-your research and all-but I like to know how you are. You're all I've got now…"
"The effect of long-term space travel on human brain functions and sleep patterns. I'm part of the LTST project. I told you. 1,11 be fine:-it's a small city up there. And you have Kate. She's here."
"You and Kate. That's all."
"I'll try to write, but you know how I am."
"Just a line or two now and then so I'll know how you are."
A loudspeaker hidden in the branches of the tree crackled out, "GM shuttle Colossus now ready for hoarding. Passengers, please take your places in the boarding arse."
The two men looked at each other. It was then Spence saw his father cry. "Hey, I'll miss you, too, Dad,', he said, his voice flat and unnatural. "I'll be back in ten months and I'll tell you all about it."
"Good-bye, Son," his father sniffed. Twin tracks of moisture glistened on Iris face. They hugged each other awkwardly, and SPence walked away.
Spence still saw the tears and his father standing in his shirt sleeves under the orange tree, looking old Gird shaken and alone.
' ' '
AN UNBROKEN HORIZON OF gently rolling hills stretched out as far as Spence could see. They were soft hills of early spring; the air held a raw chill under gray overcast skies. Silhouetted in the distance, Spence could see people moving among the hillў with heavy burdens. He walked closer for a better look.
The people were old-men and women working togetherpeasants dressed in tatters. They wore no shoes, though some of them had wrapped rags stuffed with straw around their feet to keep out the cold. In their long bony hands the peasants held wattle baskets filled with stones. Those with full baskets were walking stoically toward a dirt road, single, file, with their burdens on their shoulders. The baskets were obviously heavy; some of the peasants strained under the weight.
Spence was overcome with pity for these unfortunate people. He turned to those working around him, pulling stones from the soil. The stones were white as mushrooms, and big as loaves of bread. Spence bent down to help a struggling old woman lift her heavy load. He pleaded with her to rest, but his words were unheeded. The woman neither looked at him nor made any sign, that she had heard him.
He ran from one to another trying to help them, but always with the same result-no one seemed to notice him in any way. ,Spence sat down, brooding over his ineffectiveness. He noticed the air was deathly silent, and when he looked up all the peasants were gone. They had left the field and were moving along the road. He was all alone. Suddenly; he felt a tremble in the earth and at his feet a white stone slowly surfaced from beneath the ground. As he looked around other stones erupted from the soil like miniature volcanoes. Spence became frightened and began running across the field to catch up with the last of the retreating figures.
When he caught up with the peasants they were standing atop the high bank of a river, its dark, muddy water swirling below. The workers were dumping the rocks into the water. He rushed up, breathless, just in time to see the last few peasants empty their baskets. To his horror, he saw that the baskets contained not stones now, but heads. He stepped closer as the last heads tumbled into the water. In grim fascination he recognized Hocking, and Tickler, and then with a shock he saw his own.
"ARE YOU DREAMING, SPENCER?"
"Yes."
"Is it the same dream? The same as before?" "It is. But it's over now."
"You may sleep a little longer and then awaken when you hear the tone." …
A HIGH-PITCHED ELECTRONIC TONE awakened Spence from a deep sleep. He spun around in the chair and glanced at the digiton above the console. He had been asleep only twenty minutes. Tickler was still nowhere in sight. He rubbed his face with his hands and wondered idly where his assistant managed to hide whenever he needed him. He rose from the chair and stretched.
Soon Tickler came bustling into the room. He was all apologies. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Dr. Reston. Have you been here long?"
"Oh, about an hour, I guess…" Spence yawned.
"I was, uh, detained." Tickler's sharp features gleamed with a slight perspiration. It was clear that he was worked up over something. Spence decided it was too late to start another session that day.
"I think we'll try it again tonight. I won't need you 'til then. I suppose you have something to do elsewhere?"
Tickler looked at him, his head cocked to one side as if examining some new variety of mushroom spore. "I suppose." He scratched his chin. "Yes, no problem. Tonight, then."
Spence handed him a sheaf of folded printouts which he required to be deciphered and charted in a thick logbook-a purely meaningless task, since the same computer that spit out the information could chart it as well. But Spence preferred the personal touch.
"Thanks," he said without meaning it. Tickler took the printouts to an adjacent room and set to work. Spence watched the back of his head as he weaved over the printouts and then left the lab.
Spence made his way down to Central Park-the vast circular expanse of tropical plants and trees grown to help recycle the carbon dioxide of Gotham's fifteen thousand inhabitants. The park formed a living green belt around the entire station and provided a natural setting for relaxation and recreation. The place was usually crowded, though quiet, with people seeking refuge from the tyranny of duralum-and-plastic interiors. He had nothing else in mind other than to lose himself among the ferns and shrubbery and let the day go.
His first thought upon reaching the garden level was that he had discovered a fine time to come-the section was virtually empty. He saw only a few strolling couples and a handful of administrative types sitting on benches. He took a deep breath. The atmosphere was warm and moist, reeking of soil and roots, vegetation and water: artificially controlled, he knew, but he could not help thinking that this was exactly as it would be back on Earth.
He walked aimlessly along the narrow winding paths looking for a private spot to stretch out and meditate upon the state of his being, to think about the dreams and try to get a hold on himself. He was not afraid of "going mental"-a term they used to describe a person cracking under space fatigue-although that was something everyone eventually had to face; he knew that wasn't it. But he also knew he was not feeling right and that bothered him. Something on the dim edges of his consciousness was gnawing away at the fibers of his mind. If he could figure out what it was, expose it, then he would be able to deal with it.
Presently he came upon a secluded spot. He stood for a moment deciding whether to stay or look further. With a shrug he parted the ferns and stepped into the semi-darkness of the quiet glade.
He sat down on the grass and tipped his head back on his shoulders. High above him the sunlight slanted in through the immense chevrons of the solar shields. He saw the graceful arc of the space station slide away until it bent out of sight. One could tramp the six kilometer circumference of Gotham at the garden level and achieve the illusion of hiking an endless trail.