Jerome had to convert the distance to metric units before he could think about it. “Is that all? What about the heat from the Sun?”
“There isn’t much heat at the poles,” Thwaite said. “The Dorries are always moaning about how unlucky they were, but—if you swallow their mythology about the big comet—they got off pretty light.”
“Mythology? Pirt said it was history.”
Thwaite shrugged. “In that case they were bloody lucky to end up with zero axial tilt. Their twilight zone disappeared, but at least they were left with a static twilight spot at each pole. If Mercury’s axis had tilted the twilight spots would be roaming around in circles and none of us would be here.”
“You sound pretty sceptical,” Jerome said as he succeeded in overcoming his last button.
“It’s the way I was brought up, lad. Mercury also has what they call spin-orbit resonance, with one of its days being exactly equal to two of its years. I daresay it’s possible that the comet gave it an axial spin very close to the right value, and tidal friction with the Sun made the final adjustments—but I have a feeling that would take more than a few thousand years.”
“Were you a professional astronomer?”
“In Barrow?” Thwaite snorted his amusement. “No, I’m just a keen amateur. Being transported to another world in mid-pint gives you an interest in these things, if you know what I mean. Are you ready to go?”
“I’m not sure.”
“The sooner you get out and mingle with the others the better you’ll feel,” Thwaite said. “It’s amazing how quickly you adapt. Look at me—I even got used to having a face like one of the Seven Dwarves. Let’s go.”
“Very well.” Jerome felt timid and apprehensive, but he forced himself to keep abreast of Thwaite as they left the circular chamber and turned left into a long corridor which was illuminated by white globes attached to the ceiling. He judged himself to be slightly taller than in his previous incarnation and suddenly was very much aware of the mechanics of walking. His body was an ungainly and precariously balanced structure, the proper control of which demanded more skill and strength than he seemed to possess. After only a few paces he began steadying himself by touching the curving wall.
“Don’t worry about the weakness,” Thwaite said. “Superteles don’t eat or drink for two or three days before a transfer shot. Once you get a couple of steaks down your neck you’ll be as right as rain.”
The realization that he was hungry turned Jerome’s thoughts towards the problems of food supply in a totally hostile environment. “Where does the steak come from?”
“They grow them like giant mushrooms and keep slicing bits off. The Dorries are good at that kind of thing. They’ll never do a decent Cumberland sausage, though.”
Thwaite began to reminisce about the various items of British food and drink he missed most, but Jerome was distracted by the sight of other men and women walking in the corridor. Most were dressed in Earth-style clothing, but a few had the ribbon-blouses and skirts which proclaimed them to be Dorrinians. Almost without exception the people were tall and slimly built, and Jerome decided it was an effect of the lesser gravity of Mercury. He felt no lighter than he had ever done, but that had to be because his inherited body was accustomed to the conditions. A number of the Terrans gave Jerome amiable nods and murmured welcomes, but it was only after he had received a particularly warm smile from a young brunette that he realized he was drawing much more attention from the women than from the men.
“You’re going to be all right here, lad,” Thwaite said, glancing back appreciatively at the brunette. “That’s Donna Sinclair. She had her eye on Blamene for a couple of years, but he was too wrapped up in a Dorrie woman to pay her any heed. Now that you’ve stepped into his shoes, so to speak, you’ll be able to play substitute—you lucky bugger.”
Jerome was unable to think about what had become trivia. “Did you say lucky?”
“I did. I don’t know what you were like back in the USA, but now you’re a fine-looking—”
“Where are we going?” Jerome cut in, noticing that the corridor had widened into the semblance of a busy underground street. “What is this place?”
“You’re near the centre of the Precinct,” Thwaite said. “The Terrans all live and work within a couple of hundred yards of here. This is our territory. Any Dorries you see are mostly supertelepaths getting used to Earth languages and customs. If you’re lucky you might land a teaching job.”
“Does everybody work?”
“There’s no serious compulsion, but most people would rather have something to do. If anybody absolutely refuses to work we just leave them to themselves and let them stew. In the end they generally decide they’d like to join in. The only ones who stay apart permanently are the old-time-religion types who refuse to believe they haven’t died, but they’re very rare birds these days and we don’t mind carrying them. They wouldn’t be much use, anyroad. You can’t get much work out of some silly sod who’s convinced he’s in Purgatory.”
“It’s not hard to see how they get that idea,” Jerome said, scanning his surroundings. The floor, walls and ceiling of the tunnel-corridor were of a uniform grey and there was a quality of sterile cheerlessness to the light emitted by the overhead globes. The thought of having to spend the rest of his life in such an environment inspired him with a mixture of sadness, claustrophobia and despair.
“It’s not so bad here,” Thwaite replied. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Think so?”
“You haven’t much choice.” Thwaite halted at an unmarked doorway, one of many in the curving walls. “You go in here for your placement interview. There’s nothing much to it. You talk to a panel of three and they work out how you can best be fitted into the community. I’m one of the three, because I’m the equivalent of the town clerk for the Precinct. The others are Mel Zednik, our Mayor, and Pirt Conforden, who’s the Dorrinian Director responsible for Terran affairs. He’s the one who was talking to you in the recovery room while you were still groggy, and he’s a decent enough bloke—for a Dorrie, that is.”
Jerome studied his companion’s face. “Why do I get the impression you’re praising him with faint damns?”
“Couldn’t tell you, lad.” Thwaite’s dark eyes twinkled, qualifying his protest. “They tell me I was about to peg out, back there in Barrow in ’85, so I’ve had eleven extra years and a lot more to come. Nobody in his right mind could complain about a bargain like that. Could they?”
“What if you’d only been fifty and had nothing much wrong with you?”
“Expediency transfers like yours are rare.”
“That doesn’t alter the facts of my case.”
“You should talk to Pirt about it,” Thwaite said, giving an exaggerated flourish which invited Jerome to precede him into the room. “I’m sure he’ll be most sympathetic.”
Doubtful about the other man’s sincerity, Jerome entered a small room which was uncomfortably warm and stuffy. The furniture consisted of four simple chairs equally spaced at a circular table. Already seated were the Dorrinian with whom Jerome had first conversed and a grey-blond man in Terran dress. The latter, who had to be Zednik, had bushy eyebrows and a deeply lined face, and he might have been very old, although his body was slim and held upright with evident lack of effort. Jerome was reminded that the Mercurian gravity was much less inimical than Earth’s. Thwaite brusquely performed unnecessary introductions, took a seat and invited Jerome to do likewise. Jerome considered refusing, then decided it would be a stereotyped reaction. He sat down, fixed his gaze on the Dorrinian—who was directly opposite—and waited, his face carefully impassive.