He found he was unable to carry out his prepared determination to dislike Bronson. He estimated the man to be about thirty-five, and there seemed a wistful air about him — as if he wished he knew all the answers he was supposed to know.
“I’m acquainted with your music,” he said; “I have all your records on Planet 7. It was pleasant to learn that you and your sister were joining us. I look forward to much more of your music.”
John indicated a chair by the port. “Is that what we are being brought there for? To be court musicians, as it were?”
Instantly he regretted the bad temper of his remark. A shadow crossed the face of Bronson. “You really don't like music?” he said.
“I’m afraid I really don’t like Alpha Colony, if you want me to be honest. It’s because of my sister that I came, but I had no goal of my own: I’ll try not to be uncooperative in whatever you require.”
“There is very little that we require of you,” said Bronson. “Almost all we ask is the opportunity to watch you live — in the social and physical environment we provide.
“We have a section in Alpha Colony devoted to the study of esthetics; we want you and your sister in that group. It has always been known that esthetic values contributed much to the rise of mankind, but they have never been adequately evaluated.
“You will live in a small communal group where esthetic occupations only are present: all economic needs are provided for you. Within this group, you may live in complete freedom; but you will be observed and your life charted minutely.”
“What are the breeding-aspects of the program?” John asked tonelessly.
“Ugly rumors do get around, don’t they?” said Bronson. “But I’m sure you were told briefly that marriage between members of the group is freely permitted, but not forced. The only restriction is that it must be within the group, because potential partners are those who have the same qualities which we desire to emphasize and study in future generations.”
“How large is this section of Alpha Colony?”
“There are almost a thousand members in the esthetic section.”
“What are the Control-groups?” said John suddenly. “I’ve heard a little about them, just a little.”
Bronson watched his face in silence for a long time. “Yes,” he said at last, “your diningroom waiter told me you were inquiring.
“Don’t try to see her,” he said abruptly. “Don’t try to see her again!”
John felt the blood heavy in his face. “You are jumping to conclusions,” he said.
“I hope so,” said Bronson, “but there is one thing that you must not forget; I’m sure this was adequately explained. Once a person embarks upon this journey, there is no turning back; none whatever. Your signature upon a contract with Human Developments automatically cancels any previous obligations; and all future contracts will be made within the framework of Human Developments. Our restrictions are the minimum required for success, of the experiments, but these bounds cannot be overstepped. Do you understand that, John?”
“Yes — yes, I understand that,” John said.
The time spent in overdrive was brief, but once out, within the Alpha system, there were days of rocket-travel, before they would reach Planet 7, the only Earth-type world in this family of planets. Man could reach the stars, now, but the impetus to make much use of this ability had nearly died; the discovery had come late, nearly too late...
It was on the ninth day of the journey that John saw the cat — the yellow cat belonging to the girl in the flame-red dress. John saw the animal strolling ahead of him in the corridor leading to his room. He looked around quickly, but no one else was near. Then he called gently. As if in recognition, the cat turned, arched his back, and rubbed against the steel wall. John scooped him under one arm and hurried to the stateroom.
It was stupid, but his hands were shaking, he discovered, as he set the cat down. Momentarily he debated opening the door and pushing Toby into the corridor; but he knew he was not going to do that.
He entered Doris’ stateroom, knowing she was out, because he had just left her with Dr. Bronson on the promenade deck. Searching through drawers he found a piece of wide ribbon. Then he returned to his own room and sat down at the desk, and there he stopped.
What was there to say? And why should he believe she would be interested in hearing any word at all from him? He didn’t know.
He wrote hastily on a small scrap of paper: I don’t even know your name. Mine is John Carwell. Can I see you again? — In the corridor between the main lounge and your deck, a door marked “Crew Only” leads to the engineers’ catwalk. I’ll be there after dinner tonight.
His hands were shaking even more as he folded the paper in a small roll and doubled the ribbon over it. He tied a narrow band about the cat’s neck. Then, cautiously, he opened the door and shoved the cat into the empty corridor. “Find her, Toby,” he said. “Go quickly.”
* * *
The long, hollow tube at the center of the ship carried the ten thousand wires and pipes that formed the ship’s mechanical nervous-system. It contained an elevator for the use of crewmen, and in each deck there was a small platform for inspection-purposes. A connecting ladder passed between the platforms from one end of the ship to the other.
It was cold in the catwalk tube, and dark. There was a sulphur smell and the faint sting of ozone in the air. John could hear the whine and click of occasional auxiliary motors, and the deep bass note of the ship’s engines.
He waited there in the dim light, knowing himself to be a complete fool. Nine chances out of ten the cat hadn’t even reached the girl’s stateroom with the message about its neck. He had been clawing experimentally when John last saw him; and the tenth chance was that she would laugh and ignore his message completely.
But he was there. He had been there for twenty minutes and he did not know how much longer he would wait. Perhaps until they got to Venus, he thought irrationally.
An oblong club of light beat against the dark with momentary suddenness. John heard the thud of the thick insulated door. He flattened against the wall.
Then his breath caught sharply as he recognized her dim profile and the tilt of her head. She called softly, “John.”
“Over here,” he said.
For a moment they stood facing each other, unable to explain why they had come.
“I wanted to see you again,” he said simply, at last.
“I was hoping you would,” she said.
And then there seemed nothing more at all to say. In a few more days the ship would land on Venus, and she would go to a savage jungle dwelling, while he would spend the rest of his life in some musical fairyland. It seemed suddenly beyond all reason.
“What is your name?” he said.
“Lora. Lora Wallace.”
“Why did you come? Why are you going to Planet 7?”
“To get away from the dead. Earth's nothing but a big tomb. We kid ourselves that we are rebuilding there, but we're not. The Human Developments people know we're not, but not many others do.
“But don't think I have any sympathy for Human Developments; the whole Project is on the wrong track. I came to get away.
“Back home it's the same old thing that has happened a hundred times before. You can't move from one city to another without a thousand signatures on your papers; you can't plan a project any more complex than a backyard garden without consulting twenty-five authorities and experts.
“Oh, they're all so very generous and helpful. And we understand that it is necessary to obey regulations in order to conserve and rebuild the world. But we're in prison, just the same.
“It got so I couldn’t stand it any longer. Some of my friends joined the Moon colonies; some have gone to Mars. But I didn’t have money enough for either. Becoming a Control-colonist with Human Developments Project was the only way I could think of to get out of prison.”