I looked around at the bare-walled room. I ran the water and washed my hands. Altogether, I managed to stay inside for a full five minutes before being alone in the little empty room with my nervousness got to be too much for me. I kept imagining that Daddy was on board by now, and I even thought I could almost hear his voice. Finally I was driven outside to see.
When I opened the door, the giant was standing exactly where I had left him, obviously waiting for me. There were people moving things on board, the horses were locked in their stalls and moving around, and Daddy was still outside somewhere.
Exactly as though I’d never been gone, the giant said, “Come on upstairs,” in his deep voice. “I’ll show you my buttons. I keep a collection of them there.”
Resignedly, I preceded him up the flight of metal stairs that led upstairs, winding around a vertical handpole like threads winding around a screw. It was obvious that he was determined to keep me in his charge, and I wasn’t feeling up to arguing, even if I’d dared to. At the top we came out in a bubble-dome in which were two seats hung on swivel pivots, a slanting panel directly in front of them with inset vision screens, dials and meters — the slant of the panel low enough so as not to obscure vision out the dome — and beside these, perhaps enough room to turn around twice.
The giant waved a paw at the console at the base of the panel. “My button collection,” he said, and smiled. “I’ll bet you didn’t think I had any.”
They were there. Enough buttons to keep a two-year-old or a pilot occupied for hours. It was obvious that in his way this George was trying to be friendly, but I wasn’t in the mood to be friendly with any large, ugly stranger. After one brief glance at the panel and console I turned away to look outside.
Through the dome I could see the rock roof glowing gently all above us. The ring of the scoutship’s body cut off the view directly beneath us and I couldn’t see Daddy or the men with him at all. It’s no fun to be deserted. It’s a miserable feeling.
This George said, “Your father will be a little while yet.” Feeling caught, I stopped looking for him and turned back around.
“Sit down,” the giant said, and somewhat warily I did. The chair bobbed on its pivot as I sat down. I kept my eyes on George.
He leaned carelessly against his panel and after a moment he said, “Since you don’t seem to want to talk and we have to be here together for awhile yet, let me tell you a story. It was told to me by my mother the night before I went on Trial.”
And with that, he launched full into it, ignoring the fact that I was too old for such things:
Once upon a time (he said) there was a king who had two sons, and they twins, the first ever born in the country. One was named Enegan and the other Britoval, and though one was older than the other, I don’t remember which it was, and I doubt anyone else does, either. The two boys were so alike that not even-their dear mother’s heart could tell one from the other, and before their first month was out they were so thoroughly mixed that no one could be sure which to call Britoval and which Enegan. Finally, they gave the whole thing up as a bad lot, used their heads and hung tags on the boys and called them Ned and Sam.
They grew up tall and strong and as like each other as two warts on the same toad. If one was an inch taller or a pound heavier at the beginning of the month, by the end of it they were all even again. It was all even between them in wrestling, running, swimming, riding, and spitting. By the time they were grown-up young men, there was only one way to mark them apart. It was universally agreed that Sam was bright and Ned was charming, and the people of the country even called them Bright Sam and Charming Ned.
“Hark,” they would say as a horse went by on the road. “There goes Prince Charming Ned.” Or, alternatively, “Hey, mark old Bright Sam thinking under yon spreading oak.”
The boys did earn their names, and honestly. Ask Sam to do a sum, parse a sentence, or figure a puzzle and he could do it in a trice, whereas Ned just wasn’t handy at that sort of thing. On the other hand, if you like charm and heart, courtesy and good humor, Ned was a really swell fellow, a delight to his dear mother, and a merry ray of sunshine to his subjects, while Sam at his best was a trifle sour.
Then one day the Old King, their father, died and the question arose as to which son should inherit, for the kingdom was small and the treasury was empty, and there simply was not enough for both.
The Great Council of the Kingdom met to consider the problem. They met and considered, considered and voted, voted and tied. At first they said it was obvious that the elder son should inherit, but they found that no one at all could say which was the elder. Then an exasperated soul proposed that the younger should inherit, and all agreed that was a fine way out until they discovered that it was equally problematic which was the younger. It was at this point that they decided to vote to settle the question — but the vote turned out a tie, for half said, “A king should be bright so as to be able to rule intelligently and deal wisely with the friends and the enemies of the kingdom. Nobody really has to like him,” and the other half said, “A king should be beloved by his subjects and well thought of by his neighbors and peers. The Council can always provide the brains needed to run things if brains are ever required.”
At last, finally, and in the end, it was decided by all that there was only one way to settle the matter. Charming Ned and Bright Sam must undertake a Quest and whichever of them was successful would become King of the Realm, and take his fine old father’s place. If neither was successful, they could always bring in a poor second cousin who was waiting in the wings, hat in hand. Kingdoms always have second cousins around to fill in when they’re needed.
The Quest decided upon was this: it seems that many miles away — or so the story had come to them in the kingdom — there was a small cavern in which lived a moderate-sized ogre with a fine large treasure, big enough to handle the kingdom’s budget problem for some years to come. It was agreed that whichever of the two boys could bring the treasure home where it belonged would have proved to the satisfaction of everybody his overwhelming right to be king.
At this point the story was interrupted. One of the three crewmen stuck his head up through the stairwell and said, “We’re all tight, George. Miles says we can leave any time now.”
George said to me, “Strap yourself in there,” and pushed the button that locked himself into his own seat. Humming slightly to himself, he rapped a switch with the back of his hand and rumbled, “Ten seconds to drop. Mind your stomachs.”
In ten seconds, the rim bars pulled back and we dropped slowly into our tube and then out of the Ship. I was leaving home for the first time. Geo Quad, even at its worst, was still “Us” rather than “Them.” As we dropped into the tube, the dome went opaque around us and lights came on. There was none of the stomach upsetting moment of transition as we shifted from the artificial gravity of the Ship to the artificial gravity of the scoutship of which George had just warned us, though there might have been. Which meant that whatever else he might be, this George creature was a relatively effective pilot.
I still didn’t know how to take him. I have that problem when I first meet people — I have to get used to them slowly. For the moment, too young for me or not, I was content to have him go on with his story, because it gave me something to think about instead of Grainau and whatever I would find there.
He punched buttons for a minute, and then said, “Well, that ought to hold us for awhile. Now where was I?”
“The ogre and the treasure.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, and continued with his story: