“When on Earth, do as the Earthers do,” the Captain said. “That’s an old proverb of that planet out there. The main vault of the computer files says you were born in 3576, unless I forget. And if you ask any Earther what year this is he’ll tell you it’s 3876. 3576-3876—that’s three hundred years, no?” His eyes twinkled.
“Stop playing games with me, Dad.” Alan held forth his Tally. “It doesn’t matter what the computer files say. Right here it says Year 17 Day 1, and that’s what I’m going by. Who cares what year it is on Earth? This is my world!”
“I know, Alan.”
Together they moved away from the viewscreen; it was time for breakfast, and the second gongs were sounding. “I’m just teasing, son. But that’s the sort of thing you’ll be up against if you leave the Starmen’s Enclave—the way your brother did.”
Alan frowned and his stomach went cold. He wished the unpleasant topic of his brother had not come up. “You think there’s any chance Steve will come back, this time down? Will we be in port long enough for him to find us?”
Captain Donnell’s face clouded. “We’re going to be on Earth for almost a week,” he said in a suddenly harsh voice. “That’s ample time for Steve to rejoin us, if he cares to. But I don’t imagine he’ll care to. And I don’t know if I want very much to have him back.”
He paused outside the handsomely-panelled door of his private cabin, one hand on the thumb-plate that controlled entrance. His lips were set in a tight thin line. “And remember this, Alan,” he said. “Steve’s not your twin brother any more. You’re only seventeen, and he’s almost twenty-six. He’ll never be your twin again.”
With sudden warmth the captain squeezed his son’s arm. “Well, better get up there to eat, Alan. This is going to be a busy day for all of us.”
He turned and went into the cabin.
Alan moved along the wide corridor of the great ship toward the mess hall in Section C, thinking about his brother. It had been only about six weeks before, when the Valhalla had made its last previous stop on Earth, that Steve had decided to jump ship.
The Valhalla’s schedule had called for them to spend two days on Earth and then leave for Alpha Centauri with a load of colonists for Alpha C IV. A starship’s time is always scheduled far in advance, with bookings planned sometimes for decades Earthtime by the Galactic Trade Commission.
When blastoff time came for the Valhalla, Steve had not reported back from the Starmen’s Enclave where all Spacers lived during in-port stays.
Alan’s memories of the scene were still sharp. Captain Donnell had been conducting check-off, making sure all members of the Crew had reported back and were aboard. This was a vital procedure; in case anyone were accidentally left behind, it would mean permanent separation from his friends and family.
He had reached the name Donnell, Steve. No answer came. Captain Donnell called his name a second time, then a third. A tense silence prevailed in the Common Room of the starship, where the Crew was assembled.
Finally Alan made himself break the angry silence. “He’s not here, Dad. And he’s not coming back,” he said in a hesitant voice. And then he had had to explain to his father the whole story of his unruly, aggressive twin brother’s plan to jump ship—and how Steve had tried to persuade him to leave the Valhalla too.
Steve had been weary of the endless shuttling from star to star, of forever ferrying colonists from one place to another without ever standing on the solid ground of a planet yourself for more than a few days here, a week there.
Alan had felt tired of it too—they all did, at some time or another—but he did not share his twin’s rebellious nature, and he had not gone over the hill with Steve.
Alan remembered his father’s hard, grim expression as he had been told the story. Captain Donnell’s reaction had been curt, immediate, and thoroughly typicaclass="underline" he had nodded, closed the roll book, and turned to Art Kandin, the Valhalla’s First Officer and the Captain’s second-in-command.
“Remove Crewman Donnell from the roster,” he had snapped. “All other hands are on board. Prepare for blastoff.”
Within the hour the flaming jets of the Valhalla’s planetary drive had lifted the great ship from Earth. They had left immediately for Alpha Centauri, four and a half light-years away. The round trip had taken the Valhalla just six weeks.
During those six weeks, better than nine years had passed on Earth.
Alan Donnell was seventeen years old.
His twin brother Steve was now twenty-six.
“Happy rising, Alan,” called a high, sharp voice as he headed past the blue-painted handholds of Gravity Deck 12 on his way toward the mess hall.
Startled, he glanced up, and then snorted in disgust as he saw who had hailed him. It was Judy Collier, a thin, stringy-haired girl of about fourteen whose family had joined the Crew some five ship-years back. The Colliers were still virtual newcomers to the tight group on the ship—the family units tended to remain solid and self-contained—but they had managed to fit in pretty well by now.
“Going to eat?” she asked.
“Right enough,” said Alan, continuing to walk down the plastifoam-lined corridor. She tagged along a step or two behind him.
“Today’s your birthday, isn’t it?”
“Right enough,” Alan said again, more abruptly. He felt a sudden twinge of annoyance; Judy had somehow developed a silly crush on him during the last voyage to Alpha C, and since then she had contrived to follow him around wherever he went, bombarding him with questions. She was a silly adolescent girl, Alan thought scornfully.
“Happy birthday,” she said, giggling. “Can I kiss you?”
“No,” returned Alan flatly. “You better watch out or I’m going to get Rat after you.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid of that little beast,” she retorted. “One of these days I’ll chuck him down the disposal hatch like the little vermin he—ouch!”
“You watch out who you’re calling vermin,” said a thin, dry, barely-audible voice from the floor.
Alan glanced down and saw Rat, his pet and companion, squatting near Judy and flicking his beady little red eyes mischievously in the direction of the girl’s bare skinny ankle.
“He bit me,” Judy complained, gesturing as if she were going to step on the little creature. But Rat nimbly skittered to one side, leaped to the trousers of Alan’s uniform, and from there clambered to his usual perch aboard his master’s shoulder.
Judy gestured at him in frustration, stamped her foot, and dashed away into the mess hall. Chuckling, Alan followed and found his seat at the bench assigned to Crewmen of his status quotient.
“Thanks, fellow,” he said softly to the little being on his shoulder. “That’s kid’s getting to be pretty annoying.”
“I figured as much,” Rat said in his chittering birdlike voice. “And I don’t like the way she’s been looking at me. She’s just the kind of individual who would dump me in a disposal hatch.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Alan said. “If she pulls anything of the sort I’ll personally see to it that she goes out right after you.”
“That does me a lot of good,” Rat said glumly as Alan’s breakfast came rolling toward him on the plastic conveyor belt from the kitchen.
Alan laughed and reached avidly for the steaming tray of food. He poured a little of his synthorange juice into a tiny pan for Rat, and fell to.