“A new quarantine regulation. They passed it two years ago when a ship back from Altair landed and the crew turned out to be loaded with some sort of weird disease. We have to stay isolated even from the other starmen in the Enclave until we’ve all had medical checkups.”
“Do they require every ship landing to go through this?”
“Yep. Nuisance, isn’t it? So the word has come from your father that since we can’t go round visiting until we’ve been checked, the Crew’s going to have a dance tonight when we touch down.”
“A dance?”
“You heard me. He thought it might be a nice idea—just to keep our spirits up until the quarantine’s lifted. That nasty Roger Bond has invited me,” she added, with a raised eyebrow that was supposed to be sophisticated-looking.
“What’s wrong with Roger? I just spent a whole afternoon crating dinosaur meat with him.”
“Oh, he’s—well—he just doesn’t do anything to me.”
I’d like to do something to you, Alan thought. Something lingering, with boiling oil in it.
“Did you accept?” he asked, just to be polite.
“Of course not! Not yet, that is. I just thought I might get some more interesting offers, that’s all,” she said archly.
Oh, I see the game, Alan thought. She’s looking for an invitation. He stretched way back and slowly let his eyes droop closed. “I wish you luck,” he said.
She gaped at him. “Oh—you’re horrible!”
“I know,” he admitted coolly. “I’m actually a Neptunian mudworm, completely devoid of emotions. I’m here in disguise to destroy the Earth, and if you reveal my secret I’ll eat you alive.”
She ignored his sally and shook her head. “But why do I always have to go to dances with Roger Bond?” she asked plaintively. “Oh, well. Never mind,” she said, and turned away.
He watched her as she crossed the recreation room floor and stepped through the exit sphincter. She was just a silly girl, of course, but she had pointed up a very real problem of starship life when she asked, “Why do I always have to go to dances with Roger Bond?”
The Valhalla was practically a self-contained universe. The Crew was permanent; no one ever left, unless it was to jump ship the way Steve had—and Steve was the only Crewman in the Valhalla’s history to do that. And no one new ever came aboard, except in the case of the infrequent changes of personnel. Judy Collier herself was one of the newest members of the Crew, and her family had come aboard five ship years ago, because a replacement signal officer had been needed.
Otherwise, things remained the same. Two or three dozen families, a few hundred people, living together year in and year out. No wonder Judy Collier always had to go to dances with Roger Bond. The actual range of eligibles was terribly limited.
That was why Steve had gone over the hill. What was it he had said? I feel the walls of the ship holding me in like the bars of a cell. Out there was Earth, population approximately eight billion or so. And up here is the Valhalla, current population precisely 176.
He knew all 176 of them like members of his own family—which they were, in a sense. There was nothing mysterious about anyone, nothing new.
And that was what Steve had wanted: something new. So he had jumped ship. Well, Alan thought, development of a hyperdrive would change the whole setup, if—if—
He hardly found the quarantine to his liking either. The starmen had only a brief stay on Earth, with just the shortest opportunity to go down to the Enclave, mingle with starmen from other ships, see a new face, trade news of the starways. It was almost criminal to deprive them of even a few hours of it.
Well, a dance was the second best thing. But it was a pretty distant second, he thought, as he pushed himself up out of the pneumochair.
He looked across the recreation room. Speak of the devil, he thought. There was Roger Bond now, stretched out and resting too under a radiotherm lamp. Alan walked over to him.
“Heard the sad news, Rog?”
“About the quarantine? Yeah.” Roger glanced at his wristchron. “Guess I’d better start getting spruced up for the dance,” he said, getting to his feet. He was a short, good-looking, dark-haired boy a year younger than Alan.
“Going with anyone special?”
Roger shook his head. “Who, special? Who, I ask you? I’m going to take skinny Judy Collier, I guess. There’s not much choice, is there?”
“No,” Alan agreed sadly, “Not much choice at all.”
Together they left the recreation room. Alan felt a strange sort of hopeless boredom spreading over him, as if he had entered a gray fog. It worried him.
“See you tonight,” Roger said.
“I suppose so,” Alan returned dully. He was frowning.
Chapter Three
The Valhalla touched down on Earth at 1753 on the nose, to nobody’s very great surprise. Captain Mark Donnell had not missed schedule once in his forty ship years in space, which covered a span of over a thousand years of Earth’s history.
Landing procedure was rigidly set. The Crew debarked by family, in order of signing-on; the only exception to the order was Alan. As a member of the Captain’s family—the only other member, now—he had to wait till the rest of the ship was cleared. But his turn came eventually.
“Solid ground again, Rat!” They stood on the jet-fused dirt field where the Valhalla had landed. The great golden-hulled starship was reared up on its tail, with its huge landing buttresses flaring out at each side to keep it propped up.
“Solid for you, maybe,” Rat said. “But the trip’s just as wobbly as ever for me, riding up here on your shoulder.”
Captain Donnell’s shrill whistle sounded, and he cupped his hands to call out, “The copters are here!”
Alan watched the little squadron of gray jetcopters settle to the ground, rotors slowing, and headed forward along with the rest of the Crew. The copters would take them from the bare landing field of the spaceport to the Enclave, where they would spend the next six days.
The Captain was supervising the loading of the copters. Alan sauntered over to him.
“Where to, son?”
“I’m scheduled to go over in Copter One.”
“Uh-uh. I’ve changed the schedule.” Captain Donnell turned away and signalled to the waiting crew members. “Okay, go ahead and fill up Copter One!”
They filed aboard. “Everyone get back,” the Captain yelled. A tentative chugg-chuff came from the copter; its rotors went round and it lifted, stood poised for a moment on its jetwash, and shot off northward toward the Starmen’s Enclave.
“What’s this about a change in schedule, Dad?”
“I want you to ride over with me in the two-man copter. Kandin took your place aboard Copter One. Let’s go now,” he shouted to the next group. “Start loading up Number Two.”
The Crewmen began taking their places aboard the second copter, and soon its pilot signalled through the fore window that he was loaded up. The copter departed. Seeing that he would be leaving the field last, Alan made himself useful by keeping the younger Crew children from wandering.
At last the field was cleared. Only Alan and his father remained, with the little two-man copter and the tall gleaming Valhalla behind them.
“Let’s go,” the Captain said. They climbed in, Alan strapping himself down in the co-pilot’s chair and his father back of the controls.