SPACE
SHIP
SAFE
PLACE
SPACE
SAFE
SMELL
TASTE
HASTE
RACE
WASTE
SPACE
SAVE
SPACE
SAFE
PLACE
SAFE CASE SPACE PLACE HATE HEAT SWEET SAFE BRAIN SHIP TAME WHIP GOOD TRIP SPACE SHIP LET RIP SPACE TRIP HATE TASTE SPACE FACE HATE HASTE SPACE RACE HATE FACE SPACE PLACE HOT DRIP SPACE SHIP SHIP HATE HEATSPACEHEATSAFEFEATSWEET HATE SAFE HAZE NOT TRUE *********
NOT TRUE *********
******** NOT TRUE *
*
NOT TRUE
*
'IT'S NOT FUCKING true!'
Ryan screams.
He wakes up.
The tape machine is humming rhythmically.
He shudders.
He has an erection.
His mouth is dry.
He has a pain above his left temple.
His legs are trembling.
His hands are gripping the plastic of his chair, pinching it in handfuls like a housewife inspecting a chicken.
The muscles at the back of his neck ache horribly.
He shakes his head.
*
What wasn't true?
The symphony has come to an end.
He gets up and switches off the machine, frowning and massaging his neck. He yawns.
Then he remembers the dream. The jungle. The women.
He grins with relief, recognising the source of the exclamation— the denial with which he had woken himself up.
Just simple, old-fashioned guilt feelings, obviously.
He had considered waking Janet, cheating on his brother, had dreamed accordingly, had denied his feelings and had come awake with a start.
All that proved was that he had a conscience.
He stretches.
Scratching his head he leaves the cabin and goes to take another shower.
As he washes, he smiles again. It's just as well to let those secret thoughts out into the open. No good burying them where they can fester into something much worse, catch him off his guard and possibly wreck the entire mission, maybe make him wake up the others. That would be fatal.
A wave of depression hits him. It's bloody hard, he thinks.
Bloody.
He pulls himself together. His old reflexes are as good as ever.
Keeping fit isn't just a matter of exercising the body. One has to exercise the brain, too. Make constant checks to be sure it's working smoothly.
He must be getting unduly sensitive, however, for his conscience was never that much of a burden to him!
He laughs. He knows what he must do.
It's the old trouble. The problem of leisure. It was unhealthy not to put your mind to something other than its own workings.
He was developing the neuroses of the rich, the non-workers—or would start to, if he wasn't careful.
The dream is a warning.
Or rather his reaction to the dream is a warning. Tomorrow he will start studying the agricultural programmes, get interested in something other than himself.
Refreshed, his aches and pains vanishing, he returns to his cabin sorts out the agricultural programmes ready for the next day.
Then he goes to bed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Although he is alone on board, he faithfully follows all the rituals as if there were a full crew in attendance.
As a boy I used to swim through cold water in the streams that ran between the pines, he thinks.
At the time set for the daily conferences, he sits at the head of the table and reviews the few events and projected tasks with which he is involved.
He eats at the formal meal times, uses formal language in all his dealings with the ship, makes formal checks and radios formal log entries back to Earth. His only break with formal routine is the red log-book he keeps in the desk.
He makes the formal tours to the Hibernation Section (nicknamed 'crew storage' by the personnel when they first came aboard).
As a young man I stood on hills in the wind and stared at moody skies, he thinks and I wrote awful, sentimental, self-pitying verse until the other lads found it and took the piss out of me so much I gave it up. I went into business instead. Just as well.
He touches the button and the spin screws automatically retract.
I wonder what would have happened to me. Art thrives in chaos.
What's good for art isn't good for business...
He pauses by the first container and looks into the patient face of his wife.
*
Mrs Ryan cleaned down the walls of her apartment. She was using the appropriate fluid. All the time she cleaned she kept her face averted from the long window forming the far wall of the apartment.
When she had finished cleaning she took the can of fluid back to the kitchen and put it on the right shelf.
Frowning uncertainly, she stood in the middle of the kitchen.
Then she drew a deep breath and she reached towards the shelf again, touching another can. The can was labelled Plantfood.
She grasped the can.
She lifted it from the shelf.
She coughed and covered her mouth with her free hand.
She drew another breath.
She walked into the lobby and sprayed the orange tree that stood in its shining metallic tub. She went back to the living room, with its coloured walls, expensive, cushiony plastic chairs, the wall to wall TV.
She turned on the TV.
The wall opposite the window was instantly alive with whirling, dancing figures.
Watching them gyrate, Mrs Ryan relaxed a trifle. She looked at the can in her hand and put it down on the table. She watched the dancers. Her eyes were drawn back to the can, still lying on the table. She began to sit down. Then she stood up again.
Mrs Ryan's fresh forty-year-old face crumpled slightly. Her lips moved. She had the expression of a resolute but frightened child, half-ready to cry if the expected accident occurred.
She picked up the can and walked to the wall-long window.
With her eyes half-closed she located the button which controlled the raising and lowering of the blinds. With the room in darkness she sprayed the plants on the windowsill.
She took the can back to the kitchen and placed it on the shelf.
She stood in the kitchen doorway for a while, staring into the darkness of the living room, lit only by the flicker of the TV. Then she crossed the room to the window and placed her hand on the button controlling the blind.
She turned her back to the window and found the button with her left hand.
There was a big production number on TV. She stared at it, unmoving.
Then she pressed the button and sprang away from the window as the blinds rushed up and the room was flooded with daylight again.
She hurried into the kitchen, turning off the TV as she went past.
She made some coffee and sat down to drink it.
The room was silent.
The empty window looked out on to the apartment block opposite. Their empty windows stared back.
Few cars ran in the street between the blocks.
Inside the apartment, in the kitchen, Mrs Ryan sat with her coffee cup raised like a puppet whose motor had cut out in midaction.
The telephone buzzed.
Mrs Ryan sat still.
The telephone went on buzzing.
Mrs Ryan sighed and approached the instrument, set at head height on the kitchen wall. She ducked down against the wall and reached up to remove the mouthpiece.