The man's grin faded as Ryan ranted on. His muffled voice came through the pane. 'Look here,' he said. 'There's no need to be like that. I never knew you was back, did I? I was asked by the old lady to keep the windows clean while you was away. Which I have done without, if I may say so, any payment whatsoever. So before you complain about my bloody habits, I suggest you settle up...'
'How much?' Ryan put his hand in his pocket. 'Come on—how much?'
'Three pounds seven.'
Ryan opened the window and put four pound notes on the outside sill. 'There you are. Keep the change. And while you're at it don't bother to come back. We don't need you. I'm going to clean the windows myself.'
The man grinned cynically. 'Oh, yeah?' He tucked the money into his overall pocket. 'I hope you've got a head for heights, then.
They're all telling me they're going to clean their own windows from now on. Have you seen them? Half of them don't do the outsides. They can't stand the height, see? You should see 'em. Filthy.
You can hardly see out for the dirt. It must be like the black hole of Calcutta in most of them flats. Still, it's none of my business, I'm sure. If people want to live in the dark that's their affair, not mine.'
'Too right,' said Ryan. 'You nosy bloody...'
The window-cleaner's eyes hardened. 'Look, mate...'
'Clear off,' said Ryan fiercely. 'Go on!'
The man shrugged, gave his yellow grin again and touched his carroty hair sardonically in a salute. 'Cheerio, then, smiler.' He began to lower himself down the wall towards the distant ground.
Ryan turned to look at his wife. Mrs Ryan was not on the couch any more. He heard sobs and followed the sound.
Mrs Ryan was stretched across the bed, face down, weeping hysterically.
He touched her shoulder. 'Cheer up, love. He's gone now.'
She shrugged off his hand.
'Cheer up. I'll...'
'I've always been a private person,' she cried. 'It's all right for you—you weren't brought up like me. People in our neighbourhood never intruded. They didn't come poking their faces through windows. Why did you bring me here? Why?'
'Darling, I find it all just as distasteful as you do,' Ryan told her.
'Honestly. We'll just have to sort it out step by step. Show people that we like to keep ourselves to ourselves. Be calm.'
Mrs Ryan continued to cry.
'Please don't cry, darling.' Mr Ryan ran his hands through his hair. 'I'll straighten things out. You won't see anyone you don't know.'
She turned on the bed. 'I'm sorry... One thing after another.
My nerves...'
'I know.'
He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to stroke her hair.
'Come on. We'll watch a musical on the TV. Then we'll...'
And as Mrs Ryan's sobs abated there came the familiar sound of the Chinese jazz. It was muted now, but it was still loud enough to lacerate the Ryans' sensitive ears.
Mrs Ryan moaned and covered her head as the tinkling, the jangling, the thudding of the music beat against her.
Ryan, helpless, stood and stared down at his weeping wife.
Then he turned and began to bang and bang and bang and bang on the wall until all the colours disappeared.
But the music kept on playing.
CHAPTER THREE
Mr Ryan has done his exercises, bathed, dressed and breakfasted.
He has left his cabin and has paced down the main passageway to the central control cabin. He has checked the coordinates, the consumption indicators, the regeneration indicators and run computations through the machine.
He seats himself at the tidy steel desk below the big screen that has no picture. Around him the dials and the indicators move unobtrusively.
Mr Ryan takes out the heavy red-covered log-book from its steel drawer. He unclips his pen.
Using the old-fashioned log appeals to his imagination, his sense of pioneerdom. It is the one touch of the historic, the link with the great captains and explorers of the past. The log-book is Ryan's poem.
He enters the date: December 25th, A.D .2005. He underlines it He begins to write the first of his eight-hourly reports: Day number one thousand, four hundred and sixty four. Spaceship Hope Dempsey en route for Munich 15040. Speed steady at point nine of c. All systems functioning according to original expectations.
No other variations. All occupants are comfortable and in good health.
Under this statement Ryan signs his name and rules a neat line.
He then stands up and reads the entry into the machine.
Ryan's report is on its way to Earth.
He likes to vary this routine. Therefore when he makes his next report he will do it orally first and write it second.
Ryan stands up, checks the controls, glances around and is satisfied that all is in order. Since embarkation on the Hope Dempsey three years ago he has lost weight and, in spite of his treatments under the lamps, colour. Ryan exercises and eats well and relatively speaking he is in the best possible condition for a man living at two-thirds Earth gravity. On Earth it would be doubtful if he could run a hundred yards, walk along the corridor of a train, move a table from one side of a room to another. His muscles are maintained, but they have forgotten much. And Ryan's mind, basically still the same, has also forgotten much in the narrow confines of the perfectly running ship.
But Ryan has his will. His will makes him keep to the perfect routine which will take the ship and its occupants to the star. That will which has held Ryan, the ship and its instruments and passengers together for three years, and will hold them together, functioning correctly, for the next three.
Ryan trusts his will.
Thus, in the private and unofficial section of the red log-book, the section which is never read over to Earth, Ryan writes: Today is Alex's tenth birthday—another birthday he will miss.
This is very saddening. However it is the kind of sacrifice we must make for ourselves and for others in our attempt to make a better life.
I find myself increasingly lonely for the company of my dear wife and children and my other old friends and good companions. Broadcasts from Earth no longer reach us and soon I shall be reduced, for stimulation, to those old shipmates of mine, my videotapes, my audiotapes and my books. But all this must be if we are to achieve our end —to gain anything worthwhile demands endurance and discipline. In three minutes it will be time to perform the duty I find most painful emotionally—and yet most essential. Every day I am seized by the same mixture of reluctance, because I know the distress it will cause me. And yet there is an eagerness to fulfil my task. I shall go now and do what I have to, Ryan closes the red log-book and places it back in the steel drawer so that the near edges of the book rest evenly against the bottom of the drawer. He replaces his pen in his pocket and stands up. He glances once more at the controls and with a firm step leaves the room.
He walks up the metallic central corridor of the ship. At the end there is a door. The door is secured by heavy spin screws. Ryan presses a button at the side of the door and the screws automatically retract. The door swings open and Ryan stands for a moment on the threshold.
The room is a small one, instantly bright as the heavy door opens.
There are no screens to act as portholes and the walls gleam with a platinum sheen.
The room is empty except for the thirteen long containers.
One of the containers is empty. Plastic sheets are drawn twothirds of the way up over the twelve full containers. Through the semi-transparent material covering the remainder of the tops can be seen a thick, dark green fluid. Through the fluid can be seen the faces and shoulders of the passengers.
The passengers are in hibernation and will remain so until the ship lands (unless an emergency arises which will be important enough for Ryan to awaken them). In their gallons of green fluid they sleep.