Since the initial, and now welcome, discovery that space was comfortably warm, the nearest thing to a revelation to come along had been the observation—first reported by Wraker —that there were no meteors in the interplanetary void. To Toller’s surprise, liven Zavotle had seized on the observation, apparently in the belief that it possessed some significance, and had made it the subject of another long entry in his log.
The little man’s illness seemed to be progressing according to his expectations. Although he uttered no complaints he was visibly thinner, and spent much of his time with both fists pressed into his stomach. He had also, which was quite out of character with the old Zavotle, become short-tempered and acidulous with the younger crew members, particularly Bartan Drumme. The others, while convinced that Bartan was subject to spells of insanity, were tolerant in the matter whereas Zavotle frequently made him a target for ridicule. Bartan accepted the abuse with equanimity, secure in his fortress of delusion, but on several occasions Berise had been stung into taking his part and her relationship with Zavotle had become strained.
Toller was loath to interfere, knowing that his old friend was being driven by a demon worse than his own, and he was trusting that Berise would not let the situation get out of hand. His own relationship with her—ever since their five days in the exclusive universe of the sinking skyship—was warm, comforting and totally dispassionate. They had found each other at a special time, a unique time during which their needs had been perfectly complementary, a time which would never come again, and now they were shaping their own separate courses into the future, without obligations or regrets. It had not even occurred to him to object when she had claimed a place with the expedition. He knew that she understood the dangers, that her reasons had to be at least as valid as his own.
Human interactions apart, Toller foresaw that food and drink—whether being ingested or eliminated—were likely to make the greatest demands on the crew’s powers of endurance. There could be no fire for cooking, so the diet consisted of strictly apportioned cold servings of dried, and salted meat and fish, desiccated fruit, nuts and biscuits, washed down with water and one tot of brandy per day.
The fact that the main engine was being fired almost continuously, thus imparting some weight to everything, made the toilet procedures less onerous than in zero gravity conditions, but the experience remained one which called for reserves of stoicism. In the midships lavatory there was a complicated tubular exhaust with one-way valves—the only point at which the hull could be breached in space. Unavoidably, a small quantity of air was lost each time the device was operated, but the volume of gas generated by the firesalt was enough to compensate.
It had originally been envisaged that all six of the crew would take equal turns in the pilot’s seat, but the plan was soon modified by practical considerations. Berise, Gotlon and Wraker were able to hold Gola on the crosshairs with ease, and Bartan was rapidly acquiring the same facility—but for Toller and Zavotle the task became even more irksome and tiring. Bowing to expediency, Toller rearranged the duty schedules to let the four young people keep the ship on its interception course with Farland, while he and Zavotle had more time to dispose of as they saw fit. Zavotle was able to occupy himself with astronomical studies and prolonged entries in his leather-bound log, but for Toller the extra hours were burdensome.
At times he thought about his wife and son, wondering what they were doing, and at others he gazed moodily through portholes at a frozen, unchanging panoply of stars, silver whirlpools and comets. In those periods the ship seemed to be permanently locked in place, and try as he might Toller was unable to accept that it was achieving the kind of speed necessary for the interplanetary crossing.
“Are you ready?” Bartan said to Berise. When she nodded he shut down the engine, floated himself out of the pilot’s seat and held the straps for Berise while she took his place.
“Thank you,” she said, giving him a cordial smile. He nodded politely, impersonally, made his way to the ladder and went down it, leaving Berise to share the top deck with Toller and Zavotle. Gotlon and Wraker were busy loading the fuel hoppers in the tail section.
“I think someone is developing a soft spot for young Bartan,” Toller commented, addressing himself to nobody in particular.
Zavotle sniffed loudly. “If that is the case, then that someone is only wasting her time. Our Mister Drumme reserves all his affections for spirits of one kind or another—bottled or disembodied.”
“I don’t care what you say.” Berise paused, hands resting lightly on the controls. “He must have loved his wife very much. If I died or disappeared soon after being married I’d like my husband to fly to another world in search of me. I think it’s very romantic.”
“You’re nearly as mad as he is,” Zavotle told her. “I hope we’re not all going to be afflicted by some mental contagion, a pterthacosis of the mind. What do you say, Toller?”
“Bartan does his job—perhaps we should leave it at that?”
“Yes.” Zavotle gazed through the porthole beside him for a few seconds, his expression becoming enigmatic. “Perhaps he does his job much better than I do mine.”
Toller’s interest was aroused not only by what the other man had said, but by something in his inflexion. “Is there something wrong?”
Zavotle nodded. “I selected a guide star which was supposed to put us on an interception course with Farland. Had I done the calculations properly, and chosen the guide star well, we should see it and Farland gradually drawing closer together ahead of us.”
“Well?”
“We are only five days into the flight, but already it is apparent that Farland and Gola are moving apart. I have put off telling you because I was hoping—foolishly, I suppose—that the situation would change, or that I would be able to devise an explanation. Neither of those things has come to pass, so I must consider myself to have failed to discharge my duties.”
“But it isn’t all that serious, is it?” Toller said. “Surely, all we have to do is aim closer to Farland. We are not under any threat.”
“Only the threat posed by incompetence.” Zavotle produced a rueful smile. “You see, Toller, nothing is working out as I expected. Farland seems too bright, and also its image in the telescope is too large. I would swear it is twice as big as when we started out. Perhaps optical instruments work differently in the void. I don’t know—I can’t explain it.”
“It could mean that we have completed half the journey,” Berise said.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Zavotle replied tartly. “You speak of matters far beyond your understanding.”
Berise’s eyebrows drew together. “I understand that when something appears to double in size the distance to it has been halved. It seems quite simple to my mind.”
“To the simple mind everything appears simple.”
“Let’s have no bickering,” Toller said. “What we need…”
“But the idiotic woman is suggesting that we have travelled nine or ten million miles in only five days,” Zavotle protested, kneading his stomach. “Two million miles in a day! That is a speed of more than eighty thousand miles an hour—which is impossible. The true speed…”
The true speed of your ship is now in excess of one hundred thousand miles an hour, said the golden-haired woman who had shimmered into existence near the side of the compartment.