part mad, he makes me a little nervous. He's been right so oftenon all the other voyages."
"Ruchbah!" Iversen said, not particularly grateful for support from sucha dithyrambic source as the ship's medical officer. "Anyone whoprophesies doom has a hundred per cent chance of ultimately being right,if only because of entropy."
He was still brooding over the first officer's thrust, even though hehad been well aware that most of his officers and men considered him asorehead for doubting Harkaway in the young man's moment of triumph.However, Iversen could not believe that Harkaway had undergone such aradical transformation. Even on the basis of _mpoola_, one obviously hadto die before passing on to the next existence and Harkaway had beencontinuously alive--from the neck down, at least.
Furthermore, all that aside, Iversen just couldn't see Harkaway going onto a higher plane. Although he supposed the young man was well-meaningenough--he'd grant him that negligible virtue--wouldn't it be terribleto have a system of existence in which one was advanced on the basis ofintent rather than result? The higher life-forms would degenerate intoprimitivism.
But weren't the Flimbotzik virtually primitive? Or so Harkaway had said,for Iversen himself had not had enough contact with them to determinetheir degree of sophistication, and only the spaceships gave Harkaway'sclaim the lie.
* * * * *
Iversen condescended to take a look at the opening chapter of Harkaway'sbook, just to see what the whole thing was about. The book began:
"What is the difference between life and death? Can we say definitelyand definitively that life is life and death is death? Are we sure thatdeath is not life and life is not death?
"No, we are not sure!
"Must the individuality have a corporeal essence in which to enshrouditself before it can proceed in its rapt, inexorable progress toward theUltimate Non-actuality? And even if such be needful, why must thepersonal essence be trammeled by the same old worn-out habiliments oferror?
"Think upon this!
"What is the extremest intensification of individuality? It is theAll-encompassing Nothingness. Of what value are the fur, the feathers,the skin, the temporal trappings of imperfection in our perpetualstruggle toward the final undefinable resolution into the InfiniteInterplay of Cosmic Forces?
"Less than nothing!"
At this point, Iversen stopped reading and returned the manuscript toits creator, without a word. This last was less out of self-restraintthan through sheer semantic inadequacy.
The young man might have spent his time more profitably in a littleresearch on the biology or social organization of the Flimbotzik,Iversen thought bitterly when he had calmed down, thus saving the nextexpedition some work. But, instead, he'd been blinded by the flashytheological aspects of the culture and, as a result, the whole crew hadgone metempsychotic.
This was going to be one of the _Herringbone's_ more unendurablevoyages, Iversen knew. And he couldn't put his foot down effectively,either, because the crew, all being gentlemen of independent means now,were outrageously independent.
However, in spite of knowing that all of them fully deserved what theygot, Iversen couldn't help feeling guilty as he ate steak while theother officers consumed fish, vegetables and eggs in an aura ofunbearable virtue.
"But if the soul transmigrates and not the body," he argued, "what harmis there in consuming the vacated receptacle?"
"For all you know," the first officer said, averting his eyes fromIversen's plate with a little--wholly gratuitous, to the captain'smind--shudder, "that cow might have housed the psyche of yourgrandmother."
"Well, then, by indirectly participating in that animal's slaughter, Ihave released my grandmother from her physical bondage to advance to thenext plane. That is, if she was a good cow."
"You just don't understand," Harkaway said. "Not that you could beexpected to."
"He's a clod," the radio operator agreed. "Forgive me, sir," heapologized as Iversen turned to glare incredulously at him, "but,according to _mpoola_, candor is a Step Upward."
"Onward and Upward," Harkaway commented, and Iversen was almost surethat, had he not been there, the men would have bowed their heads incontemplation, if not actual prayer.
* * * * *
As time went on, the greech thrived and grew remarkably stout on theEarth viands, which it consumed in almost improbable quantities. Then,one day, it disappeared and its happy squeal was heard no longer.
There was much mourning aboard the _Herringbone_--for, with its lovablepersonality and innocently engaging ways, the little fellow had won itsway into the hearts of all the spacemen--until the first officerdiscovered a substantial pink cocoon resting on the ship's control boardand rushed to the intercom to spread the glad tidings. That was a breachof regulations, of course, but Iversen knew when not to crowd hisfragile authority.
"I should have known there was some material basis for the spiritualdoctrine of _mpoola_," Harkaway declared with tears in his eyes as heregarded the dormant form of his little pet. "Was it not thetransformation of the caterpillar into the butterfly that first showedus on Earth how the soul might emerge winged and beautiful from its vilehouse of clay? Gentlemen," he said, in a voice choked with emotion, "ourlittle greech is about to become a zkoort. Praised be the ImpersonalBeing who has allowed such a miracle to take place before our very eyes._J'goona lo mpoona_."
"Amen," said the first officer reverently.
All those in the control room bowed their heads except Iversen. And evenhe didn't quite have the nerve to tell them that the cocoon was pushingthe _Herringbone_ two points off course.
* * * * *
"Take that thing away before I lose my temper and clobber it," Iversensaid impatiently as the zkoort dived low to buzz him, then whizzed justout of its reach on its huge, brilliant wings, giggling raucously.
"He was just having his bit of fun," the first officer said withreproach. "Have you no tolerance, Captain, no appreciation of the joysof golden youth?"
"A spaceship is no place for a butterfly," Iversen said, "especially afour-foot butterfly."
"How can you say that?" Harkaway retorted. "The _Herringbone_ is theonly spaceship that ever had one, to my knowledge. And I think I cansafely say our lives are all a bit brighter and better and _m'poo'p_for having a zkoort among us. Thanks be to the Divine Nonentity for--"
"Poor little butterfly," Dr. Smullyan declared sonorously, "living outhis brief life span so far from the fresh air, the sunshine, the prettyflowers--"
"Oh, I don't know that it's as bad as all that," the first officer said."He hangs around hydroponics a lot and he gets a daily ration ofvitamins." Then he paled. "But that's right--a butterfly does live onlya day, doesn't it?"
"It's different with a zkoort," Harkaway maintained stoutly, though healso, Iversen noted, lost his ruddy color. "After all, he isn't really abutterfly, merely an analogous life-form."
"My, my! In four weeks, you've mastered their entomology as well astheir theology and language," Iversen jeered. "Is there no end to youraccomplishments, Lieutenant?"
Harkaway's color came back twofold. "He's already been around half a_thubb_," he pointed out. "Over two weeks."
"Well, the thing _is_ bigger than a Terrestrial butterfly," Iversenconceded, "so you have to make some allowances for size. On the otherhand--"
Laughing madly, the zkoort swooped down on him. Iversen beat it awaywith a snarl.
"Playful little fellow, isn't he?" the first officer said, withthoroughly annoying fondness.
"He likes you, Skipper," Harkaway explained. "_Urg'h n gurg'h_--or, togive it the crude Terran equivalent, living is loving. He can tell thatbeneath that grizzled and seemingly harsh exterior of yours, Captain--"
But, with a scream of rage, Iversen had locked himself into his cabin.Outside, he could hear the zkoort beating its wings against the door andwailing disappointedly.
* * * * *
&nbs
p; Some days later, a pair of rapidly dulling wings were found on the floorof the hydroponics chamber. But of the zkoort's little body, there wasno sign. An air of gloom and despondency hung over the _Herringbone_ andeven Iversen felt a pang, though he would never admit it withoutbrainwashing.
During the next week, the men, seeking to forget their loss, plungedthemselves into _mpoola_ with real fanaticism. Harkaway took to wearingsome sort of ecclesiastical robes which he whipped up out of therecreation room curtains. Iversen had neither the heart nor the courageto stop him, though this, too, was against
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