Home from the Shore

by Gordon R. Dickson

  "We'd appreciate that, Commander," said Johnny. "The truth is, the bat's dying was more of a shock than any of us expected.

  A psychic shock—"

  "What you've got to understand, Joya," said the Commander, "is that there are always bound to be things like this. I know, there's a damned general superstition about the military that we’re all very rigid and unfeeling. But that’s not so.

  I know—we all know—things can’t get done right unless the men and women doing them are whole-heartedly committed to them. If the people involved feel they’re in a straight-jacket, if they feel they're in handcuffs, then what they’re doing is going to suffer. Nobody wants it or them to suffer. Nobody wants you cadets to suffer. So if you need extra time to make your reports, we understand. But you’ve got to impress on the rest of your people—it’s your responsibility as class representative to impress on them—that getting this time is an extraordinary thing. It’s a special favor. Ordinarily we'd take a fairly stiff line with cadets who came along with the excuse of being upset, as a reason for putting off a report they should have done the minute they got back to quarters on the ship.”

  "Sir," said Johnny. "I’ve been at the Academy nearly four years. I think my own record’s a good one, and I—"

  "No doubt about it, no doubt about it,” said the Commander. "But you understand me?"

  "Of course, sir. But the point is,” said Johnny, "there are differences between those of us who were born in the sea and people born on land. There's some things we sea-born react to more strongly—”

  "We understand that. You take small things to heart. Of course,” said the Commander.

  "Yes, sir. Only it goes deeper than that," said Johnny. "I know how it can sound from the standpoint of someone born on land—that we can be incapacitated by the emotional backwash of the space bat’s death. But for us it was an actual experience—as actual as getting hit in the stomach. It’s not because something died. We're used to death in the sea. We just aren't used to death where the dying thing kills itself because it's been caught and trapped first. There aren’t any cages or prisons in the sea.”

  “Yes—we know,” said the Commander. "All the same, you tell your classmates that I’m under a certain amount of responsibility where they're concerned. Officially, it's part of my job to see they turn these reports in immediately on returning to the ship—"

  "Sir—”

  "Just a minute. Now, it’s also within my authority to give them more time. But I'm going to be asked why I gave it and I’m going to have to say the only reason was they requested it, and because they said they were different. The point is, for the sake of your own people you have to understand it's much better for them not to go claiming special exemptions, not to go parading their differences. You understand this?"

  "Believe me, Commander," said Johnny.

  "I understand that as well as anyone aboard here."

  "Well then," the Commander said. He smiled, deepening the crows-feet. "There’s no problem about giving you the extra time. It's a consideration within our discretion, so to speak. But the important bit is, your people have to understand that this literally is a favor; they've got to realize that, and not expect some allowance always is going to be made for them, just because they're different. Once they get their commissions, special factors can't come into account this way—otherwise we'd have a two-value service. You follow me?"

  "Yes sir," said Johnny.

  "Well, that’s really the only important point," said the Commander. “Take your time, but restrict these special indulgences to a minimum.

  All right, Joya?”

  Johnny went back to his quarters. There he found Joaquin and a few of the others.

  “How was it? How did it go?" Joaquin asked.

  “He agreed," said Johnny. "Maybe it'd be better for us one of these times if people like him didn’t agree. The worst of it is, he agreed without understanding. He doesn’t really know why we want extra time.”

  "Damn their bloody blue eyes!" exploded Joaquin suddenly. "Couldn’t they feel anything? Couldn't they feel it when that bat died? It never did a thing to anybody; and they took it and killed it. They think that that’s nothing. Do you know what that says about them? And they think that we should just sit down and write a report about it... I was out in number fifteen position on number two thread of number eight strand of the net and I trapped it—I helped kill it, and I watched it die, and that is all, sir!"

  "Calm down," Johnny said. "Letting it upset you doesn't help. It doesn't help the situation for you, or for any of us."

  There was a silence in the cadets' wardroom. "All right,” said Joaquin. He breathed slowly and deeply. "All right, I won't let it get me. But I've still got to write that report, sooner or later.”

  "We all have to write it sooner or later,” Johnny said.

  The days of their return to Earth were filled with exercises in handling the ship; this being after all their main reason—the larger, if not the more important reason—behind the cruise. Their workdays were long, and it was easy for all of them to put the idea of the reports out of their minds.

  It became something they did not talk about.Johnny had privately determined to write his report right after talking to the Commander, just to prove he could do it. But it turned out that this was hard to do. He had to force himself to his desk. Still, in the first off-duty hours after they were free from the duty cycle that had included the space bat capture, he sat down in his cabin and turned on his printer.

  But what he found himself writing was not so much a report as a White Paper, a policy statement in which he wrote about the fact that life—all life—had to be understood and respected or else no form of life would survive. He drew analogies from the sea. It was the only place he had to draw analogies from, out of the endless deep waters and all the creatures there from the smallest plankton to that same great deep sea squid he had seen and remembered ever since. He finished the report during his second set of off-duty hours and stacked it, telling himself he would re-write it into something more acceptable before the deadline for its turning in came.

  But he did not re-write it. Two ship's-days before they were back on Earth he turned it in, in its original form, telling himself that it would be lost among the other reports, that one such statement could do no harm except to lower his personal grade for the cruise; and his grade did not matter, measured against the necessity of getting the senior sea-born graduated. Accordingly,he put the whole business from his mind. He had nothing to think about now, he told himself, but graduation.

  They landed again on Earth. It was eight o'clock of a warm, soft night when the low-altitude transports finally brought them back to the Academy. It stood, quiet and almost homelike after space, the windows of its rooms alight where cadets were at study inside. No landers were on hand to chant them home; but Johnny noticed one window lit tha tshould not have been—the window to his own room.

  When he got upstairs to the room he found three of the sea-born waiting for him. Two class representatives, Will Jakin of the Freshmen and Per Holmquist of the Sophomores, were on his bed, which had been pulled down from the wall to provide seating space. Abner Yoeig, a thin, dark-haired Junior who was Mikros’ backup rep forthat Class, was seated in the chair at Johnny’s study table.

  “What is it?" said Johnny, looking at them.

  "Mikros," said Abner Yoerg.

  "What about Mikros?” Abruptly, there was a familiar heaviness in Johnny’s chest. He began to stow his gear.

  "He’s disappeared,” said Abner. "And they won’t tell us what they've done with him.”

  "Who won't?"

  "The cadre—the officers. They keep saying he’s off on some special duty which can’t be explained."

  "We've talked to everyone but the General—” began Will; and Per Holmquist broke in to agree.

  "Start at the beginning," Johnny said.

  He shoved the last of his gear into storage and turned around to face them. A
bner got up to give him the study chair and they told him about Mikros. He had gone off duty one evening and into Albuquerque to visit some lander relatives. He had spent the evening with them and left, saying he was headed back to the Academy before his pass ran out,at midnight. He had never reached the barracks.

  When he had not appeared by morning formation, Abner had reported him missing to the cadre Officer of the Day, and been told that there was no need for concern, Mikros was on special duty and would return "...in a while.”

  Abner and the others had not been satisfied with this answer. In fact they distrusted it entirely and were alarmed. Now they had been waiting to ask Johnny to go to the general officer commanding the Academy, and demand to know where Mikros was.

  "It doesn't make sense!" said Abner, passionately, “Why would they pick Mikros for something like that? There's no reason for it.

  Those—Landers know that as well as we do. They’re hiding something.”

  The little catch in his voice before he pronounced the word ‘landers’ marked a point at which one of the land-born would have sworn. But in the pragmatism of the oceans, the younger generations of sea-people had almost forgotten how.

  “You're guessing, Abner,” Johnny said. "Something could be happening here we don't know about—something that does involve Mikros."

  "Something we don’t know about—but they do?" Abner’s voice was thick.

  "Yes,” said Jakin, "and something Mikros didn't tell any of us about? He’d have said something to someone about whatever it was—not just gone out one night and not come back.”

  "All right,” said Johnny. "I’ll see if the general’ll talk to me tomorrow."

  "Talk to him tonight,” Abner said.

  "All right. I’ll try.”

  Johnny was still in travel uniform. He changed dress greens and went down to see the Officer of the Day.

  “Not tonight, Joya," said the O.D. He was a lieutenant named Harness whom most of the sea-born liked, a tall, thin young man who tilted his head jack and seemed to sight along his nose as he spoke, he did this now, looking up from his desk to talk to Johnny.

  “You can't see General Stower tonight,” he said. "Even if he wanted to see you, he’s out for the evening.”

  “How soon tomorrow, sir? We could have a real problem. The sooner I can talk to him about it the better.”

  "Yes. I know. Well... I’ll leave a message for him now and check again before morning parade. I'll get you in to see him as soon as possible. That's a promise.”

  But in fact it was nearly noon before Johnny, with a special pass from his morning classes, got to the office of the general officer commanding the academy. Stower was in his fifties, a square man with a brush of gray hair, and an explosive way of talking.

  “Come in, Johnny! Sit down!" he said,swiveling his own seat away from his desk and waving Johnny to an armchair. “What's it this time?"

  The question was a ritual opening to all their talks. Stower would know what had brought him here. He answered regardless.

  “There’s some worry about Mikros Palamas."

  "Oh, that," Stower frowned. His eyes went to his desk-top. "As a matter of fact, I’ve been waiting for you to get back. There’s some unpleasant news, I’m afraid. It seems on his way back from a pass into town, your classmate was beaten up. We've got him in the Veteran’s Hospital across town."

  Cause and effect clicked together in Johnny’s head.

  “Beaten up," he echoed. "By landers?"

  "Do you have any sea-people in town?"

  "Of course not, sir," said Johnny, “But It hink you understand me. I meant—by lander cadets from the Academy here?"

  Stower's face seemed to settle into itself.

  "No," he said.

  “Sir?" said Johnny. He waited, but Stower did not say any more. "Sir, forgive me, but have the lander cadets who were out on pass that same evening been checked?”

  Stower’s face did not change.

  "Yes," he said, without inflection. “Their movements are accounted for. None were near where Palamas... was injured."

  "I see," said Johnny. "Can I see him?”

  "You can now,” said Stower. He swung about, back to his desk and pressed a control on it.

  "The doctors didn't want anybody bothering him until today—which is why we've kept back word of what happened—”

  His aide came through the office door.

  "Mamal," said Stower, “will you take Joya over to the hospital to see Cadet Palamas?"

  But when Johnny and the aide reached the veteran's hospital, they found a mild uproar in progress at the room of Mikros. It appeared that he had been demanding to be let go back to the Academy. The argument had now reached the point where two military policemen had been sent for to stand guard outside his room.

  "Can I talk to him?" Johnny asked.

  "No," answered the physician in charge.

  The hospital authorities were not interested in anything that looked like special consideration for their troublesome patient. General. Stower's aide phoned back to the General’s office; but even with Stower's intercession, it was still more than an hour before Johnny was finally allowed to step through the door of Mikros' hospital room and find him sitting up in bed there.

  "Johnny!” he exploded.

  "That’s right," said Johnny, smiling. Butt he smile faded at the sight of Mikros' battered features. “How are you?"

  "I'm all right,” said Mikros. "Our bones don’t break that easily.”

  "Was that what they tried?”

  “They were talking about it—before they got too busy to talk. The thing was,” Mikros grinned hideously under his bruises, "they couldn’t hold me still long enough. They’d get me pinned down and then I’d break loose again.”

  “How many of them?" Johnny asked.

  "Four or five—there might have been six, but I don’t think so," Mikros said. "I didn’t have time to count too carefully.”

  "Do you know who they were?"

  "Lander cadets." Mikros looked steadily at Johnny. "Who else?”

  “You’re sure?”

  "Who else, as I said? No, I'm sure, even if I didn't know any of them. But I’ll know them if I see them again. They were trying to make an object lesson of me—they talked about that, too—so none of us would dare leave the Academy from now on, for fear of the same thing.”

  "They talked about that?”

  Mikros nodded.

  "They started out with a lot of things they wanted to tell me,” he said. "But then—as I say, they got too busy to talk much. Johnny, get me out of here.”

  I'll check with Stower. Maybe we can get you loose tomorrow.”

  "Not tomorrow! Today. Now! This whole place reeks of sickness, and death and chemicals and pain. I don’t know how even these landers can take it. Don’t you feel it, yourself?"

  “Yes,” said Johnny, soberly. "But I can’t get you out until tomorrow, I'm sure. I'll do as much as I can. If they won’t let you go then...’’

  He stopped talking aloud and switched to hand signals, the silent underwater language of the sea-born.

  I'll get you out tomorrow, myself, if they won’t,his hands said.

  All right, Mikros signalled back, then, if it comes to that, I won't go back to the Academy.

  I’ll run for the sea.

  "If they don't let you go tomorrow," said Johnny again, once more aloud, "I’ll ask to speak to General Stower again."

  "Tell him I can identify those landers, if he’ll line up the other cadets for me to look at," Mikros said.

  "All right," said Johnny, "I'll pass that word to him, too."

  They talked for a while longer, then Johnny left. On his way out, he made an effort to talk to the hospital authorities, but no one responsible would admit to having any right or authority to discuss when Mikros might be released. He went back to the Academy with Captain Mamal, the aide; and Mamal, at his urgent request, got him in to see Stower again that same day.

 
“He wants to come back to the Academy, sir," said Johnny. “He'd like to come now."

  "That's up to the doctors,” Stower answered.

  "Yes sir. But...” Johnny hesitated, aware of how his next words must sound like a broken record in the ears of the Academy's commanding officer.

  "A lander hospital’s hard on someone who's sea-born. Mikros reacts to all the suffering going on around him whether he wants to or not...”

  "It’s in the doctors' hands, as I say," Stower cut him off brusquely . “I can send a message saying I’d appreciate his being let go back to duty as soon as they think he’s able; but that's all I can do."

  "Thank you, sir," said Johnny. "By the way, Mikros says he can identify the men who jumped him, if you'll parade the lander cadets and let him look at them.”

  Stower sat looking at Johnny for a moment.

  "He recognized the ones who beat him up?”

  "Not recognized them, sir. It's just that he remembers them and he’d be able to identify them again.”

  "What makes him so sure they were from the Academy? They'd have to be in town in civies and without passes."

  "He knows, sir.”

  He does, does he?" Stower looked away from Johnny, out the office window for a second. He looked back at Johnny, his face calm and motionless.

  "We'd want to find any cadets who’d do something like that—whether they're from the land, the sea, or the far side of Jupiter. Find them and get rid of them. You say he can identify them?"

  "Yes sir, I do. I know he can.”

  "And you think he's right? That they're cadets from here at the Academy, over on the other side?"

  "If Mikros says so, yes sir."

  "Yes..." Stower looked away, out the window again. Abruptly, he turned back to Johnny. "All right, then. We’ll see about it, as soon as he can come back here. That's all, Joya."

  "Yes sir. If Mikros can’t leave tomorrow, can I go see him again? I may be able to get him to wait more quietly."

  “Of course," said Stower.