I turned to see-story-on-page-two. There was a boxed dispatch from the Commodore in the Santa Maria: “(Official) At 0334 today Greenwich time TS Vasco da Gama (LRF 172) fell out of contact. Two special circuits were operating at the time, one Earthside and one to the Magellan. In both cases transmission ceased without warning, in midst of message and at the same apparent instant by adjusted times. The ship contained eleven special communicators; it has not proved possible to raise any of them. It must therefore be assumed that the ship is lost, with no survivors.”
The LRF dispatch merely admitted that the ship was out of contact. There was a statement by our Captain and a longer news story which included comments from other ships; I read them but the whole story was in the headlines…the Vasco was gone wherever it is that ships go when they don’t come back.
I suddenly realized something and looked up. Cas Warner’s chair was empty. Uncle All caught my eye and said quietly, “He knows, Tom. The Captain woke him and told him soon after it happened. The only good thing about it is that he wasn’t linked with his brother when it happened.”
I wasn’t sure that Uncle Alf had the right slant. If Pat got it, I’d want to be with him when it happened, wouldn’t I? Well, I thought I would. In any case I was sure that Unc would want to be holding Sugar Pie’s hand if something happened and she had to make the big jump before he did. And Cas and his brother Caleb were close; I knew that.
Later that day the Captain held memorial services and Uncle Alfred preached a short sermon and we all sang the “Prayer for Travelers.” After that we pretended that there never had been a ship named the Vasco da Gama, but it was all pretense.
Cas moved from our table and Mama O’Toole put him to work as an assistant to her. Cas and his brother had been hotel men before LRF tapped them and Cas could be a lot of help to her; keeping a ship with two hundred people in it in ecological balance is no small job. Goodness, just raising food for two hundred people would be a big job even if it did not have to be managed so as to maintain atmospheric balance; just managing the yeast cultures and the hydroponics took all the time of nine people.
After a few weeks Cas was supervising entering and housekeeping and Mama O’Toole could give all of her time to the scientific and technical end—except that she continued to keep an eye on the cooking.
But the Vasco da Gama should not have made me brood; I didn’t know anybody in that ship. If Cas could pull out of it and lead a normal, useful life, I certainly should not have had the mulligrubs. No, I think it was my birthday as much as anything.
The mess room had two big electric clocks in it, controlled from the relativists’ computation room, and two bank-style calendars over them. When we started out they were all right together, showing Greenwich time and date. Then, as we continued to accelerate and our speed got closer to that of light, the “slippage” between Elsie and the Earth began to show and they got farther and farther out of phase. At first we talked about it, but presently we didn’t notice the Greenwich set…for what good does it do you to know that it is now three in the morning next Wednesday at Greenwich when it is lunch time in the ship? It was like time zones and the date line back on Earth: not ordinarily important. I didn’t even notice when Pat groused about the odd times of day he had to be on duty because I stood watches any time of day myself.
Consequently I was caught flat-footed when Pat woke me with a whistle in the middle of the night and shouted, “Happy birthday!”
(“Huh? Whose?”)
“Yours, dopey. Ours. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you count?”
(“But—”)
“Hold it. They are just bringing the cake in and they are going to sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ I’ll echo it for you.”
While they were doing so I got up and slipped on a pair of pants and went down to the mess room. It was the middle of “night” for us and there was just a standing light here. But I could see the clocks and calendars—sure enough, the Greenwich date was our birthday and figuring back zone time from Greenwich to home made it about dinner time at home.
But it wasn’t my birthday. I was on the other schedule and it didn’t seem right.
“Blew ’em all out, kid,” Pat announced happily, “That ought to hold us for another year. Mum wants to know if they baked a cake for you there?”
(“Tell her ‘yes.’”) They hadn’t, of course. But I didn’t feel like explaining. Mother got jittery easily enough without trying to explain Einstein time to her. As for Pat, he ought to know better.
The folks had given Pat a new watch and he told me that there was a box of chocolates addressed to me—should he open it and pass it around? I told him to go ahead, not knowing whether to be grateful that I was remembered or to be annoyed at a “present” I couldn’t possibly see or touch. After a while I told Pat that I had to get my sleep and please say good night and thank you to everybody for me. But I didn’t get to sleep; I lay awake until the passageway lights came on.
The following week they did have a birthday cake for me at our table and everybody sang to me and I got a lot of pleasantly intended but useless presents—you can’t give a person much aboard ship when you are eating at the same mess and drawing from the same storerooms. I stood up and thanked them when somebody hollered “Speech!” and I stayed and danced with the girls afterwards. Nevertheless it still did not seem like my birthday because it had already been my birthday, days earlier.
It was maybe the next day that my Uncle Steve came around and dug me out of my room. “Where you been keeping yourself, youngster?”
“Huh? Nowhere.”
“That’s what I thought.” He settled in my chair and I lay back down on my bunk. “Every time I look for you, you aren’t in sight. You aren’t on watch or working all the time. Where are you?”
I didn’t say anything. I had been right where I was a lot of the time, just staring at the ceiling. Uncle Steve went on, “When a man takes to crouching in a corner aboard ship, it is usually best, I’ve found, to let him be. Either he will pull out of it by himself, or he’ll go out the airlock one day without bothering with a pressure suit. Either way, he doesn’t want to be monkeyed with. But you’re my sister’s boy and I’ve got a responsibility toward you. What’s wrong? You never show up for fun and games in the evenings and you go around with a long face; what’s eating you?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me!” I said angrily.
Uncle Steve disposed of that with a monosyllable. “Open up, kid. You haven’t been right since the Vasco was lost. Is that the trouble? Is your nerve slipping? If it is, Doc Devereaux has synthetic courage in pills. Nobody need know you take ’em and no need to be ashamed—everybody finds a crack in his nerve now and again. I’d hate to tell you what a repulsive form it took the first time I went into action.”
“No, I don’t think that is it.” I thought about it—maybe it was it. “Uncle Steve, what happened to the Vasco?”
He shrugged. “Either her torch cut loose, or they bumped into something.”
“But a torch can’t cut loose…can it? And there is nothing to bump into out here.”
“Correct on both counts. But suppose the torch did blow? The ship would be a pocket-sized nova in an umpteenth second. But I can’t think of an easier way to go. And the other way would be about as fast, near enough you would never notice. Did you ever think how much kinetic energy we have wrapped up in this bucket at this speed? Doc Babcock says that as we reach the speed of light we’ll be just a flat wave front, even though we go happily along eating mashed potatoes and gravy and never knowing the difference.”
“But we never quite reach the speed of light.”
“Doc pointed that out, too. I should have said ‘if.’ Is that what is bothering you, kid? Fretting that we might go boom! like the Vasco? If so, let me point out that almost all the ways of dying in bed are worse…particularly if you are silly enough to die of old age—a fate I hope to avoid.”
We talked a while longer but did not g
et anywhere. Then he left, after threatening to dig me out if I spent more than normal sack time in my room. I suppose Uncle Steve reported me to Dr. Devereaux, although both of them claimed not.
Anyhow, Dr. Devereaux tackled me the next day, took me around to his room and sat me down and talked to me. He bad a big sloppy-comfortable stateroom; he never saw anybody in surgery.
I immediately wanted to know why he wanted to talk to me.
He opened his frog eyes wide and looked innocent. “Just happened to get around to you, Tom.” He picked up a pile of punched cards. “See these? That’s how many people I’ve had a chat with this week. I’ve got to pretend to earn my pay.”
“Well, you don’t have to waste time on me. I’m doing all right.”
“But I like to waste time, Tom. Psychology is a wonderful racket. You don’t scrub for surgery, you don’t have to stare down people’s dirty throats, you just sit and pretend to listen while somebody explains that when he was a little boy he didn’t like to play with the other little boys. Now you talk for a while. Tell me anything you want to, while I take a nap. If you talk long enough, I can get rested up from the poker party I sat in on last night and still chalk up a day’s work.”
I tried to talk and say nothing. While I was doing so, Pat called me. I told him to call back; I was busy. Dr. Devereaux was watching my face and said suddenly, “What was on your mind then?”
I explained that it could wait; my twin wanted to talk to me.
“Hmm… Tom, tell me about your twin. I didn’t have time to get well acquainted with him in Zurich.”
Before I knew it I had told him a lot about both of us. He was remarkably easy to talk to. Twice I thought he had gone to sleep but each time I stopped, he roused himself and asked another question that got me started all over again.
Finally he said, “You know, Tom, identical twins are exceptionally interesting to psychologists—not to mention geneticists, sociologists, and biochemists. You start out from the same egg, as near alike as two organic complexes can be. Then you become two different people. Are the differences environmental? Or is there something else at work?”
I thought about this. “You mean the soul, Doctor?”
“Mmm…ask me next Wednesday. One sometimes holds personal and private views somewhat different from one’s public and scientific opinions. Never mind. The point is that you m-r twins are interesting. I fancy that the serendipitous results of Project Lebensraum will, as usual, be far greater than the intended results.”
“The ‘Sarah’ what, Doctor?”
“Eh? ‘Serendipitous.’ The Adjective for ‘Serendipity.’ Serendipity means that you dig for worms and strike gold. Happens all the time in science. It is the reason why ‘useless’ pure research is always so much more practical than ‘practical’ work. But let’s talk about you. I can’t help you with your problems—you have to do that yourself. But let’s kick it around and pretend that I can, so as to justify my being on the payroll. Now two things stick out like a sore thumb: the first is that you don’t like your brother.”
I started to protest but he brushed it aside. “Let me talk. Why are you sure that I am wrong? Answer: because you have been told from birth that you love him. Siblings always ‘love’ each other; that is a foundation of our civilization, like Mom’s apple pie. People usually believe anything that they are told early and often. Probably a good thing they believe this one, because brothers and sisters often have more opportunity and more reason to hate each other than anyone else.”
“But I like Pat. It’s just—”
“‘It’s just’ what?” he insisted gently when I did not finish.
I did not answer and he went on, “It is just that you have every reason to dislike him. He has bossed you and bullied you and grabbed what he wanted. When he could not get it by a straight fight, he used your mother to work on your father to make it come his way. He even got the girl you wanted. Why should you like him? If a man were no relation—instead of being your twin brother—would you like him for doing those things to you? Or would you hate him?”
I didn’t relish the taste of it. “I wasn’t being fair to him, Doctor. I don’t think Pat knew he was hogging things…and I’m sure our parents never meant to play favorites. Maybe I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”
“Maybe you are. Maybe there isn’t a word of truth in it and you are constitutionally unable to see what’s fair when you yourself are involved. But the point is that this is the way you do feel about it…and you certainly would not like such a person—except that he is your twin brother, so of course you must ‘love’ him. The two ideas fight each other. So you will continue to be stirred up inside until you figure out which one is false and get rid of it. That’s up to you.”
“But…doggone it, Doctor, I do like Pat!”
“Do you? Then you had better dig out of your mind the notion that he has been handing you the dirty end of the stick all these years. But I doubt if you do. You’re fond of him—we’re all fond of things we are used to, old shoes, old pipes, even the devil we know is better than a strange devil. You’re loyal to him. He’s necessary to you and you are necessary to him. But ‘like’ him? It seems most improbable. On the other hand, if you could get it through your head that there is no longer any need to ‘love’ him, nor even to like him, then you might possibly get to like him a little for what he is. You’ll certainly grow more tolerant of him, though I doubt if you will ever like him much. He’s a rather unlikeable cuss.”
“That’s not true! Pat’s always been very popular.”
“Not with me. Mmm… Tom, I cheated. I know your brother better than I let on. Neither one of you is very likeable, matter of fact, and you are very much alike. Don’t take offense. I can’t abide ‘nice’ people; ‘sweetness and light’ turns my stomach. I like ornery people with a good, hard core of self interest—a lucky thing, in view of my profession. You and your brother are about equally selfish, only he is more successful at it. By the way, he likes you.”
“Huh?”
“Yes. The way he would a dog that always came when called. He feels protective toward you, when it doesn’t conflict with his own interests. But he’s rather contemptuous of you; he considers you a weakling—and, in his book, the meek are not entitled to inherit the earth; that’s for chaps like himself.”
I chewed that over and began to get angry. I did not doubt that Pat felt that way about me—patronizing and willing to see to it that I got a piece of cake…provided that he got a bigger one.
“The other thing that stands out,” Dr. Devereaux went on, “is that neither you nor your brother wanted to go on this trip.”
This was so manifestly untrue and unfair that I opened my mouth and left it open. Dr. Devereaux looked at me. “Yes? You were about to say?”
“Why, that’s the silliest thing I ever heard, Doctor! The only real trouble Pat and I ever had was because both of us wanted to go and only one of us could.”
He shook his head. “You’ve got it backwards. Both of you wanted to stay behind and only one of you could. Your brother won, as usual.”
“No, he didn’t…well, yes, he did, but the chance to go; not the other way around. And he would have, too, if it hadn’t been for that accident.”
“‘That accident.’ Mmm…yes.” Dr. Devereaux held still, with his head dropped forward and his hands folded across his belly, for so long that I thought again that he was asleep. “Tom, I’m going to tell you something that is none of your business, because I think you need to know. I suggest that you never discuss it with your twin…and if you do, I’ll make you out a liar, net. Because it would be bad for him. Understand me?”
“Then don’t tell me,” I said surlily.
“Shut up and listen.” He picked up a file folder. “Here is a report on your brother’s operation, written in the talk we doctors use to confuse patients. You wouldn’t understand it and, anyhow, it was sent sidewise, through the Santa Maria and in code. You want to know what they
found when they opened your brother up?”
“Uh, not especially.”
“There was no damage to his spinal cord of any sort.”
“Huh? Are you trying to tell me that he was faking his legs being paralyzed? I don’t believe it!”
“Easy, now. He wasn’t faking. His legs were paralyzed. He could not possibly fake paralysis so well that a neurologist could not detect it. I examined him myself; your brother was paralyzed. But not from damage to his spinal cord—which I knew and the surgeons who operated on him knew.”
“But—” I shook my head. “I guess I’m stupid.”
“Aren’t we all? Tom, the human mind is not simple; it is very complex. Up at the top, the conscious mind has its own ideas and desires, some of them real, some of them impressed on it by propaganda and training and the necessity for putting up a good front and cutting a fine figure to other people. Down below is the unconscious mind, blind and deaf and stupid and sly, and with—usually—a different set of desires and very different motivations. It wants its own way…and when it doesn’t get it, it raises a stink until it is satisfied. The trick in easy living is to find out what your unconscious mind really wants and give it to it on the cheapest terms possible, before it sends you through emotional bankruptcy to get its own way. You know what a psychotic is, Tom?”
“Uh…a crazy person.”
“‘Crazy’ is a word we’re trying to get rid of, A psychotic is a poor wretch who has had to sell out the shop and go naked to the world to satisfy the demands of his unconscious mind. He’s made a settlement, but it has ruined him. My job is to help people make settlements that won’t ruin them—like a good lawyer, we never try to get them to evade the settlement, just arrange it on the best terms.
“What I’m getting at is this: your brother managed to make a settlement with his unconscious on fairly good terms, very good terms considering that he did it without professional help. His conscious mind signed a contract and his unconscious said flatly that he must not carry it out. The conflict was so deep that it would have destroyed some people. But not your brother. His unconscious mind elected to have an accident instead, one that could cause paralysis and sure enough it did—real paralysis, mind you; no fakery. So your brother was honorably excused from an obligation he could not carry out. Then, when it was no longer possible to go on this trip; he was operated on. The surgery merely corrected minor damage to the bones. But he was encouraged to think that his paralysis would go away—and so it did.” Devereaux shrugged.
Time for the Stars Page 10