The Last Starship From Earth

by John Boyd

  “Don, I’m a gynecologist.”

  “Now, this symbol represents simultaneity, a perfect function of the converging lines. In practice, that function is never reached. For instance, it took us, in actual time, six months to make the four million light years to Cygnus, which figures out at about .987643, considering S as 1.”

  “But I’m a gynecologist!”

  “I had this idea for a series of curved mirrors, arranged thus, in a circle, which would reinforce the original beam from the laser, emitting pulsations, which would reinforce the reinforced speed. A chain reaction… Follow me?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I think the idea’s valid, and certain remarks made at my trial reinforced my opinion.”

  “Don, you’ve lost me. Mathematics is over my head.”

  “Forgive me, doctor. I must remember that your interests lie in the other direction… But you can tell me this: what form of government do you have here?”

  “We call it a ‘democracy,’ which is Greek, and it’s Greek to me. I don’t have a very abstract mind. If I can’t touch it, I can’t appreciate it. But we elect a president every six years, and he appoints advisers.”

  “What gets him elected?”

  “Wong Lee got in by promising to reduce the police force. Too many people were getting arrested for disturbing the peace… Helix, in planning your home on this planet, you’ll have to remember to allow for the construction of extra bedrooms…”

  Haldane was thinking apart from Hargood and Helix as the two chatted.

  If promises were the key to political power on this planet, he would have to find out what appealed to these people. He thought of setting up houses of recreation and installing professional recreational workers, but he immediately rejected the idea. Such sterile entertainment would not appeal to a population that wanted to fertilize and be fertilized.

  “But doctor,” Helix was saying, “my most pressing problem is clothes. I didn’t bring a thing with me.”

  “We’ll visit the clothing shops tomorrow.”

  “I’ll need lingerie and pajamas tonight.”

  “On your wedding night?”

  He might offer state awards for bearing offspring. It wag an idea, but the problem there would be to prove the parenthood of the male.

  Other exiles had arrived with their guides, had been treated at the bar, and were taking their tables. Apprehension was gone from their faces. On the way to their table, Harlon V and Marta stopped by at their table to exchange first impressions.

  Marta had gotten a subdued form of the treatment that Helix had received on her walk across the room, and her air of dignified refinement had been replaced by vivacity and pleasure. Harlon’s air of dignified refinement had been replaced by one of hurt dignity. Harlon, Haldane figured, might not be able to stand the competition.

  Halapoff, once started, moved fast. Some happy Ukrainian hiding in his ancestry must have directed his preparation of the shishkabob, and he glowed when Helix complimented him on the meal. “He’s an even better accordion player,” Hargood said, when any further remarks were shattered by a burst of sound.

  Beginning on a low rumble and rising to a high-pitched quaver, the sound rose and fell in a prolonged series of whoops. Haldane turned and saw the giant red-bearded man from the bar strutting to the center of the dance floor, his head tilted toward the ceiling, the burls of his fist pounding a tattoo on the barrel of his chest.

  “My name’s Whitewater Jones. I’m half horse and half alligator. I can walk barefoot on a barbed-wire fence and strike sparks with my feet. I’m a third generation Heller, and the day I was born I clawed out a bobcat’s eyes and chewed off its tail. I’m as fast as greased lightning and as strong as a mammoth bear. I’ve whipped every man and loved every woman between Marston Meadows and Point of Portage. I shoot nothing but live bullets.”

  Beneath the roar from the dance floor, Haldane asked Hargood, “What’s the matter with him?”

  “Alas,” Hargood answered, “as a nation of individuals, our people go to extremes. This man is a bully, and right now he’s going through a fertility ritual.

  “He runs the riverboat between here and Point of Portage and only gets to town about three days out of the month. This is his way of working off steam by getting into a fight and getting himself a female.”

  “Don’t you have policemen?”

  “We only have nine in the whole town. If they tried to lock him up, they’d be hurt, and they’d have to let him out in a couple of days because he’s the only pilot on the river.”

  It was difficult to talk beneath the roar, and the man’s claims were interesting. Haldane listened as he boasted that he had carried his steamboat across a sandbar on his back. Hargood tapped his shoulder. “Don, you’ll get two weeks on the house as a honeymoon gift from the pope—and by the way, it’s traditional for the groom to carry the bride across the threshold.”

  Haldane tried to listen, but Whitewater Jones was demanding his attention.

  “Halapoff, break out your accordion and play us a tune before I hit you so hard your freckles rattle. None of these earth fillies knows how to dance, and Whitewater Jones is giving them lessons. Get moving!”

  Halapoff sprinted across the room to the bar, where Hilda handed him an accordion. It was the most amazing demonstration of persuasion by threat of force Haldane had ever seen. Halapoff was actually frightened.

  Hargood made no attempt to discipline the man when he went swaggering around the arc of the tables, leering at all the women and sizing up, particularly, the women from earth.

  “Whitewater Jones wants to dance, and when Whitewater Jones dances, he fondles. Any female who hasn’t been fondled by Whitewater Jones has the biggest thrill of her life coming up.”

  His swaggering, salacious progress was incongruous against the background of Ukrainian folk music into which Halapoff’s frightened fingers were putting tremolos unscorable.

  He neared the Hargood table, spotted Helix, and roared, “Doc, are you holding that little chestnut filly back? Let her out of the gate!”

  “You’ve been drinking too much,” Hargood said.

  “You hinting I can’t hold my liquor? I can lift a barrel of hooch and drink it dry without spilling a drop, eat a medic to settle my stomach, and pick my teeth with an earthman’s arm.”

  He stopped and put a massive arm around Helix’ shoulder. His roar dropped to a thunderous coo as he said, “Ma’am, I know you earth women don’t know how to dance, but waltzing’s easy. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me give you your first lesson…”

  Haldane rose quietly behind the love-smitten sailor and walked onto the dance floor as he heard Jones say, “I’m just an old country-boy sailor, and I don’t get into town much. I’d love to give you your first one…” He raised his voice and bellowed to Halapoff, “Play a waltz!”

  In the silence, Haldane called, “Come, dance with me, you son of a bitch!”

  In one of those flashes of inspiration he had never been able to analyze, it had struck Haldane that the red-bearded giant might be a mother-lover.

  “What did you call me, son?”

  From the hurt and disbelief in Jones’s question, he felt he might have hit pay dirt. As the sailor had requested, Haldane repeated the phrase and stressed the last word.

  This was not mere pay dirt. He had hit the mother lode of mother-lovers. The incredible speed which galvanized the giant, drunken bulk as it charged across the floor at Haldane marked Whitewater Jones as the most affectionate son since Oedipus Rex.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Seemingly as slender and as ineffectual as a gazelle before a charging rhino, Haldane awaited the charge as Halapoff’s accordion broke into a syncopated version of the “Valse Macabre.”

  When the hurtling Jones passed the spot where Haldane had stood, Haldane tripped him and he skidded the full width of the waxed floor. His head struck the row of empty stools along the service bar and scattered them in a manner so reminiscen
t of a ball striking bowling pins that someone in the dining room shouted, “Strike!”

  There was a scattering of polite applause from the spectators.

  Whitewater rose to his feet, felt a cut on his lip, and looked at the blood on his hands. The sight of his own blood must have driven him berserk. Yet, despite the added impetus, Haldane scored only three tables, plus occupants, on his toss into the dining area.

  Applause, however, continued in volume.

  More important, he had maneuvered Jones into position. On the third charge, he grabbed an extended arm, levered the sailor over his shoulder, and sent him flying through the air to land on his hocks, bounce once, and skid, feet first, into the fireplace, and the roaring flames.

  Screams of pain from the fireplace brought prolonged applause from the dining area and the strains of “Waltz Me Around Again, Willy” from the accordion.

  Apparently Jones had rudimentary educability. Using his head instead of his scorched feet, he hobbled slowly toward Haldane, making no sudden movement that could be used against him. He advanced on the earthman, his arms extended as pincers, and slowly they encircled Haldane.

  He had put his head into the maw of the lion. An audible intake of breath from the audience testified to his mistake and to the fact that he had gained audience sympathy.

  Gently, the arms drew Haldane toward the great chest as the massive legs spread apart to give a solid base for the crushing action. But Haldane was not crushed in the slightest.

  He lifted his kneecap with explosive force.

  With a yowl that exceeded the fireplace whoop by several decibels, Jones dropped Haldane and clutched for his offended area. Haldane delivered a karate blow to the base of the neck. Jones shook the floor as he fell into a fetal ball, clutching two spots, bleeding, and whimpering, “Calf rope Calf rope.”

  Haldane had never heard of a calf rope.

  He circled the fallen hulk, which had, fortunately, fallen on its right side, leaving the chin open for a kick from a right-footed kicker. He carefully sighted his toe with the point of the chin, and drew back a pace to deliver the coup de grâce as Halapoff played “Auld Lang Syne.”

  Olé’s were issuing from the crowd.

  “Stop it, Haldane!”

  It was the imperious command of a professional. Years of discipline froze Haldane.

  Hargood strode into the arena bloodied by the drippings from Jones’s mouth, “When he yells ‘calf rope,’ that means he’s beaten.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Haldane apologized. “I’m not familiar with the customs of the country.”

  “Stand up, Jones. I want to look at that mouth.”

  Slowly, first to one knee, Jones struggled to his feet and obediently opened his mouth.

  “You may lose a tooth, and you’ve cracked a lip. Go to your room and sleep it off. I’ll see you at ten o’clock in the morning.”

  Shaking his head and mumbling, the half-horse half-alligator stumbled toward a rear door marked with an exit sign.

  “Something tells me you’re going to adjust well to Hell, Haldane.” Hargood took his arm and steered him back to the table.

  Haldane was shaking slightly, but not from his exercise, which had been minor.

  That jury on earth had been correct in their evaluation of him. Beneath the thin shell of civilization, he was a brute rampant, and tonight the egg had cracked. He felt as if he had staggered from some desert of restraint to plunge into the cool, clear waters of violence. He had intended to kill Jones, and he would have enjoyed doing it.

  Before they were seated, Helix said icily, “Did you have to do that?”

  “I’m always irritable right after I wake up.”

  “That poor man only wanted to dance with me. I admit he was rough and crude, but he talked with a kind of poetry.”

  “Only wanted to dance with you!” Haldane stared at her incredulously. “Are you that naïve? If you’re that taken with his poetry, I’ll go drag the bum back, and you can spend my wedding night with him.”

  “Yes, you will adjust well to Hell,” Hargood said, with sad certainty.

  “You’re very aggressive, aren’t you?” Helix was chiding him, but there was an admiration in her eyes which revealed an animalism to match his own. She was the one who had adjusted to Hell. She had adjusted so rapidly that it was as if she were a native of the planet.

  “Doctor Hargood, I know you’re tired and want to get home to your wife and twelve children, eight by you, so Helix and I will excuse ourselves and retire.”

  “I don’t know if I should go up there with you or not,” she said. “You’re so physical.”

  “As the good doctor has pointed out, there’s an old custom in which the groom carries the bride across the threshold. I’d like to remind you that there’s an older custom in which the groom drags his bride to his cave by her hair.”

  “I come, master,” she said, rising.

  Again, that unpredictable inspiration struck.

  “I’ll carry you,” he said, “to make sure.”

  He threw her, squealing and squirming in feigned anger and true delight, over his shoulder and carried her across the dining room and up the stairs, while the enchanted audience arose and gave him a standing ovation. At the top of the stairs, he turned, waved to the crowd, and patted her protruding rump.

  The audience stamped, cheered, and whistled.

  He shoved open the door and carried his sizzling bride into a room where a fireplace with a roaring log fire cast lights over a lavish fourposter bed, canopied and curtained. “You crude beast,” she hissed, “I felt you do that! I’ll never be able to hold my head up on Hell again.”

  “It was nothing personal,” he assured her, pulling aside the curtains to toss her on the bed. “I was keynoting a political campaign, my opening gun in a run for the presidency… It doesn’t matter on this planet whether your head is up or down. Three-fifths of the population never look that high… These brutes have a primitive energy which I intend to control, and with a unifying command whipping them into conformity, they can produce the technology my idea will need.”

  She lay back, tilted on her elbows, and looked up at him in amazement. “Conformity! You fought it on earth… The pope was right! You would have wrecked earth if I hadn’t got you off the planet.”

  “Listen, Helix,” he sat down on the bed, intensity etched in every line of his face. “Here’s where the end justifies the means. I would be able to free the earth from the stranglehold of the sociologists.

  “That chain reaction of light, triggered by a laser source, would mean speeds of infinite acceleration. You see, it’s like a pinwheel of light generating within itself such a tremendous force that the propelling orifice need be no larger around than this.”

  “Quit making lewd gestures!”

  “And the thrust delivered through that orifice would be no bigger than a pinpoint of light, but that pinpoint would be so powerful no rocket-assisted take-off would be necessary… Why are you taking off your tunic?”

  “It’s getting too warm.”

  “The fire will die down… What I’m suggesting, in practice, is a taxicab through time. It’s self-evident that motion in excess of the speed of light will exceed the flow of time, but the flow of time is in only one direction. Ergo, if I jumped ten minutes within the next five minutes, I’d be where I am now; but if I could jump fifteen minutes, I’d be hauling you up the stairs five minutes ago.

  “You’d need no cumbersome life support system in the cab, for at infinite speed you could time your arrival at the place you wish to reach before your oxygen’s used up… Why are you taking off your skirt?”

  “It’s getting cooler.”

  “That’s an opposite reaction, which reminds me: Newton’s Law—for every action an opposite and equal reaction—still holds. You could reduce the weight of the cab until you’d need a power plant with no more energy than a storage battery.

  “You see, Helix, that’s the beauty of the Haldane Theory
from a classical viewpoint. It unifies the Quantum Theory, Newtonian Physics, Einstein’s energy theory, Fairweather’s Simultaneity—they’ll all dance on the grave of Henry VIII, and I’ll join in, waltzing to the strains of LV2 = (−T). Where are you going?”

  “Down to the kitchen, to pick up a few recipes from Halapoff.”

  “I’ve just presented you with the greatest formula since E = MV2 and you are going down to talk to a cook… Say, you’re wearing nothing but your boots!”

  “That’s the idea.”

  A great nonmathematical truth dawned on him. “Come here, girl.”

  With hand on hip, leaning nonchalantly against the door, she asked, “Are you jealous?”

  “Very much so, of a man named Flaxon, the smartest man I’ve ever met.”

  “I’ll come,” she said, “if you’ll promise…”

  “All right! All right! I won’t talk about the Haldane Theory with you any more tonight… I should have been a gynecologist.”

  “That’s not the promise I want at all,” she said, not moving from the door. He picked up her skirt and tunic and tossed them into a corner. Opening wide his arms in entreaty he said, “Speak.”

  “Tell me, what is the Haldane ‘swizzle-stick’ technique?”

  He closed his eyes and threw his palm to his forehead in a gesture of despair. “Out of five thousand three hundred and eighty lines of transcript, you pick out that one phrase. Come, Helix, I’ll explain its meaning, and I’ll explain why I never attempted to demonstrate it to a tender young virgin, I thought, in a crowded city such as San Francisco.”

  When he opened his eyes, she was standing very close to him, looking down with love, admiration, and repressed eagerness. He put his arms around her to prevent her escaping to Halapoff.

  “When I first met you,” he said, “I thought your beauty and grace were unearthly, but I was sorely puzzled by your analytical, rational, unfemalish mind. My father warned me you were not of my time and place. My lawyer hinted that yours was a diabolical intelligence in the form of a woman. Now one question regarding a gossipy tidbit, irrelevant and nongermane, has convinced me you’re a woman. Gone forever is my hope of a romance with some eternal Lilith.”