Seed of Stars

by Dan Morgan;John Kippax

  "What do you want?"

  "Explanations, perhaps. . . ." She eyed him steadily. "Or ... do you know, I'm not quite sure. There's a great deal I don't understand, and I would so like to do so."

  Every muscle of his body was stretched tight, tension increased by the quiet, mocking confidence of her manner, but he held back. If I once lay a hand on her, I'll tear her to pieces. . . . The thought burned red in his mind.

  "Your examination of Crewwoman Mizuno, for instance," Trudi continued. "Surely it was very brief for a complete physical check? It seemed quite clear to me that the girl was unwell; that was why I sent her on sick call."

  "Was it?"

  "But of course; what other reason could I possibly have?"

  Piet hesitated. It seemed pretty clear that she was playing with him.

  "And during this lightning examination, were you able to make any diagnosis, Lieutenant Huygens?" she asked.

  "The girl is perfectly fit in every respect. At the time, you saw her, she was nearing the end of her duty period and was tired."

  "A-one, fit for duty, then?"

  "That was my report."

  "But slightly pregnant, wouldn't you say? Or didn't you put that in your report?"

  Panic flowed through him in a sickening flood. She knew, of course she knew. Doors were closing in his mind. He could only stand, pale and shaken, staring into her ice-queen face as she continued:

  "You've been sleeping with her. That much is obvious. Perhaps even understandable. After all, a little variety. I shop around myself from time to time, when the mood takes me. Of course, I'm a bit conventional about the way in which I indulge my appetites. I don't cross ranks, for instance. Come to think of it, I don't get myself pregnant, either. How did that happen, by the way? Is your little monkey woman so fertile that human estrogens don't work on her? Or did you perhaps tamper with her contracapsule? After all, you are a medic, aren't you?"

  "Trudi. . . ." His voice was a strangled gasp, forced through a fear-congealed throat. This woman, this cold-eyed Norse goddess, held his and Mia's lives in the palm of her hand.

  "Perhaps it's some new kick, some twisted way of proving your virility?" she said, contemptuously. "A primitive like her . . . maybe she gets a charge out of feeling a half-European fetus growing in her womb. What is it—three, four months? You'll have to move soon if you're going to abort her, otherwise it could be a bit messy. But still, I suppose she's pretty hardy; back on Earth her kind drop their pups on the side of the rice field and get right back to work, I understand."

  Facing the icy lash of Trudi's words Piet was still able to console himself that there was at least one thing that she didn't know. Her automatic assumption that Mia's child would eventually be aborted proved that she had not even contemplated the possibility that he and Mia might be planning to jump ship at Kepler III. So long as she didn't know that, and so long as she didn't tell what she did know, there was still some hope.

  "What do you want from me, Trudi?"

  "What did I ever want?" she said, her features softening slightly. "Our appetites matched, didn't they? Don't tell me your monkey woman gives it to you any better than I did; or maybe you've forgotten, it's been so long?"

  The message in her eyes was clear now, the tone of her voice almost pleading. It was such a simple thing that she wanted; an act that they had performed together a thousand times. He had only to say the word and the danger that threatened his and Mia's plans would be removed. Trudi would have no qualms about sharing his favors with Mia, so long as he operated as an efficient satisfaction machine; she had implied as much already. And how many times could she possibly demand his cooperation during the short time that remained before the arrival at Kepler III? And Mia .. . what of Mia? Would her own attitude be so coldly reasonable?

  He knew damned well that it wouldn't. Mia would rather have died a thousand deaths than submit to such a calculated rape.

  Then Mia must never know.

  "All right, Trudi," he said. "Remind me."

  Her eyes gleamed with anticipation as she began to undress. Ship temperature, monotonously constant, demanded little clothing beneath a thin uniform. Soon she was naked, her clean body smell, a different odor from that of Mia, in his nostrils. She sat on the edge of the bed, her long, creamy European legs dangling as she stretched her arms upwards, tautening her full breasts. Placing her hands behind her head, she opened her legs and thrust towards him with demanding, urgent movements of her pelvis.

  "Ride me, Piet, for God's sake! Ride me!" Her voice was a husky moan. "Make it quick and hard, and strong!"

  Afterwards, when she was gone, he had a shivering fit, and was sick.

  Magnus was a careful, methodical man with something of the pedagogue in his makeup. Several weeks before, the heads of sections concerned had been presented with two-centimeter-thick copies of the E.D. officer's outline plan for the independence investigation of Kepler III, with a request that they should study it in preparation. This they had done, after their various fashions, picking out the items that were particularly relevant to their own specialties, taking whatever preliminary action was necessary, and largely ignoring the rest of the closely typed pages. It was thus with some impatience that they listened for a solid hour at the beginning of Magnus's briefing session to a careful, paragraph-by-paragraph interpretation of the first fifty pages of the outline.

  It was clear to Surgeon Lieutenant Maseba, who was sitting next to his commanding officer, that not the least restive member of Magnus's captive audience was Tom Bruce. Observing the increasing tension of the commander's lean body, and the increasing grimness of his hatchet face, Maseba made a private bet with himself that if Magnus's dissertation continued for just five minutes more Tom Bruce would blow his top, a rare but not unknown phenomenon which usually resulted in severe damage to the ego, and to the subsequent service career of the person who provoked it. On this occasion, however, the situation was rather out of the ordinary, inasmuch as Magnus, with his civilian rank equivalent to that of World Supreme Court judge, was clearly senior in any kind of pecking order, either civil or military, to Bruce.

  The least tolerable part about the situation for Bruce, as Maseba saw it, was the fact that although he had been supplied with a detailed outline the same as the rest of the officers present, there was in that outline hardly any mention of duties assigned to him beyond a curt acknowledgment that, as commander of Venturer Twelve, it would be his business to house and feed the Explorations Division officer's staff as necessary during the period of investigation, and that he should maintain the ship in readiness for liftoff at such a time as the investigations should be completed. Bruce, in other words, was relegated to the terms of a combination hotelier and interstellar bus driver. Through their short acquaintance Maseba had sufficient respect for Magnus's intelligence to realize that this treatment of Bruce could not be entirely accidental; but he had not so far been able to explain to himself satisfactorily just what Magnus's purposes were in this instance. On the other hand, his experience of the E.D. officer's interventions on the chess board suggested that here also, Magnus might very well be thinking several moves ahead. He turned his attention to the tall, slightly stooping figure whose carefully cultured voice flowed on so smoothly, never once at a loss for the elegant phrase, the precise word with which to make his meaning clear.

  "You are all, I'm sure, familiar with the Magarach Principle?" continued Magnus, beaming enquiringly. Then, despite a spattering of confirmatory nods from the less somnolent members of his audience, he went on to explain: "Briefly, the principle states that any colonial population must continue to grow at a certain rate in order to preserve its cultural heritage and stability. After the first seventy-five years of colonization, during which the development of a planet can be said to be in the melting pot, to coin a phrase, population growth should settle down to a steadily rising curve. If this fails to happen, and the birth rate falls below a certain percentage, then it can be predicted that the colony,
as such, is no longer viable. Now, you may ask, under such circumstances, surely the situation could be remedied by the introduction of new batches of colonists fresh from Earth? However, historical precedent shows us quite clearly that this is not the case. The introduction of such 'new blood' at this stage of development, with its inevitable dangers of clash between the 'old' colonists and the 'new,' can only result in the kind of instability which may well destroy the colony completely through conflict between racial groups, even to the extent of civil war and insurrection, as in the case of Damien II, some ten years ago, when the intervention of two Space Corps ships was required to restore order, and it was eventually found necessary to declare the colony nonviable, with the consequent evacuation of the entire colonial population. I do not intend to go into detail about the manner in which the Corps handled this particular operation; suffice it to say that there were certain questions at the time, and considerable adverse comment about the use of an unnecessary measure of violence..."

  "Rubbish!"

  Maseba winced as the unmistakable bark of Commander Tom Brace's parade-ground-trained voice broke in on the smooth tones of Magnus, and glanced at his wrist watch. Three and a half minutes flat.

  Magnus, imperturbable as ever, smiled mildly in the direction of the interruption, and said: "You had a question, commander?"

  Bruce, his lean features pale with rage, green eyes flashing, rose to his feet. He said: "Mister Magnus—I was under the impression that this was supposed to be a briefing session, expressly for the purpose of laying out the respective duties of my officers in the Kepler III operation."

  "But of course, commander."

  "In that case, I don't see why we have to sit here and listen to a crash course in sociopolitical theory," Bruce said vehemently. "You can rely on the fact that my officers will perform their duties to the letter in accordance with their Corps training."

  "Ah, yes, commander," .Magnus said smoothly. "That is a point upon which I have no doubt whatsoever. But unfortunately the carrying out of an independence investigation is not merely a matter of orders given and orders obeyed. There will arise inevitably in the course of any such operation certain situations which are, at this stage, unpredictable. In dealing with such situations, correct decisions can only be made by those people who are fully acquainted with the underlying principles of colonial independence."

  Bruce was unimpressed and unrepentant. "Good God, man! If you spend this amount of time on preliminaries, just how long do you anticipate the entire operation will take to complete?"

  Magnus drew the fingers of his right hand caressingly down the taut skin of his cheek. "That, commander, is a question which I can only answer at this stage by saying: as long as necessary. Does that satisfy you?"

  "It does not!" snapped Bruce. "How in hell can I map out any kind of voyage schedule on the basis of 'as long as necessary'? Do you expect me to sit there on Kepler III indefinitely, with the biggest, newest ship in Earth's space force taking root under me?"

  All boredom was gone from the proceedings now.

  The Corps officers were well acquainted with Bruce in this mood, and secure in the knowledge that, for once, his planet-busting rage was not directed against one of their number, they watched with eager interest and a touch of pride. Seated to Magnus's right, his assistant Ichiwara stared through pebble-thick glasses, his mouth hanging open with shock in the face of such open lese majesty. Next to him, an Explorations Division secretary waited, hands poised over keyboard of her steno-typer, trembling visibly.

  At the focus of all attention, Magnus remained unperturbed, his voice still cool and scholarly as he replied: "My dear commander, I thought I had already made it clear that I do not intend to skimp my work or my obligations in this matter. Six months, nine, or even a year, if necessary, are not too great a price to pay in oider to ensure the secure future of this planet Earth must live by her colonies, must accept her responsibilities towards them against the day when she may need their allegiance. If you have any doubts on this score, I suggest that you examine the memories of your own experience on Minos IV and think again. Do I make myself clear?"

  All eyes turned towards Bruce, anticipating a further explosion, but the commander disappointed his audience. Lean features set hard, jaw thrust forward, he stood in silence for a long moment, then without another word, he did a smart about-turn and walked out of the room.

  Magnus watched him go, with no change in his bland expression. Taking full advantage of the shocked silence, he surveyed the remaining occupants of the room in a leisurely manner, then said: "Now ladies and gentlemen, to continue...."

  Maseba took a deep breath and settled back to his seat, his dark eyes watching Magnus with a new hint of respect One game to Magnus—but Bruce was not the

  man to accept defeat gracefully; there would be a return bout.

  Two hours later, the briefing session ended, Maseba hurried back through the corridors of sixth level towards medic section, his mind already full of plans for the execution of his own particular assignments during the Kepler III operation.

  Even thus preoccupied, he still took time out to greet the crew members he met on the way.

  "Olo, how about that burn? No pain?"

  "Kekkunen, girl, I haven't forgotten you want that crooked toe straightened."

  He came across a P.O. leaning against a bulkhead and massaging his left leg. "Dockridge, one of these days I'll have that leg off and start over again."

  "Blimey, sir," Dockridge said. "I wish you wouldn't. It's nothing, really...."

  As Dockridge talked, Maseba's eyes roved ahead down the corridor, and he saw a crewwoman moving in the opposite direction from the way he himself was going.

  There was something about her walk . . . something careful... something.... Lithe as a cat, he took off in her direction, caught up with her and tapped her on the shoulder.

  "Go tell your officer I want to see you in sick bay right away."

  "But, sir..."

  "But nothing—do as I say, girl. And tell your officer to call me, if it's not convenient" He swung on his heel and hurried away.

  Helen Lindstrom had been known to swear that George Maseba, at his gentlest, had a bedside manner fit to charm the very stars out of the sky. He was exerting that charm to the full now as he took the hand of the little Japanese girl who lay in Psyche Room Four. Just above the girl's head a soothing pattern of colored lights, designed to interest and caress the mind of the watcher, changed and flowed. It seemed to Maseba that the girl saw, but that the patterns had no effect. She stared blankly, her eyes wet with tears.

  "Mia, you don't want to take this to heart too much, and don't think I'm a villain."

  She did not answer. Tears went on welling silently from her almond eyes like pearls of sorrow.

  "Mia, you know and I know that we have to stick to the regulations." He ran his hand along her left arm and felt the embedded capsule, frowned for a moment, then took his hand away. "These things don't very often fail, maybe you've just been unfortunate. But you've let it go for nearly four months. You must have known. Why didn't you come to me?"

  Still she lay silent, gazing upwards, unseeing as the webs of colored light changed and moved, and her tears flowed.

  "You must see, Mia, that there's only one thing we can do. It doesn't hurt, you know. A matter of less than half an hour, then a few days rest, and after that light duties for a day or two. YouH be all right"

  This time she answered him. "I'm all right now," she said quietly, her seal-brown eyes looking up into his.

  Hell! Maseba's bedside manner almost slipped as he realized fully, for the first time, just what he was dealing with here. This was something more than just a simple failure of a contracapsule—it was also something more than a matter of a crewwoman evading sick report.

  "You want this baby?" he said.

  She nodded. Her tears had ceased now, and she looked up at him with a pleading intensity.

  "You know who the father
is?"

  Brief anger flared in her eyes. "Of course!"

  "And you want the child because it's his?"

  "Because I love him," she said.

  "Love! Hell and damn, girl! Not here, not on a Corps ship—on my ship. Just look at the position sensibly. What kind of a mess would we be in, if all the female crew members went and got themselves pregnant, and concealed—" Maseba stopped as he had a sudden flash. What if something of that nature really had happened, a massive failure of an entire batch of contracapsules, due perhaps to the use of a quantity of incorrectly synthesized estrogen? Could be that this girl was the first of fifty, maybe sixty such cases, each—

  "Is it so strange that two people in love should wish to make a baby together?" she asked, breaking in on his waking nightmare.

  Despite the possible implications of the situation, looking down into her small doll face, George Maseba found himself smiling sympathetically. "Mia, my dear, don't tell me that you've never heard the old Corps line about love?"

  She frowned. "About love?"

  "Yes—love," he said, gently. "I've heard it attributed to Admiral Carter, Ivan Kavanin, even President Oharo, but I've a feeling that the first person who said it was just an ordinary, faceless, nameless medical officer, like me, in just this kind of situation." He quoted: " 'On board the ships of the Space Corps sex is permitted, but love is a bloody nuisance.'"

  Her round features were solemn as she considered the words. "Yes, I can see that might very well be so," she said. A brief shudder passed through her small body.

  "There will be other chances for you and your man," Maseba said. "I'm not going to ask you who he is. I don't want to know. But talk to him, tell him that this is the way it has to be. He'll help you more than I can. And when we get back to Earth at the end of this tour—then if you both feel the same way, come to me again, and I'll do what I can to help you both sign out of the Corps."

  "Other chances . . ." she echoed his words quietly.

  For a moment his black face and her golden one looked at each other and understood all that lay between them, understood the other's irrevocable point of view.