by Kris Neville
II
The long ship hung in orbit above Miracastle and discharged itspassengers. The Scout Ball could handle them: saving energy, which alongwith time itself, is the ultimate precious commodity of the universegoverned by the laws of entropy.
The Scout Ball settled through the dark turbulence undisturbed by thehissing winds. It hovered momentarily in the invisible beacon above theRichardson dome as if both attracted and repelled. It moved horizontallyand settled. Suited figures on the surface wrestled with its flexibleexit-tube against the storm, fighting to couple it to the lock of theRichardson dome. The exit-tube moved rhythmically until the Scout Ballinched away, drawing it taut. Pumps whirred. The suited figures enteredthe forward lock of the Scout Ball.
Inside, General Shorter divested himself of the helmet. The suit hungupon him like ancient, wrinkled skin.
He asked, "What time is it?"
Upon being told, he nodded with satisfaction. "Seventeen minutes, total.Good job. Who's in charge?"
"A Mr. Tucker, sir."
"Tucker? Jim Tucker, by any chance?"
"Yes, sir."
General Shorter grunted. "Served with him once. He's probablyforgotten.... That's all right. I'll keep the suit on."
"I don't think they're expecting you with the surface party, General."
"Probably not or they'd be here. Earth crew?"
"They've been out ten months or so, sir."
"We will have colds, then. Would you take me to Mr. Tucker, please?" Tothe other suited men he said, "Good, fast job."
General Shorter followed the crewman up the spiral staircase and alongthe corridor. His hand touched a frictionless wall. "New plastic?"
"This is one of the most recent balls, sir."
"How does it handle?"
"Quite well, sir."
"I miss the Model Ten," he said.
"There's only a few left now, I guess."
"I haven't seen one in years."
The crewman stopped before a numberless panel. He knocked politely. "Mr.Tucker? I have General Shorter here. He came out with the surfaceparty."
Mr. Tucker's voice, the edge of surprise partly lost through thepartition, came: "Just a moment."
In silence they waited. General Shorter moved restlessly. Severalminutes passed.
The panel opened.
* * * * *
Mr. Tucker was a short, rotund man. His close-cropped hair was graying,although his face was unlined, with the smooth complexion of a child.His irises were gray and gold.
General Shorter stepped forward and introduced himself.
"Come in."
The panel closed.
The two men stood. General Shorter glanced around for a chair.
"Small quarters," Mr. Tucker said. "If you like, sit there. I'll sit onthe bed."
They arranged themselves.
"Perhaps you don't remember me?" the general said. "We servedtogether--what, ten years ago?--for about two weeks on Avalon, I believeit was."
"Yes, I thought that was the case. You have a good memory, General."
"Please," the general said, "just call me Max."
Mr. Tucker considered, without committing himself. He proffered a cigar.The general declined.
Mr. Tucker lighted the cigar carefully, moving the flame several timesacross the blunt end. He regarded the results without expression. "Acigar should be properly lit, General," he said.
"Yes, yes, I suppose so," the general said. He paused to worry at awrinkle on his suit. "Good trip out?"
"Routine."
"New ship? I notice this is one of the new Balls."
"Mark Six."
"Ah, those. I've always liked the Mark Six. Solid construction. I'vebeen Destroyed maybe half the time in the Mark Sixes. Each one of theMarks has its own personality--I've always thought so. I don't supposeyou remember the old Mark Two? That was a long time ago. I've beenaround. We got lost in one once. It picked a pseudo-fault line and ...well, never mind. Earth the same, I guess?"
"Hasn't changed."
"I don't know when I'll get back," the general said. The statementseemed to dangle as though it were an unfinished question.
"The new detectors have put Miracastle on the fringe of things."
"I've followed the work," the general said. "I try to keep up. Itinvolves a new concept of mass variation, doesn't it?"
"It just about makes it uneconomical to colonize a two-stage planet anymore. Or to keep one going."
The general's eyelids flickered. His body moved beneath the wrinkledfolds of the surface suit. Cigar smoke curled in the still air.
Mr. Tucker said, "You must have been aware that it would not have been agreat loss to have evacuated Miracastle."
The general shuffled in silence. "Yes, sir, I knew the background. It'spart of my job to know things like that. You'll find, sir, that I have astrong sense of responsibility. If it's part of my job, I'll know aboutit."
General Max Shorter abruptly stood and for a moment was motionless, aman deformed and diminished in stature by the ill-fitting surface suit.Expressionless, he looked down, without psychological advantage, at theseated civilian holding the partially smoked cigar.
Later the same day, Mr. Tucker and two of the three other members of theCommittee donned surface suits and, together with Captain Meford, thecartographer assigned to Miracastle, they boarded the surface scout.
They arranged themselves in the uncomfortable bucket seats and strappedin.
"Little early for an easy ride," Mr. Tucker commented.
"I've been out before," Captain Meford said laconically. It was hisusual manner.
"How long do you think it will take us to get there?"
"Between fifteen and twenty minutes, if I don't hit too much crosswind."
Mr. Ryan, one of the other two civilians, commented, "A long timebetween cigars, eh, Jim?"
The question was out of place and was ignored without hostility.
Mr. Ryan twisted uncomfortably. At length he said, apologetically,"Dirty, filthy business. I wish it were over with."
"So do I," Mr. Tucker said.
Captain Meford activated the ramp and eased the scout out. It wasimmediately buffeted by the winds.
"Sorry," he said. "It'll take a minute. Hold tight." The scout moved inthree dimensions, erratically. "Wow! Let's set it at about twenty-sixinches. Sorry. This will slow us down, but it will ease the bumps ondown draft. There. That's better. We're okay now, I think. I guess wecan settle back."
Thirty-five minutes later, they came to what was left of the alien city.
* * * * *
Back in the Richardson dome, General Shorter had coffee, in hisquarters, with the remaining man on the Committee, a Mr. Flison. Theywere going through the ritual of conversation.
"This is the first time you've been Destroyed then, sir," the generalsaid. "My first time was so long ago I've forgotten what it feels like."
"I was uneasy in advance," Mr. Flison said. "You read variousdescriptions about the physical sensations. Intellectually, of course,you draw a distinction, but emotionally you know that the only wordwhich applies is death--pure and simple. But there's no sensation. Ithappens too fast. You don't even notice it."
Politely attentive, the general had leaned forward. "I don't think itcould be put better," he contributed. "That's very apt. You don't evennotice it."
Mr. Flison's eyes narrowed in speculation. They maintained the general'sown in unwavering focus. He did not acknowledge the compliment.
The general's eyes broke to one side. He moved nervously as thoughphysically to dismiss the tactical error of underestimating hisopponent.
"Since this is your first planet," the general said, "perhaps you'd liketo see something of the operation? Basically, we have nine RichardsonDomes here on Miracastle. Two are the living quarters--the other similarto this. Right now domes Seven and Nine are the more important. Theycontain the air-changing equipment. We are holdi
ng tightly to ourcompletion date, and these two--Seven and Nine--will be pulled out infifteen days. That is to say, they will, barring any seriousinterruptions in our work. On schedule, I should point out."
The general poured coffee for himself. Mr. Flison politely declined.
"When you've been in the Corps as long as I have," the general resumed,"the schedule becomes a part of you. Everything--" he held his handsbefore him, fingers spread, palms facing, and drew themtogether--"converges on that. It's that simple. Other planets arewaiting. In a