The Passenger

by Kenneth Harmon

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  THE PASSENGER

  By KENNETH HARMON

  _The classic route to a man's heart is through his stomach --and she was just his dish._

  Illustrated by CONNELL

  The transport swung past Centaurus on the last leg of her long journeyto Sol. There was no flash, no roar as she swept across the darkness ofspace. As silent as a ghost, as quiet as a puff of moonlight she moved,riding the gravitational fields that spread like tangled, invisiblespider webs between the stars.

  Within the ship there was also silence, but the air was stirred by afaint, persistent vibration from the field generators. This noiselesspulse stole into every corner of the ship, through long, emptypassageways lined with closed stateroom doors, up spiraling stairways tothe bridge and navigational decks, and down into vast and echoing holds,filled with strange cargo from distant worlds.

  This vibration pulsed through Lenore's stateroom. As she relaxed on hercouch, she bathed in it, letting it flow through her to tingle in herfingertips and whisper behind her closed eyelids.

  "Home," it pulsed, "you're going home."

  * * * * *

  She repeated the word to herself, moving her lips softly but making nosound. "Home," she breathed, "back home to Earth." Back to the proud oldplanet that was always home, no matter how far you wandered under aliensuns. Back to the shining cities clustered along blue seacoasts. Back tothe golden grainlands of the central states and the high, blue grandeurof the western mountains. And back to the myriad tiny things that sheremembered best, the little, friendly things ... a stretch ofmaple-shadowed streets heavy and still with the heat of a summer noon; aflurry of pigeons in the courthouse square; yellow dandelions in a greenlawn, the whir of a lawnmower and the smell of the cut grass; ivy on oldbricks and the rough feel of oak bark under her hands; water lilies andwatermelons and crepe papery dances and picnics by the river in thesummer dusk; and the library steps in the evening, with fireflies in thecool grass and the school chimes sounding the slow hours through thefriendly dark.

  She thought to herself, "It's been such a long time since you were home.There will be a whole new flock of pigeons now." She smiled at therecollection of the eager, awkward girl of twenty that she had been whenshe had finished school and had entered the Government EducationService. "Travel While Helping Others" had been the motto of the GES.

  She had traveled, all right, a long, long way inside a rusty freighterwithout a single porthole, to a planet out on the rim of the Galaxy thatwas as barren and dreary as a cosmic slag heap. Five years on the rockpile, five years of knocking yourself out trying to explain history andShakespeare and geometry to a bunch of grubby little miners' kids in atin schoolhouse at the edge of a cluster of tin shacks that was supposedto be a town. Five years of trudging around with your nails worn anddirty and your hair chopped short, of wearing the latest thing inoveralls. Five years of not talking with the young miners because theygot in trouble with the foreman, and not talking with the crewmen fromthe ore freighters because they got in trouble with the first mate, andnot talking with yourself because you got in trouble with thepsychologist.

  They took care of you in the Education Service; they guarded your dietand your virtue, your body and your mind. Everything but your happiness.

  * * * * *

  There was lots to do, of course. You could prepare lessons and readpapers and cheap novels in the miners' library, or nail some more tin onyour quarters to keep out the wind and the dust and the little animals.You could go walking to the edge of town and look at all the pretty graystones and the trees, like squashed-down barrel cactus; watch the largersun sink behind the horizon with its little companion star circlingaround it, diving out of sight to the right and popping up again on theleft. And Saturday night--yippee!--three-year-old movies in the tinhangar. And, after five years, they come and say, "Here's MissSo-and-So, your relief, and here's your five thousand credits andwouldn't you like to sign up for another term?"

  Ha!

  So they give you your ticket back to Earth. You're on the transport atlast, and who can blame you if you act just a little crazy and eat likea pig and take baths three times a day and lie around your stateroom andjust dream about getting home and waking up in your own room in themorning and getting a good cup of real coffee at the corner fountain andkissing some handsome young fellow on the library steps when the Moon isfull behind the bell tower?

  "And will the young fellow like you?" she asked herself, knowing theanswer even as she asked the question.

  She whirled about in the middle of the stateroom, her robe swirlingaround her, and ended with a deep curtsy to the full-length mirror.

  "Allow me to introduce myself," she murmured. "Lenore Smithson, formerlyof the Government Education Service, just back from business out on theRim. What? Why, of course you may have this dance. Your name? Mr.Fairheart! Of the billionaire Fairhearts?" She waltzed with herself amoment. Halting before the mirror again, she surveyed herselfcritically.

  "Well," she said aloud, "the five years didn't completely ruin you,after all. Your nose still turns up and your cheeks still dimple whenyou smile. You have a nice tan and your hair's grown long again.Concentrated food hasn't hurt your figure, either." She turned this wayand that before the mirror to observe herself.

  Then suddenly she gave a little gasp of surprise and fright, for acascade of laughter had flooded soundlessly inside her head.

  * * * * *

  She stood frozen before the mirror while the laughter continued. Thenshe slowly swung around. It ceased abruptly. She looked around thecompartment, staring accusingly at each article of furniture in turn;then quickly spun around to look behind her, meeting her own startledgaze in the mirror.

  Opening the door slowly, she ventured to thrust her head out into thecorridor. It was deserted, the long rows of doors all closed during theafternoon rest period. As she stood there, a steward came along thecorridor with a tray of glasses, nodded to her, and passed on out ofsight. She turned back into the room and stood there, leaning againstthe door, listening.

  Suddenly the laughter came again, bursting out as though it had beensuppressed and could be held back no longer. Clear, merry, ringing andcompletely soundless, it poured through her mind.

  "What is it?" she cried aloud. "What's happening?"

  "My dear young lady," said a man's voice within her head, "allow me tointroduce myself. My name is Fairheart. Of the billionaire Fairhearts.May I have the next dance?"

  "This is it," she thought. "Five years on the rock pile would do it toanyone. You've gone mad."

  She laughed shakily. "I can't dance with you if I can't see you."

  "I really should explain," the voice replied, "and apologize for mysilly joke. It was frightfully rude to laugh at you, but when I saw youwaltzing and preening yourself, I just couldn't help it. I'm a telepath,you see, from Dekker's star, out on the Rim."

  That would explain, she thought, his slightly stilted phraseology;English was apparently not his native tongue--or, rather, his nativethought.

  "There was a mild mutation among the settlers there, and the thirdgeneration all have this ability. I shouldn't use it, I know, but I'vebeen so lonely, confined here to my room, that I cast around to see ifthere were anyone that I could talk to. Then I came upon you consideringyour own virtues, and you were so cute and funny that I couldn't resist.Then I laughed and you caught me."

  * * * * *

  "I've heard of telepaths," she said doubtfully, "though I've never heardof Dekker's star. However, I don't think you have any right to gothinking aroun
d the ship spying on people."

  "Sh!" whispered the silent voice. "You needn't shout. I'll go away ifyou wish and never spy on you again, but don't tell Captain Blake, orhe'll have me sealed in a lead-lined cell or something. We're notsupposed to telepath around others, but I've been sitting here with allsorts of interesting thoughts just tickling the edges of my mind for solong that I had to go exploring."

  "Why not go exploring on your own two feet like anyone else? Have you somuch brains, your head's too heavy to carry?"

  "Unfortunately," the voice mourned, "my trouble is in my foot and not inmy head. On the second night out from Dekker's star, I lost my footingon the stairs from the dining hall and plunged like a comet