Survey Ship (18 page)

We are all of us just guinea pigs, and probably we are ail going to die. And nobody even cares.' They put
a new crop of guinea pigs aboard Survey Ship 103, and threw us out to Jive or die.'

And I can't even throw this out at the others, because they don't know it yet, they haven't realized .... Moira thinks it's important how our group dynamics work for survival. Who sleeps with whom. We could all collapse into anarchy, nihilism, kill one another — we'll die anyhow!

“What's the matter, Fontana?” Peake asked, corning up and taking the stacked armful of disposable plates from her. “You look awfully tired. Here, let me take those for you.”

She Wanted to scream at Peake, don't be so nice to me, don't you know we're all going to die, that they threw us all out to die? We survived the meteor by pure damn dumb luck .... why should I think we'll be one of the ten who lives instead?

But before Peake's dark, ugly, kindly face she could not speak the words. She said, “Thank you, Peake, I — I guess I am tired.”

“Let me get you a glass of wine,” Moira said, and turned to dial the controls. Fontana, controlling herself by a rigid effort, curled up in a soft chair beside Moira.

“Look,” Moira said, “I wasn't trying to intrude on Peake's private life. But you can't tell me you haven't thought of it. They sent out three men and three women, only one of the men is inaccessible, which means two men for three women, and nobody for Peake. That doesn't seem to make sense, if they choose the crews as carefully as they say they do — ”

Haven't you figured it out yet, Moira, that they don't care, that it's completely random? There are all kinds of theories about what kind of crew mix will survive, they can afford to try them all. For a moment she was so confused by the words in her mind she wondered
if she had actually spoken them aloud, But Moira was still waiting for her answer. Into the silence Moira said, with unusual shyness, “I — I offered — he turned me down flat. He's all right. For now, anyhow. But it's going to be years, Fontana ...”

Assuming we live so long. Fontana was growing used to two sets of conversations: what she wanted to say and dared not say, what she really said. Sighing, she said the correct thing.

“Moira, my dear, there is nothing either of us can do about Peake; it's his problem, to face in his own way. Sooner or later, either he will face how he feels about women, and decide to experiment with one of us; or he will persuade one of the men to experiment with him; or he will make a conscious decision to remain celibate and let the rest of us do what we like. And in any case it is his decision. The voyage is only a few days old. We have to give him time. At present it's much more important to you to decide how you feel about Ravi, than to worry about Peake and his problems — or Ching and Teague and theirs.”

Moira's smile was just a flicker. “I'd swap my problems for Ching's, right now, but I don't know if she'd care to trade. I'm glad she's enjoying herself, anyhow. I wish I were.”

Ching startled awake with a cry, the sharp nightmare shock, the old atavistic terror of falling . . . no, she was not falling, the sleeping net held her closely restrained; but it was the floor that was not anywhere, she was floating, spinning, no down or up, no orientation — she felt her stomach heave, heard herself moan, and shut her eyes against the impact of it, struggling with sickness.

This was absurd; of course there was only one explanation, the damned DeMag units were off again in her cubicle. Was it through the whole of the living quarters? Or only in her own cubicle, or what? She clung to the bunk, frozen, incapable of what she knew she ought to do; clamber down and turn the DeMag unit firmly off, then on again, to bring back the needed gravity. She fought to force her fingers to unclip the sleeping net, let herself slide along the bunk, clinging to the rails as to a crawl bar. Yet her inner-ear channels convinced her that the bunk, which ought to be in an orderly spot halfway between floor and ceiling, was somehow suspending her upside-down at a crazy, sickening angle.

She shouted, “Hey!” Had this happened in all the cubicles? Had anyone else been awakened by it? Would
anyone else even notice, far less be awakened by that nightmare plunge? They all seemed to manage, somehow, none of the others felt that sickening physical disorientation and terror. In response to her cry there were a few sleepy sounds, and then Teague thrust his sinewy shoulders through the opening of the cubicle, and made strong swimming motions up toward the bunk where she clung. He undipped the safety net and, clasping her tight in his arms, propelled them both down to the floor.

“Poor love, poor little thing,” he murmured, stroking her hair, “were you frightened? You should have called out before, only I thought it was only in my own cubicle; I should have come in and checked to make sure you were all right.”

She hid her face against Teague's naked chest, wondering why she felt so boneless, so wholly devoid of strength in his arms. Could a simple biological process, even when aided by hormones, do that to her, or was it simply a matter of suggestion and psychology, was it all in her mind after all?

Still holding her in the circle of one arm, he slid down toward the DeMag unit, turned the dial firmly off and then on again. Ching, still holding her breath and struggling against nausea, felt the world blessedly settle down to normal again.

“Are you all right, sweet? I'd better check up on the others, and then I'll be right back,” Teague promised. She heard his voice, calling out to the rest of them, one after the other, reassuring them.

“I guess it was only your cubicle, and mine, Ching, everyone else seemed to be all right.”

“Did — it — wake you?”

He shook his head. “No, I was awake, working. Working on my string quartet; it's not going the way I want
it to go. I really don't have the training in theory that I need. And I'm not a good enough violinist to know whether the things I write are playable or not. Theoretically, they should be, but I can't really imagine if they would sound the way I expect them to sound. And I don't know how to resolve it,”

“Ask Peake to play them for you,” Ching suggested. Teague had crawled into the bunk beside her, clipped the safety net over them both: he lay on his side, facing her, his face almost invisible in the dimness; there was no light except the dim rim of illumination just outside the door of the cubicle, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark she could make out that he looked dejected.

“Peake? No, I couldn't. He's a real musician. He's used to great music, or at least to the computer doing things right, and my stuff is so crude. I'd be ashamed to show it to Peake.”

“Don't be foolish, Teague. He likes you, he'd be glad to tell you what's good about it and what's wrong with it — ”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Teague muttered.

“Even if it was awful, Teague — and honestly, I don't think it is — Peake is much too nice to be rude to you about it, or make fun or you. He'd understand what you were trying to do, and I'm sure he'd be nice and helpful.”

“That's not what I'm worrying about,” Teague said, his face buried in her neck, so that she could hardly hear the words. “I wouldn't mind how rude he was, or how much he made fun of it, if he levelled with me. What I'm afraid of is that he'd just be — be nice about it. Nice and polite, and not take it seriously. How could anybody take it seriously, writing string quartets in this day and age? It's like writing sonnets. Peake would think it was sort of quaint and cute and be ever so nice
about it. Kind and, well, condescending, but he wouldn't take it seriously as music, he couldn't.”

“How can you possibly know that without asking him?”

“Oh, well, maybe I will,” said Teague, in such an offhanded way that Ching knew he wouldn't. “Are you all right now, not feeling sick any more?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you, Teague, you don't have to stay with me any more ...”

“But I want to,” he whispered holding her close. “You don't mind, do you? Let me stay, Ching.”

She knew that she should make him go, she had resolved that she would make him go, it was not right to use Teague this way, to give herself confidence, to hold her fears and loneliness at bay.

We are all foolish, she thought. Teague is foolish about showing his music to Peake. And I am foolish too, I let Teague stay when I should make him go, learn to cope with these fears on my own.'

“Have you tried making in love free-fall?” Teague urged. “It's fun, it's like flying ...”

Much as she wanted to please him, Ching flinched from the idea. She said ruefully, “I don't think you'd have much fun with me vomiting all over you.”

“Oh, you're doing better, you didn't get sick this time—-”

“I almost did, though. If it had lasted any longer, I would have,” Ching said, and Teague hugged her. “Well, we'll work on it. But it's a good thing, sometimes, free-fall. For instance, my weight wouldn't be so heavy on you — you're so tiny, I'm always afraid I'll crush you beneath me!”

“I don't mind,” she murmured, drawing him down to her, and for a time they did not talk at all, only murmuring, soft love-sounds.

A considerable time later, she asked him, “Where did you have experience making love in free-fall? Was it in Lunar Dome?”

“No, it was here on the Ship,” Teague said. Her eyes were dilated enough to the dark now that she could see his face clearly. “Fontana — you don't mind my talking about that, do you, Ching?”

“No, no, of course not,” she said, “Fontana and ! were talking about that. I know there aren't enough of us for — for any kind of permanent pairings. And, Teague, you don't have to choose between us, really. 1 don't mind, if you want Fontana sometimes — ”

“I know that,” he said gently, petting her, “but I'm glad you can be sensible about it, too, Ching. It's going to be a long trip Even provided we get the computer fixed.”

“We will,” she said, “I've gone through a lot of the connections, and found out where some of the trouble might be. I can't imagine what they were thinking of in Lunar Dome when they assembled it; I wish I'd been there when it was done, it would have made my work so much easier now. At least you had a chance to help install the drives!”

“Along with Fly and Dolly and Duffy and Perk,” he said, smiling, “and each of us wondering if it would be our one and only sight of the Ship.”

“Are you glad you were chosen, Teague? Really?”

“I'm not sure,” he said, at last, slowly. “It happens, it's done, there's no chance for second thoughts. I spent my life wanting to be Ship when our class graduated. Now, I wonder. Maybe that's just let down. But yes, I suppose I'm glad. It's an adventure. It's real.”

She yawned, tucking her hands behind her head. She said, "I think we ought to try and get some more sleep; I have work to do. I would think making love in free-

fall would be a lot of trouble. Every time you moved, you and — the other person — would go flying apart..."

“Oh, you do, unless you're careful,” Teague said. “You have to do it with a safety net clipped on, or one of you could crack your head against the wall and get a concussion. But it's fun. Free-fall is fun, Ching, only you have to learn to relax, to go with the flow, be willing not to be in control all the time. Just let it happen. Just surrender to it.”

Although he had spoken gently and without any personal emphasis, Ching felt her cheeks flushing with heat, aware that she had still the horror of losing control, surrendering — whether in free-fall or in sex. She said, trembling, “I don't want to be afraid of free-fall. Teach me to like it, Teague, the way you do.”

“I will,” he promised, “Later today. But sleep now, Ching. We have a lot to do — and everything should be verified and the final course corrections made before we leave the Solar System.”

“We still have three days,” Ching murmured. “Anything could happen in that time.”

Curled against Teague, she slept.

“Did you find anything in the DeMag tie-ins?” Moira asked.

Ching stretched, wriggling free of the computer module. “So far, nothing. There is absolutely no reason why the DeMag units should go on and off like that, and therefore, going by pure logic, they should stay on unless they are turned off, and stay off unless they are turned on.”

“But the fact is that they don't,” Moira said, “and it doesn't make sense! Dammit, Ching, I like machinery to make sense, to do what it's designed to do. When it
starts acting temperamental, it's no better than a man!”

“Are all men really that bad, Moira?” Ching murmured.

“All of them. No exceptions. Believe me.”

“Well,” Ching said, with a wisp of a smile, “you should know.”

Moira flung back her head and laughed. “I think you'll do, Ching. I was beginning to think you were just too sweet and kind to be true, but that remark sounded quite normally catty!”

Ching raised her straight brows, ironically. “Thank you, my dear. Coming from you, I'm sure that's intended for a compliment!”

They laughed together. Ching found herself wondering why, suddenly, Moira treated her as one of them. Was it, simply, that she had felt different, before this — and that Moira had been reacting to her, Ching's, perceived difference, instead of any real difference? Did the fact that she was a G-N really make as much difference as she had always believed? If she had felt more like one of them, would they have treated her that way?

Had her isolation been, somehow, of her own making?

“I promised to meet Teague in the gym,” Ching said, moving past her, and Moira, suddenly frightened, caught at her arm to detain her. But what was she going to say? It was not as clear as a psychic warning, just a faint, strange unease. She tried to make a joke of it.

“You should always keep a man waiting, just a little. Never let them be sure of you.”

Ching laughed gently. “Is that the way you treat Ravi? I'd rather make Teague happy than unhappy, Moira.”

“Yes, I suppose you would,” said Moira, with a strange bitterness. But again she touched Ching's arm, as if to hold her back.

“Ching — be careful.”

“I will,” Ching promised, startled, and, seeing the troubled look in Moire's green eyes, sensed that the other girl was distressed; though she didn't know why. She hugged Moira, gently, and kissed her cheek. She had never felt close enough to either of the other women to do this before.