Excerpt
I wish Max would treat me like a woman.
An hour ago, at dinner, John Armitage proposed a toast, especially for my benefit. He loves to play the gallant. Big man, silver mane, very blue eyes, a porcelain smile. The head of WSC, the perfect example of the politician-scientist.
"To the colony," he announced, raising his glass. "May Epsilon love them and keep them. May it only be transmittal trouble."
"Amen," Max said.
We drank. Taylor Bishop put down his glass precisely. Bishop is a gray little man with a diffident voice that belies his reputation as the best biochemist in the system. "Has Farragut hinted otherwise?" he asked mildly.
Armitage frowned. "It would be scarcely prudent for Senator Farragut to alarm the populace with disaster rumors."
Bishop looked at him out of his pale eyes. "Besides, it's an election year."
The silence was suddenly ugly.
Then Armitage chuckled. "All right," he said. "So the Senator wants to be a national hero. The fact still remains that Epsilon had better be habitable or Pan-Asia will scream we're hogging it. They want war anyway. Within a month—boom."
For a moment, I was afraid he was going to make a speech about Earth's suffocating billions, the screaming tension of the cold war, and the sacred necessity of Our Mission. If he had, I'd have gotten the weeping shrieks. Some responsibilities are too great to think about. But instead he winked at me. For the first time, I began to realize why Armitage was the Director of the Scientists' World Council.
"Hypothesis, Greta," he said. "Epsilon is probably a paradise. Why should the test colony let the rest of the world in on it? They're being selfish."
I giggled. We relaxed.
After supper, Armitage played chess with Bishop while I followed Max into the control room.
"Soon?" I said.
"Planetfall in eighteen hours, Doctor." He said it stiffly, busying himself at the controls. Max is a small dark man with angry eyes and the saddest mouth I've ever seen. He is also a fine pilot and magnificent bacteriologist. I wanted to slap him. I hate these professional British types that think a female biochemist is some sort of freak.
"Honestly," I said. "What do you think?"
"Disease," he said bitterly. "For the first six months they reported on schedule, remember? A fine clean planet, no dominant life-forms, perfect for immigration; unique, one world in a billion. Abruptly they stopped sending. You figure it."
I thought about it.
"I read your thematic on Venusian viruses," he said abruptly. "Good show. You should be an asset to us, Doctor."
"Thanks!" I snapped. I was so furious that I inadvertently looked into the cabin viewplate.
Bishop had warned me. It takes years of deep-space time to enable a person to stare at the naked Universe without screaming.
It got me. The crystal thunder of the stars, that horrible hungry blackness. I remember I was sort of crying and fighting, then Max had me by the shoulders, holding me gently. He was murmuring and stroking my hair. After a time, I stopped whimpering.
Illustrated by STONE"Thanks," I whispered....