Return From The Stars Part 26

"You mean is Gimma here? No, he isn't; he left yesterday. For Europe."

"You're working. . . ?"

"Yes."

There was a pause. I didn't know how he would take what I had to say to him -- I wanted first to find out what he thought of this world that we had come to. True, knowing him, I didn't expect a flood of words. He kept most of his opinions to himself.

"Have you been here long?"

"Bregg," he said, without moving, "I doubt that that interests you. You're stalling."

"Possibly," I said. "Then I'm to say what's on my mind?"

I was beginning to feel again that awkwardness, something between irritation and shyness, that always came over me in his presence. I suspect the others felt the same thing. You never knew when he was joking and when he was being serious; for all his composure, the attention that he gave you, he was hard to figure out.

"No," he said. "Perhaps later. Where did you come from?"

"Houl."

"Directly?"

"Yes. . . why do you ask?"

"That is good," he said, as if he hadn't heard my question. He looked at me for maybe five seconds without moving, as if wanting to make sure of my presence. His expression said nothing -- but I knew, now, that something had happened. But would he tell me? He was unpredictable. While I wondered how I ought to begin, he studied me carefully, as though I had appeared before him in some unfamiliar form.

"What's Vabach doing?" I asked, when this silent scrutiny got to be too much.

"He went with Gimma."

That was not what I meant, and he knew it, but, then, I hadn't come to ask about Vabach. Again, a silence. I was beginning to regret my decision.

"I hear that you got married," he said suddenly, almost carelessly.

"Yes," I said, perhaps too dryly.

"It's done you good."

I searched for something else to talk about. Apart from Olaf, nothing came to mind, but I didn't want to ask about him yet. I was afraid of Thurber's smile -- the way he used to demolish Gimma with it, and not only Gimma -- but he only raised his brows a little and asked: "What plans do you have?"

"None," I replied, and it was the truth.

"And would you like to do something?"

"Yes. But not just anything."

"You haven't done anything so far?"

I was definitely blus.h.i.+ng now. I was angry.

"Nothing. Thurber. . . I didn't come here to talk about myself."

"I know," he said quietly. "It's Staave, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"There was a certain element of risk in this," he said, pus.h.i.+ng himself gently away from the desk. His chair obediently turned toward me.

"Oswamm feared the worst, especially later, when Staave threw away his hypnagog. . . You did, too, didn't you?"

"Oswamm?" I said. "Which Oswamm? Wait -- the one from Adapt?"

"Yes. He was worried most about Staave. I pointed out to him his error."

"What do you mean?"

"But Gimma vouched for both of you. . ." he concluded, as though he had not heard me.

"What?" I said, rising from the chair. "Gimma?"

"Of course, he knew nothing," Thurber went on, "and told me so."

"Then why the h.e.l.l did he vouch for us?" I burst out, confounded.

"He felt that he had to," Thurber explained laconically. "That the director of an expedition should know his men. . ."

"Nonsense."

"I'm only repeating what he said to Oswamm."

"Yes?" I said. "And what was Oswamm afraid of? That we would mutiny?"

"You never had the urge?" Thurber asked quietly.

I reflected.

"No," I said finally. "Never seriously."

"And you'll let your children be betrizated?"

"And you?" I asked slowly.

He smiled for the first time, twitching his bloodless lips. He said nothing.

"Listen, Thurber. . . you remember that evening, after the last flight over Beta. . . when I told you. . ."

He nodded indifferently. Suddenly my calm vanished.

"I did not tell you everything then, you know. We were all there together, but not on an equal footing. I took orders from the two of you -- you and Gimma -- I wanted it that way. We all did. Venturi, Thomas, Ennesson, and Arder, who didn't get a reserve tank because Gimma was saving it for a rainy day. Fine. Only what gives you the right now to speak to me as though you had been sitting in that chair the whole time? You were the one who sent Arder down on Kereneia in the name of science, Thurber, and I pulled him out in the name of his poor a.s.s, and we returned, and now it turns out that the a.s.s is the thing that counts, the other doesn't. So maybe now I should be asking you how you feel and vouching for you, not the other way around? What do you think? I know what you think. You brought back a pile of facts and you can bury yourself in them to the end of your days, knowing that none of these polite people will ask, 'What did this spectral a.n.a.lysis cost? One man, two men? Wouldn't you say, Professor Thurber, that the price was a bit high?' No one will say that to you because they do not keep accounts with us. But Venturi does. And Arder, and Ennesson. And Thomas. What will you use for payment, Thurber? Setting Oswamm straight about me? And Gimma -- vouching for Olaf and me? The first time I saw you, you were doing the same thing you are doing today. That was in Apprenous. You sat in the midst of your papers and stared, like now: taking a break from more important matters, in the name of science. . ."

I got up.

"Thank Gimma for taking our side. . ."

Thurber stood, too. For perhaps a second we looked each other in the eye. He was shorter, but you didn't notice it. His height didn't matter. The calmness of his gaze was beyond words.

"Am I allowed to speak, or has sentence been pa.s.sed?" he asked.

I mumbled something unintelligible.

"Then sit," he said and, without waiting, lowered himself heavily into his chair.

I sat down.

"But you have done something," he said in a tone that suggested we had been talking about the weather. "You read Starck, believed him, felt cheated, and now you are looking for someone to blame. If it means such a great deal to you, I can take the blame. But that is not the issue. Starck convinced you -- after those ten years? Bregg, I knew you were a hothead, but I never thought you stupid." He paused for a moment, and, strangely, I experienced something like relief -- and a hope for liberation. I didn't have time to a.n.a.lyze it, because he continued.

"Contact with galactic civilizations? Whoever said anything about that? None of us, not one of the scholars, not Merquier, not Simonadi, not Rag Ngamieli -- no one; no expedition counted on any such contact, and therefore all that talk about fossils flying through s.p.a.ce and the perpetually delayed galactic mail, it's a refutation of an argument that no one ever made. What can one get from the stars? And of what use was Amundsen's expedition? Or Andree's? None. The only clear benefit lay in the fact that they had proved a possibility. That it could be done. Or, more precisely, that it was, for a given time, the most difficult attainable thing. I don't know if we even did that much, Bregg. I really don't. But we were there."

I was silent. Thurber did not look at me now. He rested his fists on the edge of the desk.

"What did Starck prove to you -- the futility of cosmodromia? As if we did not know that ourselves! And the poles! What was at the poles? Those who conquered them knew that there was nothing there. And the Moon? What did Ross's group seek in the crater Eratosthenes? Diamonds? And why did Bant and Jegorin cross the face of Mercury -- to get a tan? And Kellen and Offs.h.a.gg -- the only thing they knew for certain, when they flew to the cold cloud of Cerber, was that they could die there. Don't you know what Starck is really saying? That a human being must eat, drink, and clothe himself; and the rest is madness. Every man has his Starck, Bregg. Every period in history has had one. Why did Gimma send you and Arder? To collect samples from the corona. Who sent Gimma? Science. Cut and dried, isn't it? The study of the stars. Bregg, do you think we wouldn't have gone if there had been no stars? I say we would have. We would have wanted to examine that emptiness, to provide an explanation for it, Geonides or someone else would have told us what valuable measurements and experiments we could carry out on the way. Do not misunderstand me. I am not saying that the stars are only an excuse. Neither was the pole; Nansen and Andree needed it. . . Everest meant more to Mallory and Irving than the air itself. You say that I ordered you 'in the name of science'? You know that isn't true. You were testing my memory. Shall I test yours? Do you remember Thomas's planetoid?"

I started.

"You lied to us then. You flew down a second time, knowing that he was dead. True?"

I was silent.

"I guessed immediately. I never discussed it with Gimma, but I think he also guessed. Why did you do it, Bregg? That was not Arcturus or Kereneia, and there was no one to save. What purpose did you have, man?"

I was silent. Thurber gave a faint smile.

"You know what our problem is, Bregg? The fact that we made it and are sitting here. Man always comes back empty-handed. . ."

He stopped. His smile became an almost meaningless scowl. For a moment he breathed more loudly, gripping the desk with both hands. I looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time; it struck me that he was old, and the realization was a shock. I had never thought of him that way, as if he were ageless. . .

"Thurber," I said quietly, "listen. . . this is, well. . . only a eulogy over the graves of -- the insatiable. There are none like them now. And will not be again. So -- after all -- Starck wins. . ."

He showed his flat yellow teeth, but it was not a smile.

"Bregg, give me your word that you will repeat to no one what I am about to tell you."

I hesitated.

"To no one," he repeated, with emphasis.

"All right."

He stood, went over to the corner, picked up a tube of paper, and returned with it to the desk.

The paper rustled as it unrolled in his hands. I saw what looked like a gutted fish, red lines, like blood.

"Thurber!"

"Yes," he replied quietly, rolling the paper back up with both hands.

"A new expedition?"

"Yes," he repeated. And went back to the corner and leaned the tube against the wall, like a rifle.

"When? Where?"

"Not soon. To the Center."

"Sagittarius. . ." I whispered.

"Yes. The preparations will take a long time. But thanks to anabiosis. . ."

He continued, but only single words and expressions came through to me -- "loop flight," "nongravitational acceleration" -- and the excitement I felt when I saw the drawing of the giant rocket gave way to an unexpected languor, from which, as through a descending gloom, I examined the hands resting on my knees. Thurber stopped, glanced at me, went to his desk, and began to gather papers, as if giving me time to digest the news. I should have been firing questions at him -- which of us, of the old guard, would be flying; how many years the expedition would last; its objectives -- but I asked nothing. Not even why the whole thing was being kept a secret. I looked at his huge, thick hands, which showed his age more distinctly than did his face, and I felt a small measure of satisfaction, as unexpected as it was base -- that he, in any case, would not be flying. I would not live to see their return, not even if I broke Methuselah's record. It didn't matter. Was unimportant. I got up. Thurber rustled his papers.

"Bregg," he said, without looking up, "I still have work to do. If you like, we can have dinner together. You can spend the night in the dormitory; it's empty now."

I mumbled, "All right," and walked to the door. He had started to work as if I were no longer there. I stood awhile in the doorway, then left. I was not aware of exactly where I was, until the steady clap of my own footsteps reached me. I halted. I was in the middle of the long corridor, between two rows of identical doors. The echo of my steps could still be heard. An illusion? Someone following me? I turned and saw a tall figure disappear through a door at the far end. It happened so quickly that I did not get a good look at him, saw just a movement, a back, and the closing door. There was nothing for me to do here. No sense in walking farther -- the corridor came to a dead end. I turned back, walked past an enormous window through which I could see the glow of the city, silver on the vast black park, and again stopped in front of the door marked "In here, Bregg," where Thurber was working. I no longer wanted to see him. I had nothing to say to him, nor he to me. Why had I come in the first place? Suddenly, with surprise, I remembered why. I would go back inside and ask about Olaf -- but not now. Not just yet. I wasn't tired, I felt perfectly fine, but something was happening to me, something I didn't understand. I went to the stairs. Opposite them stood the last of the doors, the one into which the unknown person had disappeared a moment ago. I recalled that I had looked into that same room at the beginning, when I entered the building; I recognized the patch of peeling paint. There had been nothing at all in that room. What could the person have been looking for?

I was certain that he had not been looking for anything, that he was only hiding from me, and I stood undecided for some time in front of the stairs, the empty white motionless stairs. Slowly, very slowly, I turned. I felt an odd uneasiness; not an uneasiness exactly, for I was not afraid of anything; it was the way one feels after an injection of an anesthetic -- tense, yet collected. I took two steps and strained my ears; it seemed to me that I heard -- on the other side of the door -- the sound of breathing. Impossible. I decided to go, but couldn't, I had given too much attention to that ridiculous door to walk away. I opened it and looked inside. Under a small ceiling lamp, in the middle of the empty room, stood Olaf. In the same old clothes, and with his sleeves rolled up, as if he had just put down his tools.

We looked at each other. Seeing that I wasn't going to speak, he spoke.

"How are you, Hal?"

His voice was not altogether steady.

I didn't want to play games, I was just surprised by this unexpected meeting, and perhaps, too, the shock of Thurber's words had not yet left me; in any case I said nothing in reply. I went over to the window, which had the same view, the black park and the glow of the city, and turned and sat on the sill. Olaf didn't move. He stood in the center of the room; from the book in his hand a single sheet of paper slipped and glided to the floor. We bent at the same time; I picked up the sheet and saw on it the blueprint of the rocket, the one that Thurber had shown me a moment ago. At the bottom of the sheet were comments in Olaf's handwriting. So that was it, I thought. He hadn't written because he would be flying, he'd wanted to spare me that knowledge. I would tell him that he was mistaken, that I didn't care about the expedition. I'd had enough of the stars, and anyway I knew everything from Thurber, so he could talk to me with a clear conscience.

I looked carefully at the lines of the drawing in my hand, as if approving the streamlined shape of the rocket, but said nothing; I merely returned the paper, which he took from me with a certain reluctance, folded in two, and put inside the book. All this took place in total silence, not by design, I am sure, but because it was acted out in silence the scene took on a symbolic significance, as though I had learned of his partic.i.p.ation in the expedition and, by returning the drawing, accepted this step, without enthusiasm, but also without regret. When I tried to catch his eye he looked away, only to glance at me a moment later -- the picture of uncertainty and confusion. Even now, when I knew everything? The silence in the small room became unbearable. I heard him breathe a little faster. His face was haggard and his eyes not as bright as when I had seen him last, as though he had been working hard and sleeping little, but there was another expression in them, too, one I did not recognize.

"I'm fine. . ." I said slowly. "And you?"

The instant I said these words I realized that the time for them had pa.s.sed; they would have suited when I entered, but now they sounded almost hostile, or even sarcastic.

"Did you see Thurber?" he asked.

"Yes."

"The students have gone. . . There's no one here now, they gave us the whole building. . ." he began awkwardly.

"So that you could work out the plan for the expedition?" I prompted him, and he answered eagerly.

"Yes, Hal. Well, but you know the kind of work it is. Right now there are only a handful of us, but we have fantastic machines, these robots, you know. . ."