The Collected Stories of Arthur C. Clarke (37 page)

McNeil was watching him intently, as if judging his reactions.

‘You’re right,’ Grant heard himself say. ‘We must talk it over.’

‘Yes,’ said McNeil quite impassively. ‘We must.’ Then he reached for his cup again, put the drinking-tube to his lips and sucked slowly.

Grant could not wait until he had finished. To his surprise the relief he had been expecting did not come. He even felt a stab of regret, though it was not quite remorse. It was a little late to think of it now, but he suddenly remembered that he would be alone in the
Star Queen
, haunted by his thoughts, for more than three weeks before rescue came.

He did not wish to see McNeil die, and he felt rather sick. Without another glance at his victim he launched himself towards the exit.

Immovably fixed, the fierce Sun and the unwinking stars looked down upon the
Star Queen
, which seemed as motionless as they. There was no way of telling that the tiny dumb-bell of the ship had now almost reached her maximum speed and that millions of horse-power were chained within the smaller sphere waiting the moment of its release. There was no way of telling, indeed, that she carried any life at all.

An airlock on the night-side of the ship slowly opened, letting a blaze of light escape from the interior. The brilliant circle looked very strange hanging there in the darkness. Then it was abruptly eclipsed as two figures floated out of the ship.

One was much bulkier than the other, and for a rather important reason—it was wearing a spacesuit. Now there are some forms of apparel that may be worn or discarded as the fancy pleases with no other ill effects than a possible loss of social prestige. But spacesuits are not among them.

Something not easy to follow was happening in the darkness. Then the smaller figure began to move, slowly at first but with rapidly mounting speed. It swept out of the shadow of the ship into the full blast of the Sun, and now one could see that strapped to its back was a small gas-cylinder from which a fine mist was jetting to vanish almost instantly into space.

It was a crude but effective rocket. There was no danger that the ship’s minute gravitational pull would drag the body back to it again.

Rotating slightly, the corpse dwindled against the stars and vanished from sight in less than a minute. Quite motionless, the figure in the airlock watched it go. Then the outer door swung shut, the circle of brilliance vanished and only the pale Earthlight still glinted on the shadowed wall of the ship.

Nothing else whatsoever happened for twenty-three days.

The captain of the
Hercules
turned to his mate with a sigh of relief.

‘I was afraid he couldn’t do it. It must have been a colossal job to break his orbit single-handed—and with the air as thick as it must be by now. How soon can we get to him?’

‘It will take about an hour. He’s still got quite a bit of eccentricity but we can correct that.’

‘Good. Signal the
Leviathan
and
Titan
that we can make contact and ask them to take off, will you? But I wouldn’t drop any tips to your news-commentator friends until we’re safely locked.’

The mate had the grace to blush. ‘I don’t intend to,’ he said in a slightly hurt voice as he pecked delicately at the keys of his calculator. The answer that flashed instantly on the screen seemed to displease him.

‘We’d better board and bring the
Queen
down to circular speed ourselves before we call the other tugs,’ he said, ‘otherwise we’ll be wasting a lot of fuel. She’s still got a velocity of nearly a kilometre a second.’

‘Good idea—tell
Leviathan
and
Titan
to stand by but not to blast until we give them the new orbit.’

While the message was on its way down through the unbroken cloud-banks that covered half the sky below, the mate remarked thoughtfully, ‘I wonder what he’s feeling like now?’

‘I can tell you. He’s so pleased to be alive that he doesn’t give a hoot about anything else.’

‘Still, I’m not sure I’d like to have left my shipmate in space so that I could get home.’

‘It’s not the sort of thing that anyone would like to do. But you heard the broadcast—they’d talked it over calmly and the loser went out of the airlock. It was the only sensible way.’

‘Sensible, perhaps—but it’s pretty horrible to let someone else sacrifice himself in such a cold-blooded way so that you can live.’

‘Don’t be a ruddy sentimentalist. I’ll bet that if it happened to us you’d push me out before I could even say my prayers.’

‘Unless you did it to me first. Still, I don’t think it’s ever likely to happen to the
Hercules
. Five days out of port’s the longest we’ve ever been, isn’t it? Talk about the romance of the spaceways!’

The captain didn’t reply. He was peering into the eyepiece of the navigating telescope, for the
Star Queen
should now be within optical range. There was a long pause while he adjusted the vernier controls. Then he gave a little sigh of satisfaction.

‘There she is—about nine-fifty kilometres away. Tell the crew to stand by—and send a message to cheer him up. Say we’ll be there in thirty minutes even if it isn’t quite true.’

Slowly the thousand-metre nylon ropes yielded beneath the strain as they absorbed the relative momentum of the ships, then slackened again as the
Star Queen
and the
Hercules
rebounded towards each other. The electric winches began to turn and, like a spider crawling up its thread, the
Hercules
drew alongside the freighter.

Men in spacesuits sweated with heavy reaction units—tricky work, this—until the airlocks had registered and could be coupled together. The outer doors slid aside and the air in the locks mingled, fresh with the foul. As the mate of the
Hercules
waited, oxygen cylinder in hand, he wondered what condition the survivor would be in. Then the
Star Queen
’s inner door slid open.

For a moment, the two men stood looking at each other across the short corridor that now connected the two airlocks. The mate was surprised and a little disappointed to find that he felt no particular sense of drama.

So much had happened to make this moment possible that its actual achievement was almost an anticlimax even in the instant when it was slipping into the past. He wished—for he was an incurable romantic—that he could think of something memorable to say, some ‘Doctor Livingstone, I presume?’ phrase that would pass into history.

But all he actually said was, ‘Well, McNeil, I’m pleased to see you.’

Though he was considerably thinner and somewhat haggard, McNeil had stood the ordeal well. He breathed gratefully the blast of raw oxygen and rejected the idea that he might like to lie down and sleep. As he explained, he had done very little but sleep for the last week to conserve air. The first mate looked relieved. He had been afraid he might have to wait for the story.

The cargo was being trans-shipped and the other two tugs were climbing up from the great blinding crescent of Venus while McNeil retraced the events of the last few weeks and the mate made surreptitious notes.

He spoke quite calmly and impersonally, as if he were relating some adventure that had happened to another person, or indeed had never happened at all. Which was, of course, to some extent the case, though it would be unfair to suggest that McNeil was telling any lies.

He invented nothing, but he omitted a good deal. He had had three weeks in which to prepare his narrative and he did not think it had any flaws—

Grant had already reached the door when McNeil called softly after him, ‘What’s the hurry? I thought we had something to discuss.’

Grant grabbed at the doorway to halt his headlong flight. He turned slowly and stared unbelievingly at the engineer. McNeil should be already dead—but he was sitting quite comfortably, looking at him with a most peculiar expression.

‘Sit down,’ he said sharply—and in that moment it suddenly seemed that all authority had passed to him. Grant did so, quite without volition. Something had gone wrong, though what it was he could not imagine.

The silence in the control-room seemed to last for ages. Then McNeil said rather sadly, ‘I’d hoped better of you, Grant.’

At last Grant found his voice, though he could barely recognise it.

‘What do you mean?’ he whispered.

‘What do you think I mean?’ replied McNeil, with what seemed no more than a mild irritation. ‘This little attempt of yours to poison me, of course.’

Grant’s tottering world collapsed at last, but he no longer cared greatly one way or the other. McNeil began to examine his beautifully kept fingernails with some attention.

‘As a matter of interest,’ he said, in the way that one might ask the time, ‘when did you decide to kill me?’

The sense of unreality was so overwhelming that Grant felt he was acting a part, that this had nothing to do with real life at all.

‘Only this morning,’ he said, and believed it.

‘Hmm,’ remarked McNeil, obviously without much conviction. He rose to his feet and moved over to the medicine chest. Grant’s eyes followed him as he fumbled in the compartment and came back with the little poison bottle. It still appeared to be full. Grant had been careful about that.

‘I suppose I should get pretty mad about this whole business,’ McNeil continued conversationally, holding the bottle between thumb and forefinger. ‘But somehow I’m not. Maybe it’s because I never had many illusions about human nature. And, of course, I saw it coming a long time ago.’

Only the last phrase really reached Grant’s conciousness.

‘You—saw it coming?’

‘Heavens, yes! You’re too transparent to make a good criminal, I’m afraid. And now that your little plot’s failed it leaves us both in an embarrassing position, doesn’t it?’

To this masterly understatement there seemed no possible reply.

‘By rights,’ continued the engineer thoughtfully, ‘I should now work myself up into a temper, call Venus Central, and renounce you to the authorities. But it would be a rather pointless thing to do, and I’ve never been much good at losing my temper anyway. Of course, you’ll say that’s because I’m too lazy—but I don’t think so.’

He gave Grant a twisted smile.

‘Oh, I know what you think about me—you’ve got me neatly classified in that orderly mind of yours, haven’t you? I’m soft and self-indulgent, I haven’t any moral courage—or any morals for that matter—and I don’t give a damn for anyone but myself. Well, I’m not denying it. Maybe it’s ninety per cent true. But the odd ten per cent is mighty important, Grant!’

Grant felt in no condition to indulge in psychological analysis, and this seemed hardly the time for anything of the sort. Besides, he was still obsessed with the problem of his failure and the mystery of McNeil’s continued existence. McNeil, who knew this perfectly well, seemed in no hurry to satisfy his curiosity.

‘Well, what do you intend to do now?’ Grant asked, anxious to get it over.

‘I would like,’ said McNeil calmly, ‘to carry on our discussion where it was interrupted by the coffee.’

‘You don’t mean—’

‘But I do. Just as if nothing had happened.’

‘That doesn’t make sense. You’ve got something up your sleeve!’ cried Grant.

McNeil sighed. He put down the poison bottle and looked firmly at Grant.

‘
You’re
in no position to accuse me of plotting anything. To repeat my earlier remarks, I am suggesting that we decide which one of us shall take poison—only we don’t want any more unilateral decisions. Also’—he picked up the bottle again—‘it will be the real thing this time. The stuff in here merely leaves a bad taste in the mouth.’

A light was beginning to dawn in Grant’s mind. ‘You changed the poison!’

‘Naturally. You may think you’re a good actor, Grant, but frankly—from the stalls—I thought the performance stank. I could tell you were plotting something, probably before you knew it yourself. In the last few days I’ve deloused the ship pretty thoroughly. Thinking of all the ways you might have done me in was quite amusing and helped to pass the time. The poison was so obvious that it was the first thing I fixed. But I rather overdid the danger signals and nearly gave myself away when I took the first sip. Salt doesn’t go at all well with coffee.’

He gave that wry grin again. ‘Also, I’d hoped for something more subtle. So far I’ve found fifteen infallible ways of murdering anyone aboard a spaceship. But I don’t propose to describe them now.’

This was fantastic, Grant thought. He was being treated, not like a criminal, but like a rather stupid schoolboy who hadn’t done his homework properly.

‘Yet you’re still willing,’ said Grant unbelievingly, ‘to start all over again? And you’d take the poison yourself if you lost?’

McNeil was silent for a long time. Then he began slowly, ‘I can see that you still don’t believe me. It doesn’t fit at all nicely into your tidy little picture, does it? But perhaps I can make you understand. It’s really quite simple.

‘I’ve enjoyed life, Grant, without many scruples or regrets—but the better part of it’s over now and I don’t cling to what’s left as desperately as you might imagine. Yet while I
am
alive I’m rather particular about some things.

‘It may surprise you to know that I’ve got any ideals at all. But I have, Grant—I’ve always tried to act like a civilised rational being. I’ve not always succeeded. When I’ve failed I’ve tried to redeem myself.’

He paused, and when he resumed it was as though he, and not Grant, was on the defensive. ‘I’ve never exactly liked you, Grant, but I’ve often admired you and that’s why I’m sorry it’s come to this. I admired you most of all the day the ship was holed.’

For the first time, McNeil seemed to have some dificulty in choosing his words. When he spoke again he avoided Grant’s eyes.

‘I didn’t behave too well then. Something happened that I thought was impossible. I’ve always been quite sure that I’d never lose my nerve but—well—it was so sudden it knocked me over.’

He attempted to hide his embarrassment by humour. ‘The same sort of thing happened on my very first trip. I was sure
I’d
never be spacesick—and as a result I was much worse than if I had not been over-confident. But I got over it then—and again this time. It was one of the biggest surprises of my life, Grant, when I saw that you of all people were beginning to crack.