Eight Keys to Eden Page 3

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  In the early dawn, out at the hangar, away from the main E buildings andthe endless discussions going on inside them, Thomas R. Lynwood movedmethodically through his preflight inspection.

  Speculative thinking was none of his concern. His job was to pilot an Ewherever he might want to go, and bring him back again--if possible. ToLynwood reality was a physical thing--the feel of controls beneath hisbroad, square hands; the hum of machinery responsive to his will. Heliked mathematics not for its own sake but because it best described thesubstance of things, the weight, the size, the properties of things, howthey behaved. He was too intelligent not to realize mathematics couldalso communicate speculative unrealities, but he was content to waituntil the theorists had turned such equations into machines, controls,forces before he got excited.

  He was one who, even in childhood, had never wanted to be an E. Hedidn't want to be one now. Somebody had once told him in Personnel thatwas why he was a favorite pilot of the E's, but he discounted that. Theydidn't try to tell him how to run his ship--well, most of themdidn't--and he didn't try to tell them how to solve their problems.

  The men around the hangar had another version of why the E's liked himto pilot them around--he was lucky. Somehow he always managed to comeback, and bring the E with him. Well, sure. He didn't want to get stucksomewhere, wind up in a gulio's gullet, gassed by an atmosphere thatturned from oxygen-nitrogen into pure methane without warning or reason,and against all known chemical laws, or whiffed out in the lash of adead star suddenly gone nova.

  But sometimes a pilot couldn't help himself. These E's would fiddlearound in places where human beings shouldn't have gone. Most of thetime they weren't allowed even one mistake. He was lucky, sure, but partof it might be because he'd never been sent out with the wrong E.

  There could be a first time. Luck ran out if you kept piling your betshigher and higher. But until then ...

  He was square-jawed, a freckled man with red hair. Contrary tosuperstition, he didn't have a fiery temper. He was forty and hadalready built up a seniority of twenty years in deep space. He wascaptain of his ship and wanted nothing more. Sure, it was only athree-man crew--himself, a flight engineer, an astronavigator. But itwas an E ship, which meant that he outranked even the captains of thegreat luxury liners.

  There was a time when the realization caused him to strut a little, buthe'd got over it. He was single, had no ties, wanted none. He had a goodjob which he took seriously, was doing significant work which he alsotook seriously, was paid premium wages even for a space captain, whichdidn't matter except in terms of recognition. He didn't mind goinganywhere in the known universe, or how long he would be away. He hopedhe would get back someday, but he wasn't fanatic about it.

  In a routine so well-practiced that it had become ritual, he checkedover the cruiser point by point. Of course the maintenance men hadchecked each item when they had, after his last trip, dismantled,cleaned, oiled, polished, tested, and reassembled one part afteranother. Then maintenance supervisors had checked over the ship with agimlet-eyed attitude of hoping to find some flaw, just one tiny flub, sothey could turn some luckless mechanic inside out. The InspectionDepartment, traditionally an enemy of Maintenance, took over from thereand inspected every part as if it had been slapped together by a bunchof army goof-offs who knew that pilots were expendable in peace or warand, unconsciously at least, aided in expending them.

  Both departments had certified, with formal preflight papers, that theship was in readiness for deep space. But Lynwood considered such papersas so much garbage, and went over the entire ship himself. This mighthave had something to do with his so-called luck.

  He wondered if Frank and Louie had checked into the ship this morning.Probably had; last night's outing wasn't much to hang over about. Asteak at the Eagle Cafe down in Yellow Sands, a couple of drinks atSmitty's, a game of pool at Smiley's, a few dances at the Stars andMoons. Big night out for his crew before they left for deep space.Yellow Sands was strictly for young families, where bright-boy hubbyworked up on the hill at E.H.Q., and wifey raised super-bright kids whoalready considered Dad to be behind the times. Their idea of sin in thattown was to snub the wrong matron at a cocktail party; or not snub, asthe case might be. Not that it mattered much, neither Frank nor Louiewas dedicated to hell-raising.

  When he at last opened the door to the generator room, he saw his flightengineer, Frank Norton, had a couple of student E's on his hands.

  It was one of the nuisances of being stationed here at E.H.Q. that you'dhave swarms of these super-bright youngsters hanging around, askingquestions, disputing your answers, arguing with each other, and, if youdidn't watch them carefully, taking things apart and putting them backtogether in different hookups to see what would happen.

  The first thing these kids were taught was to disregard everythingeverybody had ever said; to start out from scratch as if nobody had everhad the sense to think about the problem before; to doubt most of allthe opinions of experts, for, obviously, if the experts were right thenthere would be no problem. Most of them didn't have to be taught it,they seemed to have been born with it. Time was you batted a young smartaleck down, told him to go get dry behind the ears before he shot offhis mouth. But not these days. These days you looked at him hopefully,and crossed your fingers. He might grow up to be an E.

  Tom wondered what it would be like to doubt the realities, the verymachinery under his hands, to assume that although it had always workedit might not work this time. He could not conceive that state of mind,or how a man could live in it without going insane. Every time he sawthese tortured kids saying, "Well, maybe, but what if ..." he was gladto be nothing more than a ship captain who knew his machinery wasexactly what it was supposed to be and nothing else.

  But, in a way, it was nice for the lads too. After thousands of years ofman's almost rabid determination to destroy the brightest and best ofhis young, the world had finally found a place for the bright boy.

  This morning, probably because of the early dawn hour, there were onlytwo of them in the generator room. As expected, they were arguing overthe space-jump band. Frank was standing over to one side, observing butnot participating. His cap was pushed back on his blond head, his bigface expressionless. It was common gossip throughout flight crewseverywhere that Frank, blindfolded, could take a cruiser apart and putit back together without missing a motion.

  "The jump band is founded on the basic of the Moebius strip," onestudent E was saying heatedly. "This little gadget sends out a field inthe shape of such a strip, a band with a half twist before rejoined. Itswidth is as variable as we need it, up to a light-year."

  "Only it hasn't any width at all," the other student argued. "That's thewhole point. The Moebius strip has only one edge, so it can't havewidth. We enter that edge, go through a line that doesn't exist, andcome out a light-year away, without taking any longer than the time topass a point."

  "But that's _what_ happens, not _how_," the other shouted angrily."Everybody knows _what_ happens. Tell me _how_ and maybe I'll listen."

  Tom caught his flight engineer's eye and signaled with his head that itmight be a good idea to get rid of the students. Any other time it wouldbe all right, a part of their stand-by job, but they'd got word lastnight to have the ship in readiness from six o'clock on. They might haveto wait all day, but then again, some E might get an idea and want to goshooting out to Eden right off.

  Frank caught the signal, grinned, and began to herd the two studentstoward the door. They were in such heated argument now, accusing oneanother of parrot repetition instead of thinking for himself, that theydidn't realize that they were being nudged out of the ship, down itsramp, and out on the field.

  "Don't think it hasn't been educational, and all," Frank murmured tothem as he got them off the ramp. "You get the how of it figured out,you let me know."

  The two looked at him as if he might be an interesting phenomenon,decided he wasn't, and wandered away, back toward the schooldormitories, stil
l arguing.

  "Sometimes I think a quiet milk run out to Saturn would have itsbrighter side," Frank muttered to Tom when he came back inside the ship.Tom grinned at him in wordless understanding.

  There was no tension between them. They had worked together so long thatthey had got over all the attraction-repulsion conflicts which operatefar beneath the surface mind to cause likes and dislikes. Now theyaccepted one another in the way a man accepts his own hands--proud ofthem when they do something with extra skill, making allowances whenthey fumble; but never considering doing without them.

  "Wonder who the E will be this time?" Frank asked, without too muchconcern. It didn't really matter. An E was an E, for better or forworse.

  "Haven't heard," Tom answered. "Probably not decided yet. If the SeniorE's think it isn't much of a problem, they might send a Junior. Or ifthey don't want to be bothered, they might send a Junior who's up forhis solo problem."

  "Whoever, or whatever, I'm sure it will be interesting," Frank commentedwith a grin. Tom returned the grin. There wasn't any malice in it, norany of the basic enmity and destructiveness of the stupid toward thebright, just a recognition that an E was an E. They had a vast respectfor an E, but you couldn't get around it that some of them were--well,maybe eccentric was the word.

  "I hear there's trouble on that planet we're going to--Eden, isn't it?"Frank commented.

  "You think we'd be hauling an E out there if there weren't?" Tomcountered wryly.

  They continued to check over each item in the generator room, theirflying fingers making sharp contrast to their slow, idle conversation.They gave the room extra care this time because there had been somequick-fingered students around who just might have got it into theirheads to improve the machinery. Satisfied at last that there had been nosubtle meddling, they snapped the cowl of the generator back intoposition. They took one more sharp look around, then walked, singlefile, up the narrow passage to the control room. Louie LeBeau wassitting in the astronavigator's seat, checking over his star charts andinstruments. He glanced up at them as they came level with his cubicle.He was the third man of the team, as used to them as they were to him.

  "Fourteen hop adjustments to get us past Pluto and out of the heavytraffic," he grumbled sourly. His round face and liquid brown eyes wereperpetually disgusted. "They keep saying over at Traffic that they'regoing to provide a freeway out of the solar system so we can take it inone hop, but they don't do it. Wonder when we'll ever go modern, startdoing things scientific?"

  They paid no attention to his grumbling. That was just Louie.

  "Then how many hops to Eden, after Pluto?" Tom asked.

  "I figure twenty," Louie answered. "Can't take full light-year leapsevery time. There's stuff in the way. There's always stuff in the way tolouse up a good flight plan. Universe is too crowded. There'll be notrouble getting _to_ Eden, no trouble _getting_ there. Make it in aboutfourteen hours. Fourteen hours to go eleven lousy little light-years.Fourteen hours I got to work in one stretch. Wait'll the union agenthears you're working me fourteen hours without a relief. And are youletting me get my rest now, so I can work fourteen hours? Or are youstopping me from resting with a lot of questions?"

  "But you think there may be trouble _after_ we get to Eden?" Tom asked.

  Louie looked at him. There was no fear in the soft, brown eyes; just anenormous indignation that life should always treat him so dirty.

  "Don't you?" he asked.