Bo sat quiet, trying to keep his eyes off her. She looked good in shorts and half-cape. Too good.

  “It’s something to do with power beaming, isn’t it?” Lundgard’s handsome face creased in a frown. “Afraid I don’t quite understand. They’ve been beaming power on the planets for a long time now.”

  “So they have,” she nodded. “What we’re after is an interplanetary power beam. And we’ve got it.” She gestured to the baggage rack and a thick trunk full of papers she had put there. “That’s it. The basic circuits, factors and constants. Any competent engineer could draw up a design from them.”

  “Hmmm…precision work, eh?”

  “Obviously! It was hard enough to do on, say, Earth—you need a really tight beam in just the right frequencies, a feedback signal to direct each beam at the desired outlet, relay stations—oh, yes, it was a ten-year research project before they could even think about building. An interplanetary beam has all those problems plus a number of its own. You have to get the dispersion down to a figure so low it hardly seems possible. You can’t use feedback because of the time lag, so the beams have to be aimed exactly right—and the planets are always moving, at miles per second. An error of one degree would throw your beam almost two million miles off in crossing one A.U. And besides being so precise, the beam has to carry a begawatt at least to be worth the trouble. The problem looked insoluble till someone in the Order of Planetary Engineers came up with an idea for a trick control circuit hooked into a special computer. My lab’s been working together with the Order on it, and I was making certain final determinations for them. It’s finished now…twelve years of work and we’re done.” She laughed. “Except for building the stations and getting the bugs out!”

  Lundgard cocked an oddly sardonic brow. “And what do you hope for from it?” he asked. “What have the psychotechs decided to do with this thing?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she cried. “Power! Nuclear fuel is getting scarcer every day, and civilization is finished if we can’t find another energy source. The sun is pouring out more than we’ll ever need, but sheer distance dilutes it below a useful level by the time it gets to Venus.

  “We’ll build stations on the hot side of Mercury. Orbital stations can relay. We can get the beams as far out as Mars without too much dispersion. It’ll bring down the rising price of atomic energy, which is making all other prices rise, and stretch our supply of fissionables for centuries more. No more fuel worries, no more Martians freezing to death because a converter fails, no more clan feuds on Venus starting over uranium beds—” The excited flush on her cheeks was lovely to look at.

  Lundgard shook his head. There was a sadness in his smile. “You’re a true child of the New Enlightenment,” he said. “Reason will solve everything. Science will find a cure for all our ills. Give man a cheap energy source and leave him forever happy. It won’t work, you know.”

  Something like anger crossed her eyes. “What are you?” she asked. “A Humanist?”

  “Yes,” said Lundgard quietly.

  Bo started. He’d known about the antipsychotechnic movement which was growing on Earth, seen a few of its adherents, but—

  “I never thought a spaceman would be a Humanist,” he stammered.

  Lundgard shrugged wryly. “Don’t be afraid, I don’t eat babies. I don’t even get hysterics in an argument. All I’ve done is use the scientific method, observing the world without preconceptions, and learned by it that the scientific method doesn’t have all the answers.”

  “Instead,” said Valeria scornfully, “we should all go back to church and pray for what we want rather than working for it.”

  “Not at all,” said Lundgard mildly. “The New Enlightenment is—or was, because it’s dying—a very natural state of mind. Here Earth had come out of the World Wars, racked and ruined, starving and chaotic, and all because of unbridled ideology. So the physical scientists produced goods and machines and conquered the planets; the biologists found new food sources and new cures for disease; the psychotechs built up their knowledge to a point where the socioeconomic unity could really be planned and the plan worked. Man was unified, war had sunken to an occasional small ‘police action,’ people were eating and had comfort and security—all through applied, working science. Naturally they came to believe reason would solve their remaining problems. But this faith in reason was itself an emotional reaction from the preceding age of unreason.

  “Well, we’ve had a century of enlightenment now, and it has created its own troubles which it cannot solve. No age can handle the difficulties it raises for itself; that’s left to the next era. There are practical problems arising, and no matter how desperately the psychotechs work they aren’t succeeding with them.”

  “What problems?” asked Bo, feeling a little bewildered.

  “Man, don’t you ever see a newscast?” challenged Lundgard. “The Second Industrial Revolution, millions of people thrown out of work by the new automata. They aren’t going hungry, but they are displaced and bitter. The economic center of Earth is shifting to Asia, the political power with it, and hundreds of millions of Asians are skeptical about this antiseptic New Order the West has been bringing them: cultural resistance, and not all the psychotechnic propaganda in the System can shake it off. The men of Mars, Venus, the Belt, the Jovian moons are developing their own civilizations—inevitably, in alien environments; their own ways of living and thinking, which just don’t fit into the neat scheme of an Earth-dominated Solar Union. The psychotechs themselves are being driven to oligarchic, unconstitutional acts; they have no choice, but it’s making them enemies.

  “And then there’s the normal human energy and drive. Man can only be safe and sane and secure for so long, then he reacts. This New Enlightenment is really a decadent age, a period where an exhausted civilization has been resting under a holy status quo. It can’t last. Man always wants something new.”

  “You Humanists talk a lot about ‘man’s right to variability,’ ” said Valeria. “If you really carry off that revolution your writings advocate you’ll just trade one power group for another—and more fanatic, less lawful, than the present one.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Lundgard. “After all, the Union will probably break up. It can’t last forever. All we want to do is hasten the day because we feel that it’s outlived its usefulness.”

  Bo shook his head. “I can’t see it,” he said heavily. “I just can’t see it. All those people—the Lunarites, the violent clansmen on Venus, the stiff correct Martians, the asteroid rockhounds, even those mysterious Jovians—they all came from Earth. It was Earth’s help that made their planets habitable. We’re all men, all one race.”

  “A fiction,” said Lundgard. “The human race is a fiction. There are only small groups with their own conflicting interests.”

  “And if those conflicts are allowed to break into war—” said Valeria. “Do you know what a lithium bomb can do?”

  There was a reckless gleam in Lundgard’s eyes. “If a period of interplanetary wars is necessary, let’s get it over with,” he answered. “Enough men will survive to build something better. This age has gotten stale. It’s petrifying. There have been plenty of shake-ups in history—the fall of Rome, the Reformation, the Napoleonic Wars, the World Wars. It’s been man’s way of progressing.”

  “I don’t know about all those,” said Bo slowly. “I just know I wouldn’t want to live through such a time.”

  “You’re soft,” said Lundgard. “Down underneath you’re soft.” He laughed disarmingly. “Pardon me. I didn’t mean anything personal. I’ll never convince you and you’ll never convince me, so let’s keep it friendly. I hope you’ll have some free time on Luna, Valeria. I know a little grill where they serve the best synthosteaks in the System.”

  “All right,” she smiled. “It’s a date.”

  Bo mumbled some excuse and went aft. He was still calling her Dr. McKittrick.

  -4-

  You can’t just lie here and let him come kill you.

  There was a picture behind his eyes; he didn’t know if it was a dream or a long buried memory. He stood under an aspen which quivered and rustled as if it laughed to itself softly, softly, when the wind embraced it. And the wind was blowing up a red granite slope, wild and salt from the Sound, and there were towering clouds lifting over Denmark to the west. The sunlight rained and streamed through aspen leaves, broken, shaken, falling in spatters against the earth, and he, Bo Jonsson, laughed with the wind and the tree and the far watery glitter of the Sound.

  He opened his eyes, wearily, like an old man. Orion was marching past, and there was a blaze on crags five miles off which told of the rising sun. The asteroid spun swiftly; he had been here for many of its days now, and each day burdened him like a year.

  Got to get out of here, he knew.

  He sat up, pain tearing along his furrowed breast. Somehow he had kept the wrench with him; he stared at it in a dull wonder.

  Where to go, where to hide, what to do? Thirst nagged him. Slowly he uncoiled the tube which led from the electrically heated canteen welded to his suit, screwed its end into the helmet nipple, thumbed down the clamp which closed it, and sucked hard. It helped a little.

  He dragged himself to his feet and stood swaying, only the near-weightlessness kept him erect. Turning his head in its transparent cage, he saw the sun rise, and bright spots danced before him when he looked away.

  His vision cleared, but for a moment he thought the shadow lifting over a nearby ridge was a wisp of unconsciousness. Then he made out the bulky black-painted edge of it, gigantic against the Milky Way, and it was Lundgard, moving unhurriedly up to kill him.

  A dark laughter was in his radio earphones. “Take it easy, Bo. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He backed away, his heart a sudden thunder, looking for a place to hide. Down! Get down and don’t stand where he can see you! He crouched as much as the armor would allow and broke into a bounding run.

  A slug spat broken stone near his feet. The powdery dust hung for minutes before settling. Breath rattled in his throat. He saw the lip of a meteoric crater and dove.

  Crouching there, he heard Lundgard’s voice again: “You’re somewhere near. Why not come out and finish it now?”

  The radio was non-directional, so he snapped back: “A gun against a monkey wrench?”

  Lundgard’s coolness broke a little; there was almost a puzzled note: “I hate to do this. Why can’t you be reasonable? I don’t want to kill you.”

  “The trouble,” said Bo harshly, “is that I want to kill you.”

  “Behold the man of the New Enlightenment!” Bo could imagine Lundgard’s grin. It would be tight, and there would be sweat on the lean face, but the amusement was genuine. “Didn’t you believe sweet reasonableness could solve everything? This is only the beginning, Bo, just a small preliminary hint that the age of reason is dying. I’ve already converted you to my way of thinking, by the very fact you’re fighting me. Why not admit it?”

  Bo shook his head—futile gesture, locked in darkness where he lay. There was a frosty blaze of stars when he looked up.

  It was more than himself and Johnny Malone, more even than the principle of the thing and the catastrophe to all men which Lundgard’s victory meant. There was something deep and primitive which would not let him surrender, even in the teeth of annihilation. Valeria’s image swayed before him.

  Lundgard was moving around, peering over the shadowy tumble of blackened rock in search of any trace. There was a magnetic rifle in his hands. Bo strained his helmet to the crater floor, trying to hear ground vibrations, but there was nothing. He didn’t know where Lundgard was, only that he was very near.

  Blindly, he bunched his legs and sprang out of the pit.

  They found the asteroid where Valeria had left her recording instruments. It was a tiny drifting fragment of a world which had never been born, turning endlessly between the constellations; the Sirius moored fast with grapples, and Valeria donned a spacesuit and went out to get her apparatus. Lundgard accompanied her. As there was only work for two, Bo stayed behind.

  He slumped for a while in the pilot chair, letting his mind pace through a circle of futility. Valeria, Valeria—O strong and fair and never to be forgotten, would he ever see her again after they made Luna?

  This won’t do, he told himself dully. I should at least keep busy. Thank God for work.

  He wasn’t much of a thinker, he knew that, but he had cleverness in his hands. It was satisfying to watch a machine come right under his tools. Working, he could see the falseness of Lundgard’s philosophy. The man could quote history all he wanted; weave a glittering circle of logic around Bo’s awkward brain, but it didn’t change facts. Maybe this century was headed for trouble; maybe psychotechnic government was only another human self-limitation and should be changed for something else; nevertheless, the truth remained that most men were workers who wished no more than peace in which to create as best they could. All the high ideals in the universe weren’t worth breaking the Union for and smashing the work of human hands in a single burst of annihilating flame.

  I can feel it, down inside me. But why can’t I say it?

  He got up and went over to the baggage rack, remembering that Lundgard had dozens of book-reels along and that reading would help him not to think about what he could never have.

  On a planet Bo would not have dreamed of helping himself without asking first. But custom is different in space, where there is no privacy and men must be a unit if they are to survive. He was faintly surprised to see that Lundgard’s personal suitcase was locked; but it would be hours, probably, before the owner got back: dismantling a recorder setup took time. A long time, in which to talk and laugh with Valeria. In the chill spatial radiance, her hair would be like frosty fire.

  Casually, Bo stooped across to Lundgard’s sack-hammock and took his key ring off the hook. He opened the suitcase and lifted out some of the reels in search of a promising title.

  Underneath them were neatly folded clothes, Fireball uniforms and fancy dress pajamas. A tartan edge stuck out from below, and Bo lifted a coat to see what clan that was. Probably a souvenir of Lundgard’s Venusian stay—

  Next to the kilt was a box which he recognized. L-masks came in such boxes.

  How the idea came to him, he did not know. He stood there for minutes, looking at the box without seeing it. The ship was very quiet around him. He had a sudden feeling that the walls were closing in.

  When he opened the box, his hands shook, and there was sweat trickling along his ribs.

  The mask was of the latest type, meant to fit over the head, snug around the cheeks and mouth and jaws. It was like a second skin, reflecting expression, not to be told from a real face. Bo saw the craggy nose and the shock of dark hair, limp now, but—

  Suddenly he was back on Achilles; with riot roaring around him and Johnny Malone’s body in his arms.

  No wonder they never found that Venusian. There never was any.

  Bo felt a dim shock when he looked at the chronometer. Only five minutes had gone by while he stood there. Only five minutes to turn the cosmos inside out.

  Very slowly and carefully he repacked the suitcase and put it in the rack and sat down to think.

  What to do?

  Accuse Lundgard to his face—no, the man undoubtedly carried that needler. And there was Valeria to think of. A ricocheting dart, a scratch on her, no! It took Bo a long time to decide; his brain seemed viscous. When he looked out of a port to the indifferent stars, he shuddered.

  They came back, shedding their spacesuits in the airlock; frost whitened the armor as moisture condensed on chilled surfaces. The metal seemed to breathe cold. Valeria went efficiently to work, stowing the boxed instruments as carefully as if they were her children. There was a laughter on her lips which turned Bo’s heart around inside him.

  Lundgard leaned over the tiny desk where he sat. “What y’ doing?” he asked.

  “Recalculating our orbit to Luna,” said Bo. “I want to go slow to hyperbolic speed.”

  “Why? It’ll add days to the trip, and the fuel—”

  “I…I’m afraid we might barge into Swarm 770. It’s supposed to be near here now and, uh, the positions of those things are never known for sure…perturbations…” Bo’s mouth felt dry.

  “You’ve got a megamile of safety margin or your orbit would never have been approved,” argued Lundgard.

  “Hell damn it, I’m the captain!” yelled Bo.

  “All right, all right…take it easy, skipper,” Lundgard shot a humorous glance at Valeria. “I certainly don’t mind a few extra days in…the present company.”

  She smiled at him. Bo felt ill.

  His excuse was thin; if Lundgard thought to check the ephemeris, it would fall to ruin. But he couldn’t tell the real reason.

  An ion-drive ship does not need to drift along the economical Hohmann. “A” orbit of the big freighters; it can build up such furious speed that the sun will swing it along a hyperbola rather than an ellipse, and can still brake that speed near its destination. But the critical stage of acceleration has to be just right, or there will not be enough fuel to stop completely; the ship will be pulled into a cometary orbit and run helpless, the crew probably starving before a rescue vessel can locate them. Bo dared not risk the trouble exploding at full drive; he would drift along, capture and bind Lundgard at the first chance, and then head for Earth. He could handle the Sirius alone even if it was illegal; he could not handle her if he had to fight simultaneously.

  His knuckles were white on the controls as he loosed the grapples and nudged away from the asteroid with a whisper of power. After a few minutes of low acceleration, he cut the rockets, checked position and velocity, and nodded. “On orbit,” he said mechanically. “It’s your turn to cook, Ei…Einar.”