Crashlander

He was two chairs down, and he was glaring. Without the beard he would have had a round, almost petulant face … I think. The beard, short and black and carefully shaped, made him look like a cross between Zeus and an angry bulldog. The glare went with the beard. His square fingers wrapped a large drinking bulb in a death grip. A broad belly matched broad shoulders to make him look massive rather than fat.

Obviously he was talking to me. I asked, «What do you mean, what are you?»

«Where am I from?»

«Earth.» It was obvious. The accent said Earth. So did the conservatively symmetrical beard. His breathing was unconsciously natural in the ship's standard atmosphere, and his build had been forged at one point zero gee.

«Then what am I?»

«A flatlander.»

The glare heat increased. He'd obviously reached the bar way ahead of me. «A flatlander! Damn it, everywhere I go I'm flatlander. Do you know how many hours I've spent in space?»

«No. Long enough to know how to use a drinking bulb.»

«Funny. Very funny. Everywhere in human space a flatlander is a schnook who never gets above the atmosphere. Everywhere but Earth. If you're from Earth, you're a flatlander all your life. For the last fifty years I've been running about in human space, and what am I? A flatlander. Why?»

«Earthian is a clumsy term.»

«What is WeMadeItian?» he demanded.

«I'm a crashlander. I wasn't born within fifty miles of Crashlanding City, but I'm a crashlander anyway.»

That got a grin. I think. It was hard to tell with the beard. «Lucky you're not a pilot.»

«I am. Was.»

«You're kidding. They let a crashlander pilot a ship?»

«If he's good at it.»

«I didn't mean to pique your ire, sir. May I introduce myself? My name's Elephant.»

«Beowulf Shaeffer.»

He bought me a drink. I bought him a drink. It turned out we both played gin, so we took fresh drinks to a card table …

* * *

When I was a kid, I used to stand out at the edge of Crashlanding Port watching the ships come in. I'd watch the mob of passengers leave the lock and move in a great clump toward customs, and I'd wonder why they seemed to have trouble navigating. A majority of the starborn would always walk in weaving lines, swaying and blinking teary eyes against the sun. I used to think it was because they came from different worlds with different gravities and different atmospheres beneath differently colored suns.

Later I learned different.

There are no windows in a passenger spacecraft. If there were, half the passengers would go insane; it takes an unusual mentality to watch the blind-spot appearance of hyperspace and still keep one's marbles. For passengers there is nothing to watch and nothing to do, and if you don't like reading sixteen hours a day, then you drink. It's best to drink in company. You get less lushed, knowing you have to keep up your side of a conversation. The ship's doc has cured more hangovers than every other operation combined, right down to manicures and haircuts.

The ship grounded at Los Angeles two days after I met Elephant. He'd made a good drinking partner. We'd been fairly matched at cards, he with his sharp card sense, I with my usual luck. From the talking we'd done, we knew almost as much about each other as anyone knows about anyone. In a way I was sorry to see him leave.

«You've got my number?»

«Yeah. But like I said, I don't know just what I'll be doing.» I was telling the truth. When I explore a civilized world, I like to make my own discoveries.

«Well, call me if you get a chance. I wish you'd change your mind. I'd like to show you Earth.»

«I decline with thanks. Goodbye, Elephant. It's been fun.»

Elephant waved and turned through the natives' door. I went on to face the smuggler baiters. The last drink was still with me, but I could cure that at the hotel. I never expected to see Elephant again.

* * *

Nine days ago I'd been on Jinx. I'd been rich. And I'd been depressed.

The money and the depression had stemmed from the same source. The puppeteers, those three-legged, two-headed professional cowards and businessmen, had lured me into taking a new type of ship all the way to the galactic core, thirty thousand light years away. The trip was for publicity purposes, to get research money to iron out the imperfections in the very ship I was riding.

I suppose I should have had more sense, but I never do, and the money was good. The trouble was that the Core had exploded by the time I got there. The Core stars had gone off in a chain reaction of novas ten thousand years ago, and a wave of radiation was even then (and even now) sweeping toward known space.

In just over twenty thousand years we'll all be in deadly danger.

You're not worried? It didn't bother me much, either. But every puppeteer in known space vanished overnight, heading for Finagle knows what other galaxy.

I was depressed. I missed the puppeteers and hated knowing I was responsible for their going. I had time and money and a black melancholia to work off. And I'd always wanted to see Earth.