The Star Virus

One item in the control gallery, however, was of particular interest to Rodrone. It was located on the wall directly behind the console desk, so that the ship's controller could see it only if he twisted around to look behind him.

At first glance it appeared to be a tunnel, or cavity inset in the wall, filled with an eerie light, or perhaps an illuminated sculpture.

But a few seconds scrutiny convinced him that it was in fact a picture of remarkable depth. The picture represented space for perhaps a hundred light-years around. By some miracle of ingenuity it managed to scale down distances, yet fit into the space a sizeable representation of each star—and hold it in proper relationship as the ship moved.

The effect of drawing together masses of suns already close in terms of astronomical distances was remarkable. The assembly seemed to be endowed with design and calculation. It was like a building for the gods, or like a great glowing machine.

The stars shone from the cavity with a hard steely light; but they seemed to hold back all kinds of tints and hues that glimmered beneath the outward appearance. It was a deep show of hidden color—the nearest thing to color itself aboard the Stator.

Captain Gael Shone, seated on the main throne of the console desk, favored them with a bleary, dark-eyed smile. He had already set out three glasses in front of him.

"Come and fill up, friends, and damn all police and planet-bound trash, eh?" He laughed slyly.

He noticed Rodrone staring at the picture behind him. "You like my little indicator, eh? I use it for navigation."

"It's magnificent," Rodrone murmured.

"Yeah. You can't see 'em, but the whole lot's just crawling with men, like disease viruses in a golden palace."

Rodrone smiled at the colorful metaphor, but he was struck by the image. He's right, he thought. We don't have any rightful place there. Even the stars obey celestial dynamics, but we're all for lawlessness.

He shrugged. "I like it that way."

"So do I." Shone poured more drinks.

Rodrone tore his eyes from the picture. "Well, you're expensive, Shone, but you do a good job. Thanks. What kind of drive do you use, by the way? I never heard of a completely silent technique before."

"No thunder of the rockets in this outfit," Shone agreed. He turned his attention to Clave. "I've met your boss, but I haven't been introduced to you yet. What's your name?"

"Clave Theory."

"Of the old Theory family?" Shone looked interested.

Clave nodded, keeping his fixed glassy smile.

"Glad to have somebody aboard who comes from such a notable line. Old John Theory and his sons did great things for science, even if they did throw it in too many directions. He was a fine man. Still that was some time ago, and I guess the family's scattered since then… he was uneducated, that was his trouble."

Clave did not alter his expression. "It has scattered," he agreed.

Rodrone took the proferred glass of foment and sipped it. "How long do you estimate for the trip?" he asked.

"About two weeks, subjective ship time."

"What about Jal-Dee? We might be pursued."

"Why then, we man the blisters! A foment rotation for every man, death to the first who takes his finger off the firing stud." Shone chuckled lengthily. "Actually, the big fat merchants aren't keen enough to chase us. They'll simply tell the Streall we got away and then forget it. It's the Streall we shall have to watch for."

A silence descended, and all at once the atmosphere became calmer. Shone looked at Rodrone steadily, taking a pull on his drink. He shifted his feet to a higher ledge on the fronting of his desk and leaned back.

"You know what's up with you?" he said suddenly. "You're haunted. Haunted! It's in your face. You were born with it. An incurable desire to follow up and find out, that's your trouble. You just can't let go, can you?"

Rodrone felt uncomfortable, but once he had decided not to answer the captain, he felt strangely relaxed.

Shone coughed. "You feel things too much, you know." It seemed to Rodrone that the man had somehow deflated, that his moment of penetration had passed. "You ought to live just for whatever comes to hand, like me."

The remark made Rodrone meditative. Later, when the conversation between the three of them had reached a deeper level of congeniality, and a great deal of foment had been drunk, he asked gently; "Have you happened on a planet called Sunder recently?"

"Sunder?"

"It's Land V. I've got a wife there. I haven't seen her for five years."

"You don't look like a wife deserter to me. How come she doesn't move with you?"

Rodrone shrugged. Men who spent a lot of time in space generally kept their wives with them, especially in view of the time-dilation effect of interstellar voyaging, but he never had. "Just didn't get around to it," he answered simply.