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passages for the four of them on the twelve-day voyage—a
matter of some eight thousand thrones, or better than $10,000 Terran, for the
four tickets. The Silver
Spear was a luxury liner.
It was virtually a spaceborne city, holding nearly eight hundred passengers.
Catton and his three men, with their
diplomatic visas, passed through the emigration desks with no trouble, and
boarded the ship two hours before blastoff. The three aides said litde as they
inspected their magnificent staterooms. Either they were not impressed, or else
they were too overwhelmed by the luxury to be able to comment.
Alone, Catton surveyed his room with awe. It
was twice the size of the cabin he had occupied on the Terran liner coming to
Morilar, and that had been one of Earth's finest passenger vessels. On the Silver Spear his room was carpeted with thick broadloom,
hung with noise-cushioning drapes, furnished with a handsome record player, a
supply of music tapes, a video set which could tap the ship's immense library
of Skorg films, and other elegant appurtenances. He sprawled out on the
oversized bed, clamped his learning-disk of Skorg to his ear, and settled down
for a couple of hours of intensive study of the Skorg language before blastoff
time came.
An hour later, his cabin door chimed; Catton
nudged the remote-wave opener and the door slid into its oiled niche. A Skorg
in the uniform of a crewman waited in the corridor outside his room.
The Skorg bowed obsequiously, a gesture that
looked strange coming from a member of that austere-faced species. "I am
your steward, Mr. Catton," the Skorg said, in Morilaru. "If you lack
anything, be sure to call upon me."
"Thanks," Catton
said, using the Skorg word.
"Blastoff is in thirty minutes. When the
signal comes, please go to your bed and remain on it until we enter free
nulldrive. Dinner will be served one hour after the entry into warp, sir."
The steward bowed again and moved off down
the hall. Catton closed the door, resetting his learning-disk and focusing his
concentration once again on the difficult inflections of the Skorg tongue.
Blastoff
was right on schedule. A speaker grid in the ceiling of his stateroom came to
sudden life and advised him purringly in Skorg, Morilaru, and Arenaddin to
remain on his bed until further word. Catton wondered what happened if you
didn't understand any of the languages the instructions had been delivered in.
You didn't travel the Skorg lines, in that case, he decided.
There was a countdown, in Skorg numbers. When
it got down toward the final numbers Catton tensed involuntarily, waiting for
the thrust of blastoff to jam him down against the spun foam of his bed.
".
. . drog. . . .
. .
halk-segan. . . .
".
. . zhuur. . . .
".
. . naair
Naal. Zero! But there was no fist of acceleration on the final count. Catton
felt a momentary pressure, flattening him gendy against the bed, but it was so
light a push that he could have remained upright through it without difficulty.
Evidendy on a Skorg luxury liner, one traveled in luxury. Blastoff had been so thoroughly cushioned,
probably by contragrav, that it almost seemed like an inertialess drive was at
work.
Ten
minutes after blastoff, the voice from the speaker grid advised Catton that it
was now safe to leave one's bed, as the ship was now in nulldrive and would
remain there until reaching Skorg. Dinner, the voice added, would be served in
one hour.
Catton
went on an exploratory trip through the vessel in the hour before dinner. He
attracted a great deal of attention, as might have been
expected; there were still few Earthmen in this part of the galaxy, and one
traveling on a Skorg luxury liner was an extreme curiosity.
The
ship was lavish. There was a grand ballroom, a smaller auditorium, two great
opining halls (one reserved exclusively for Skorgs, the other open to all
comers—a bit of deservedly instituted discrimination, considering the distinctive
Skorg odor). Catton also saw a library of book-tapes,
matter of some eight thousand thrones, or better than $10,000 Terran, for the
four tickets. The Silver
Spear was a luxury liner.
It was virtually a spaceborne city, holding nearly eight hundred passengers.
Catton and his three men, with their
diplomatic visas, passed through the emigration desks with no trouble, and
boarded the ship two hours before blastoff. The three aides said litde as they
inspected their magnificent staterooms. Either they were not impressed, or else
they were too overwhelmed by the luxury to be able to comment.
Alone, Catton surveyed his room with awe. It
was twice the size of the cabin he had occupied on the Terran liner coming to
Morilar, and that had been one of Earth's finest passenger vessels. On the Silver Spear his room was carpeted with thick broadloom,
hung with noise-cushioning drapes, furnished with a handsome record player, a
supply of music tapes, a video set which could tap the ship's immense library
of Skorg films, and other elegant appurtenances. He sprawled out on the
oversized bed, clamped his learning-disk of Skorg to his ear, and settled down
for a couple of hours of intensive study of the Skorg language before blastoff
time came.
An hour later, his cabin door chimed; Catton
nudged the remote-wave opener and the door slid into its oiled niche. A Skorg
in the uniform of a crewman waited in the corridor outside his room.
The Skorg bowed obsequiously, a gesture that
looked strange coming from a member of that austere-faced species. "I am
your steward, Mr. Catton," the Skorg said, in Morilaru. "If you lack
anything, be sure to call upon me."
"Thanks," Catton
said, using the Skorg word.
"Blastoff is in thirty minutes. When the
signal comes, please go to your bed and remain on it until we enter free
nulldrive. Dinner will be served one hour after the entry into warp, sir."
The steward bowed again and moved off down
the hall. Catton closed the door, resetting his learning-disk and focusing his
concentration once again on the difficult inflections of the Skorg tongue.
Blastoff
was right on schedule. A speaker grid in the ceiling of his stateroom came to
sudden life and advised him purringly in Skorg, Morilaru, and Arenaddin to
remain on his bed until further word. Catton wondered what happened if you
didn't understand any of the languages the instructions had been delivered in.
You didn't travel the Skorg lines, in that case, he decided.
There was a countdown, in Skorg numbers. When
it got down toward the final numbers Catton tensed involuntarily, waiting for
the thrust of blastoff to jam him down against the spun foam of his bed.
".
. . drog. . . .
. .
halk-segan. . . .
".
. . zhuur. . . .
".
. . naair
Naal. Zero! But there was no fist of acceleration on the final count. Catton
felt a momentary pressure, flattening him gendy against the bed, but it was so
light a push that he could have remained upright through it without difficulty.
Evidendy on a Skorg luxury liner, one traveled in luxury. Blastoff had been so thoroughly cushioned,
probably by contragrav, that it almost seemed like an inertialess drive was at
work.
Ten
minutes after blastoff, the voice from the speaker grid advised Catton that it
was now safe to leave one's bed, as the ship was now in nulldrive and would
remain there until reaching Skorg. Dinner, the voice added, would be served in
one hour.
Catton
went on an exploratory trip through the vessel in the hour before dinner. He
attracted a great deal of attention, as might have been
expected; there were still few Earthmen in this part of the galaxy, and one
traveling on a Skorg luxury liner was an extreme curiosity.
The
ship was lavish. There was a grand ballroom, a smaller auditorium, two great
opining halls (one reserved exclusively for Skorgs, the other open to all
comers—a bit of deservedly instituted discrimination, considering the distinctive
Skorg odor). Catton also saw a library of book-tapes,
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