sleeping quarters went, so did the crate full of real food. I just hope if there is any intelligent life out there, that they find that floating mass of gunk first. Then they'll know we're civilized."
There was a moment of silence, in memorium. Doolittle said a silent prayer for the now-space-petrified pastrami and looked at Boiler with new respect The shock he had been concealing must have been terrible.
"I'm sorry, Boiler. I really am."
"Ah, that's all right, Lieutenant. I've pretty much gotten over it. I'm only sorry I didn't get to share it with you guys after all."
"That shouldn't keep us from fixing up the sleeping quarters again," put in Pinback, whose tone showed no feeling for Boiler's state of mind. He opened the door and preceded them into the converted food locker.
Pinback's urgent desire to repair the formal sleeping quarters took on added weight with the actual sight of their present abode. Three highly unpneumatic bunks lay scattered against the thick walls. They were emergency-grade only, and a far cry from the zero-gee sleeping cots of pre-explosion days.
Assorted debris of the kind commonly cast off by the bachelor human male covered bunks and floor and walls with fine impartiality—a liberal coating of useless flotsam composed of worn-out objects of every conceivable shape and former function.
Only one bunk lay neat and spotless. The blanket across it was drawn taut enough to bounce a coin on. Dress insignia and medals were laid out across it in order preparatory to donning.
It was Talby's bunk, of course. Talby's bunk, which hadn't been used in . . . Doolittle couldn't remember how long. Couldn't remember when the astronomer had begun sleeping in his observation chair up in the dome. He didn't like it, but nothing in the regulations said any member of the crew couldn't sleep wherever he wished.
But Doolittle didn't think it was healthy.
Three of the walls were bare, the locker shelving having been completely removed when the men decided to move in. The fourth wall was covered from ceiling to floor with glossy color photos of female-type humans. There were several hundred photos, blown up from microfilm. Some of them were intact, others were cut to show off some particular portion of the subject's anatomy. They had one thing in common, and that was that artificial clothing figured in none of them.
"It wouldn't take but a day or two to fix it up, Doolittle, Boiler. Aw, c'mon, fellas. We could do it in—"
"Shut up, Pinback," Doolittle yelled.
"Oh, have it your own way, then. Sleep on a lumpy bunk—see if I care." Pinback flopped down on his own mattress. Quick fumbling at his own supplies produced a cigarette.
Doolittle relaxed on his bunk and produced a packet of cards, began laying them out for yet another game of solitaire. Boiler sat down on his bed and stared at one of the blank wails.
"For your enjoyment," came the soothing voice of the computer, which in addition to running the ship constantly monitored what it believed to be their needs, "we now present some moonlight melodies of Martin Segundo and his Scintilla Strings.
"Our first selection is the perennial favorite, 'When Twilight Falls on NGC Eight Nine One'." Soft music filled the untidy alcove. No one bothered to object. The computer's arguments about the importance of mood music as opposed to violent rock could be maddening. Only when its choices grew extremely puerile did they bother to fight it
Boiler had shuffled about in his own locker, came up with a fat cigar. The computer voice drifted in over the music.
"I must remind both Corporal Boiler and Sergeant Pinback that more than one person smoking at a time puts an unwholesome strain upon the air-purification system."
"What air-purification system?" Boiler snorted derisively. "I can still smell last week's smoke." The computer didn't deign to reply.
Boiler lit up disdainfully, began blowing extremely neat smoke rings. At times the presence of full artificial gravity on
There was a moment of silence, in memorium. Doolittle said a silent prayer for the now-space-petrified pastrami and looked at Boiler with new respect The shock he had been concealing must have been terrible.
"I'm sorry, Boiler. I really am."
"Ah, that's all right, Lieutenant. I've pretty much gotten over it. I'm only sorry I didn't get to share it with you guys after all."
"That shouldn't keep us from fixing up the sleeping quarters again," put in Pinback, whose tone showed no feeling for Boiler's state of mind. He opened the door and preceded them into the converted food locker.
Pinback's urgent desire to repair the formal sleeping quarters took on added weight with the actual sight of their present abode. Three highly unpneumatic bunks lay scattered against the thick walls. They were emergency-grade only, and a far cry from the zero-gee sleeping cots of pre-explosion days.
Assorted debris of the kind commonly cast off by the bachelor human male covered bunks and floor and walls with fine impartiality—a liberal coating of useless flotsam composed of worn-out objects of every conceivable shape and former function.
Only one bunk lay neat and spotless. The blanket across it was drawn taut enough to bounce a coin on. Dress insignia and medals were laid out across it in order preparatory to donning.
It was Talby's bunk, of course. Talby's bunk, which hadn't been used in . . . Doolittle couldn't remember how long. Couldn't remember when the astronomer had begun sleeping in his observation chair up in the dome. He didn't like it, but nothing in the regulations said any member of the crew couldn't sleep wherever he wished.
But Doolittle didn't think it was healthy.
Three of the walls were bare, the locker shelving having been completely removed when the men decided to move in. The fourth wall was covered from ceiling to floor with glossy color photos of female-type humans. There were several hundred photos, blown up from microfilm. Some of them were intact, others were cut to show off some particular portion of the subject's anatomy. They had one thing in common, and that was that artificial clothing figured in none of them.
"It wouldn't take but a day or two to fix it up, Doolittle, Boiler. Aw, c'mon, fellas. We could do it in—"
"Shut up, Pinback," Doolittle yelled.
"Oh, have it your own way, then. Sleep on a lumpy bunk—see if I care." Pinback flopped down on his own mattress. Quick fumbling at his own supplies produced a cigarette.
Doolittle relaxed on his bunk and produced a packet of cards, began laying them out for yet another game of solitaire. Boiler sat down on his bed and stared at one of the blank wails.
"For your enjoyment," came the soothing voice of the computer, which in addition to running the ship constantly monitored what it believed to be their needs, "we now present some moonlight melodies of Martin Segundo and his Scintilla Strings.
"Our first selection is the perennial favorite, 'When Twilight Falls on NGC Eight Nine One'." Soft music filled the untidy alcove. No one bothered to object. The computer's arguments about the importance of mood music as opposed to violent rock could be maddening. Only when its choices grew extremely puerile did they bother to fight it
Boiler had shuffled about in his own locker, came up with a fat cigar. The computer voice drifted in over the music.
"I must remind both Corporal Boiler and Sergeant Pinback that more than one person smoking at a time puts an unwholesome strain upon the air-purification system."
"What air-purification system?" Boiler snorted derisively. "I can still smell last week's smoke." The computer didn't deign to reply.
Boiler lit up disdainfully, began blowing extremely neat smoke rings. At times the presence of full artificial gravity on
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