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Authors: Paul W. Fairman
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Holloway
back again—dramatically of course—with one of his party dead and the
other four in trance-like stupors. Strange.
And stranger still, Holloway's reason for wanting to talk immediately;
with no rest—no medical attention:
"It will help keep me awake. I mustn't go to sleep. Can't I make you
understand?
I've got to stay awake.
"
Mason pitied the man. He turned to Kennedy. "I have the log here, sir.
Perhaps you could go over it now—"
Holloway leaned forward. "I'll tell you what's in the log. Every word
of it. If I just sit here waiting—"
Mason laid a hand on his knee. "It's all right, old chap. I won't let
you go to sleep. You and I will talk while Mr. Kennedy goes through
the log. It won't take long."
Mason handed the book to Kennedy. He was almost apologetic. "It's a
strange log, sir, It—"
"Strange?" Kennedy frowned. Logs had no right to be strange. There
were regulations—rules stating exactly how a log should be kept.
"Well sir, the lad is young. His first trip. I just meant there's
perhaps a little more in the log than should appear there."
"We'll see," Kennedy said. There was a slight frost on his words. If
disciplinary measures were in the offing it would pay not to get too
cozy with Holloway and the Resident.
Kennedy opened the log. The first entry was dated June 3rd, 4:10 p. m.
Earth time. Kennedy frowned. Permissible of course, but sloppy, very
sloppy. The better skippers computed from Orion immediately after
blast-off. Kennedy set back and began to read:
June 3rd, 4:10 p. m.
We blasted at 2:18 p. m. A good getaway. Course 58.329 by the polar
angle. No blast sickness among the passengers. They are old hands. I
put the automatic board into control at 3:50 p. m. I checked the
tubes. Pressures balanced and equal.
I don't like this cruise. I don't like Murdo. He's a domineering slob.
The other four, well—Keebler is an alcoholic, Kelvey an empty-headed
opportunist. I don't particularly dislike them. They're just a
worthless pair who would rather fawn on Murdo and take his insults
than work for a living. The two wives are both young. Martha Keebler
has a child's mind in a woman's body. Jane Kelvey is an oversexed
witch with an indecent exposure complex. I may have trouble with her.
Already she's parading around in skimpy shorts and a bra. Evidently
Murdo doesn't care for women. He pays no attention to her. Money and
power are his dish. And a terrible restlessness.
Melody baby—I wish you were here—
June 4th, 3:00 p. m.
I had a talk with Murdo about this silly cruise. Tried to swing him
onto something that makes a little more sense. Pluto, Venus,
Ganymede—some hunting ground I'm familiar with. No good. Even a
suggestion and he thinks you're crossing him and snorts like a bull.
Still demands to go to this place where big game prowls in space.
Where elephants and leopards and snakes and anything you can name fly
around your ship and look in your ports. Where you do your hunting in
space suits right out in the void.
Why in hell did I fall for this idiocy? Guess I just didn't care.
Maybe I thought it was a good idea because it sounded like a cruise
you could get killed on without much trouble. No—I shouldn't say
that. Melody wouldn't like me to say it. She was so wonderful—so
level-headed. How wrong they all were about us. About her. Because she
was so beautiful, I guess. I tried to tell them I'd married an angel
and they took bets among themselves on how long it would last. The
answer to that would have been forever. It still is. I've lost so much
and learned so much in such a very short time. The hell with Murdo and
his four puppets. I'll take them out and bring them back. Then I'll go
somewhere alone and I won't come back at all.
Melody.
Course 28.493 by the polar angle. Went through small asteroid
field....
*
Kennedy looked up sharply. He frowned. "This log is unacceptable."
Holloway was pacing the floor, his eyes blank and terrible
"Unacceptable?"
"Course and position should
back again—dramatically of course—with one of his party dead and the
other four in trance-like stupors. Strange.
And stranger still, Holloway's reason for wanting to talk immediately;
with no rest—no medical attention:
"It will help keep me awake. I mustn't go to sleep. Can't I make you
understand?
I've got to stay awake.
"
Mason pitied the man. He turned to Kennedy. "I have the log here, sir.
Perhaps you could go over it now—"
Holloway leaned forward. "I'll tell you what's in the log. Every word
of it. If I just sit here waiting—"
Mason laid a hand on his knee. "It's all right, old chap. I won't let
you go to sleep. You and I will talk while Mr. Kennedy goes through
the log. It won't take long."
Mason handed the book to Kennedy. He was almost apologetic. "It's a
strange log, sir, It—"
"Strange?" Kennedy frowned. Logs had no right to be strange. There
were regulations—rules stating exactly how a log should be kept.
"Well sir, the lad is young. His first trip. I just meant there's
perhaps a little more in the log than should appear there."
"We'll see," Kennedy said. There was a slight frost on his words. If
disciplinary measures were in the offing it would pay not to get too
cozy with Holloway and the Resident.
Kennedy opened the log. The first entry was dated June 3rd, 4:10 p. m.
Earth time. Kennedy frowned. Permissible of course, but sloppy, very
sloppy. The better skippers computed from Orion immediately after
blast-off. Kennedy set back and began to read:
June 3rd, 4:10 p. m.
We blasted at 2:18 p. m. A good getaway. Course 58.329 by the polar
angle. No blast sickness among the passengers. They are old hands. I
put the automatic board into control at 3:50 p. m. I checked the
tubes. Pressures balanced and equal.
I don't like this cruise. I don't like Murdo. He's a domineering slob.
The other four, well—Keebler is an alcoholic, Kelvey an empty-headed
opportunist. I don't particularly dislike them. They're just a
worthless pair who would rather fawn on Murdo and take his insults
than work for a living. The two wives are both young. Martha Keebler
has a child's mind in a woman's body. Jane Kelvey is an oversexed
witch with an indecent exposure complex. I may have trouble with her.
Already she's parading around in skimpy shorts and a bra. Evidently
Murdo doesn't care for women. He pays no attention to her. Money and
power are his dish. And a terrible restlessness.
Melody baby—I wish you were here—
June 4th, 3:00 p. m.
I had a talk with Murdo about this silly cruise. Tried to swing him
onto something that makes a little more sense. Pluto, Venus,
Ganymede—some hunting ground I'm familiar with. No good. Even a
suggestion and he thinks you're crossing him and snorts like a bull.
Still demands to go to this place where big game prowls in space.
Where elephants and leopards and snakes and anything you can name fly
around your ship and look in your ports. Where you do your hunting in
space suits right out in the void.
Why in hell did I fall for this idiocy? Guess I just didn't care.
Maybe I thought it was a good idea because it sounded like a cruise
you could get killed on without much trouble. No—I shouldn't say
that. Melody wouldn't like me to say it. She was so wonderful—so
level-headed. How wrong they all were about us. About her. Because she
was so beautiful, I guess. I tried to tell them I'd married an angel
and they took bets among themselves on how long it would last. The
answer to that would have been forever. It still is. I've lost so much
and learned so much in such a very short time. The hell with Murdo and
his four puppets. I'll take them out and bring them back. Then I'll go
somewhere alone and I won't come back at all.
Melody.
Course 28.493 by the polar angle. Went through small asteroid
field....
*
Kennedy looked up sharply. He frowned. "This log is unacceptable."
Holloway was pacing the floor, his eyes blank and terrible
"Unacceptable?"
"Course and position should
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