Norton, Andre - Anthology by Gates to Tomorrow (v1.0) Read Free Book Online Page A

home?"
                  "The files in the Bureau of Spatial
Medicine," the space surgeon answered Hardman's question, "maintain
accurate records of all illnesses, arrests, domestic difficulties, and any
other symptom of maladjustment. All ships have physicians aboard who are
trained in psychiatry. We make every effort to keep the Service free from the
danger of the psychopath."
                   "Why are they so dangerous?" Hardman
asked with a laugh. "Seems to me they are rather
absurd."
                   "I can see the danger," Nord said
slowly. "I wonder how much of an item they are in the cause of ships that
don't return? "
                   "I would say they were a tremendous
factor," the medical officer answered. "Think how easily one man
could wreck this ship. If he gained access to the tube banks, he could
substitute a worn tube and throw our astrogation out of kilter. If he got into
the chlorophyl banks, he could infect them and cause asphyxiation; if he could gain
access to the bleeder valves, he could release all our air into space. If he
kept one suit of armor, he would then control the ship," he paused, looked
around the table, "and be rich for life."
                   Hardman looked at the captain. "I hope
you keep all the keys around your neck." When the laughter subsided, he
addressed the doctor again. "Are all men carefully checked?" He
indicated Bickford with a nod. "I mean men like political appointees, such
as Mr. Bickford."
                   Bickford's pointed chin quivered angrily.
"What's the matter with my mind?" he snarled with trembling fury.
"Just because I'm not a graduate of the Spatial Academy is no reason to pick on me." He
pounded the table angrily. "My cousin, who is manager of Synthetic Air,
got me this job. I was given a highly specialized course in air
management." His pale blue eyes glared at Dr. Stacker. "Just because
you silly space surgeons didn't have any reason to examine me doesn't mean my
mind isn't as good as yours. You're all just jealous because I have rich relatives.
Well," he laughed hysterically, "my mind is just as good as anyone's
at this table."
                   The officers sat stiffly erect in embarrassed silence as they pretended to ignore Bickford's
uncalled-for, infantile expression of anger. They waited, fumbling with the
silverware, gaze fixed on the waxen roselike flowers in the center of the
table. The wardroom was so quiet that when one of the stewards placed a serving
spoon in the dessert bowl, the click of the silver was startlingly explosive.
                   "I don't think there is anything the
matter with your mind; nor does anybody else." Nord eased the gathering
tension. But he felt cold on the inside, as if Pluto's turgid, bitter winds
were blowing out from his body and through his clothing. His hands and feet
felt cold, even his brain seemed frozen as he watched Bickford's thin fingers
pluck for a cigarette.
                   He turned to Dr. Stacker, who was observing
the air officer with clinical detachment. "You're the ship's athletic
officer. Who should I put my money on tonight?"
                   "I won't commit myself."
                   "Gentlemen, shall we go on the recreation
deck and watch the semifinals? Cooks, stewards, and waiters are expected to
beat the ship's repair force. It's going to be a good game of laska ball."
     
                   Laska ball was an extremely fast, excellent
exercise. It was a modified form of basket ball, played on an elliptical court,
in which the captains could control the location of their team's basket. It was
a well-adapted sport for the limited recreational space of small ships.
                   Nord Corbett forced himself to sit through the
first half of the game, but not even the electrical speed of the game, the
rocketing ball flashing through the oscillating, flickering