Death in Transit

                             By JERRY SOHL

                          Illustrated by EMSH

                  _There was one, and only one, thing
                  Clifton could do. Even so, he made
                  the worst of 100 possible choices!_

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                 Infinity Science Fiction, June 1956.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Clifton stood at the bottom of the shaft, his face white, his eyes
wide, his stance against the bulkhead that of a man who needed only a
slight push to slump to the floor.

"Karen," he murmured. "Karen."

He had been standing there a long time.

He was staring at his dead wife, a heap of broken bones and blood on
the floor. But he was not seeing her--at least not as she was now. He
was seeing her the way his mind kept bringing her back to him: the
white evenness of her teeth when she smiled, the fury of her bright
blue eyes when she was angry, the way she had uncomplainingly slept on
the wrinkled sheets of the bed he had made when she had been ill ten
years before, and the way they had laughed about that when she reminded
him of it years later. He moved to stand erect, wondering why he should
have thought about that at a time like this, and then, as he looked at
her again and saw what the fall had done to her, he clenched his hands
in anger.

They had said it couldn't happen! But they had been wrong. Man's wisdom
was not infinite after all. All the man-years of thought, all the
endless whirring and clicking of the computers and calculators--all of
it had not taken into account what might happen to Karen.

His hands fell open. He knew that actually, they had never been wrong.
If he had found her right away, he could have put her back together.
He could have utilized the synthesizer for anything really bad, like a
shattered bone. The needles of the organic analyzer would have told him
what else he had to do.

But Karen had been dead for hours when he found her. Too long. The
damage was irreparable, permanent. She was beyond recall. He might
conceivably have animated her muscles, her glands, got her blood to
flowing again. But her brain would have remained a vacuous, inert
thing. You had to get reconstruction going in a matter of minutes when
the brain, the anatomy's most perishable component, was involved. And
in some cases he had known, the memories were never fully restored.

Why couldn't it have been a tumor? A deficiency disease? A nervous
breakdown? Insanity.... There was nothing the medocenter couldn't
handle. Its machines were right there on the ship, ready to be
used--but Karen had to fall down the ventilator shaft, opening the door
and walking into it as if it were her bedroom, and falling all the way
down and breaking half the bones in her body.

And he had found her too late. Hours too late.

"Too late," he said, and he nodded his head in agreement. And then he
was engulfed in sudden pity and remorse and a feeling of loss, as if
she had snatched a vital part of him in her going. And hadn't she?
Hadn't she taken her laughter with her, the laughter that brightened
his days? And the things they had shared.

He glared at her, suddenly angry that she should have done this to
him, and he glared at the shaft and blew out his cheeks and clenched
his hands again and roared a great cry that echoed deafeningly in the
smallness of the shaft.

And then he shouted obscenities at the ship and the stars and the
hundred people who lay as if dead in neat rows in the sleep locker and
he pounded the walls until blood from his hands left imprints there.

But no one heard. There was no one to hear. Only the sleepers who
lived their days with his years.

"Why?" he shouted, while his tears fell. And he thought: I haven't
cried since I was a kid. Then, saying her name again and again, he
knelt by her side to feel the silkiness of her jet black hair.

       *       *       *       *       *

There had been no death aboard a Star Transit ship since the very
beginning. From the first day of the Great Emigration more than a
hundred years before, when the first captain and his wife stepped
aboard to pilot the precious cargo of sleeping humans ten or more years
across the vast stellar reaches to colonies on planets in a half dozen
far-distant star systems, there had been no recorded death.

But now there would always be Karen.

He should have told them she walked in her sleep. But the Medical
Examiners would have shrugged as they had with everything else he had
told them. The medocenters would take care of it. You couldn't _cure_
sleepwalking with the devices in the medocenter, but they would have
taken care of anything that happened as a result--if he had reached
her in time. It was unforeseen, this business of her walking into the
shaft. No one was to blame. No one, that is, except himself.

Clifton looked up from beside his wife to the circle of light at the
top of the shaft. "All right," he called out, "I'm to blame, do you
hear? I did it. She could be alive except for me."

There was no answer to his self-indictment.

"And where does it leave me?" he shouted bitterly. "I'm the one who has
to live and I've got nine years to go. Nine years to Ostarpa and the
small colony there. What am I supposed to do?"

He never remembered later how long he stood in the shaft shouting
until he was hoarse, only recalling that at one point the walls seemed
to close in on him and the ship seemed filled with an oppressive
strangeness, and he was clawing his way up the ladder to the top. And
there were blurred images of walls and rooms as he ran about the ship,
and he remembered his jerking open the liquor cabinet and the stupor
that followed.

It was days later when he sobered and, insulated by the intervening
unreality, managed to dispose of her body in a waste chute.

Then he moved to the office and saw that it was the 371st day and
looked at the log to see that he had stopped making entries on the
363rd day. He examined the other books. Karen's precise handwriting had
recorded her final readings on that day, too. Now he would have to do
her work as well as his own.

Clifton sighed, sat at his desk and, in a steady hand, wrote in the log:

    _Karen rose in her sleep, walked to and fell down the right aft
    third level ventilating shaft and was killed. Reached her
    approximately three hours after the incident. She could not be
    saved._

                                                _Clifton West, Captain_

Skipping to the 371st day, he wrote:

    _Sent Karen's body out the ventral waste chute._

He sat studying the words, then added:

    _Am alone on the ship._

Instantly he wished he had not written that, but was not moved to cross
the words out. It was true enough. He was alone. Would be alone nine
more years.

Suppose something should happen to him? Who would land the ship? And
what would happen to the sleepers?

He did not want to think about it. The medocenter would take care
of everything. He didn't walk in his sleep. His duty was to get the
hundred humans through to Ostarpa and then they all would become part
of the colony there, except of course he'd be ten years older than the
sleepers upon awakening. He looked at the day gauge on the wall. Just
3,332 days short of Ostarpa.

Three thousand three hundred and thirty-two days without Karen! An
eternity of talking to himself and listening only to the sound of his
own feet as he walked about the ship. A lifetime for remembrance, just
as he remembered now how eager they both had been to make the trip,
how she had shared the rigorous training. It had been a chance of a
lifetime: ten years of being together! Time to meditate, to ponder the
problems of life, of all humanity, of each other. They had thought
soberly of it as an opportunity to make something of themselves--write
a great play, solve a great problem. But they had never got around to
that. The first year had been only the sheer delight of each other's
company. He wondered if it would have ever changed. How fast it had
gone!

And now it was over and the nine years ahead loomed like a dark tunnel,
large and forbidding.

       *       *       *       *       *

Clifton slammed the palms of his hands on the desk. Enough of that. He
was captain of the ship and he had duties. He could not spend his time
in the past. There were things to do. He must keep himself occupied. He
must not think of her.

But he did.

Even though the days stretched into weeks he still found his steps
faltering every time he walked past rooms where he had often looked for
her. For one thing there was the stereo room where Karen loved to spend
leisure hours. He never saw much in stereo, but she seemed to enjoy it.
And there was the music taperoom, the massage parlor, the baths. She
seemed to have a need of them. But all Clifton had ever needed was her.

He passed the jammed clothes locker, filled with enough apparel to last
her ten years. He could not force himself to open it, though Karen
seldom had opened it herself. She had made most of her own clothes,
taking the material out of the huge storage bins.

He found himself one day in her sewing room, a room she had converted
from a nursery, storing the nursery stuff until such a time as it was
needed and installing her sewing machine and getting to work. They had
joked about how, when they landed on Ostarpa, all the clothes in the
locker would be still intact because she so enjoyed fashioning her own.
Once he had asked her what was to become of them.

"We'll start a dress shop, darling," Karen had said quickly as if she
had already thought about it, which is the way she answered everything.
"The sleeper women will want several changes right away."

"You know," he replied, "I think I'll be your manager, set you up.
Karen West, Ostarpa's great dress designer. You'll have lots of
business and we'll make a fortune."

"I'm not that good," she said, but her face glowed with joy.

Even as he stood there he could hear the words as if they were said a
moment ago and he felt as if he should at any moment hear the click of
her heels across the floor, and when she'd enter the room, she'd say,
"Clifton, what in the world are you doing here?"

The Transit Service had been right. No man was an island. A man might
be for a day, perhaps, or a week or even longer. But not for ten
years. That's why the service had insisted a man and his wife, proven
psychologically compatible, serve together as co-captains of each
transit liner.

So it wasn't right that he should spend the next nine years a lonely
man. Karen was gone, but what about those hundred people in the sleep
locker? He needed someone, a companion, someone to talk to, someone to
take Karen's place. Not a woman, of course. That would not be right.
Especially after Karen. There could be no other woman like Karen.
Besides, suppose they didn't like each other?

"No," he said, standing in the sewing room and shaking his head, "it
must not be a woman."

And then he brought himself back to reality. No sleeper had ever been
awakened before the liner reached its destination. "And no sleeper is
going to be awakened on this trip," he said firmly. He had the power
to wake any or all of them in an emergency, but his own personal
emergency hardly constituted grounds for that.

But suppose something happens to me? he reminded himself again. Who's
going to carry on?

And then he set his lips close together, turned on his heel and left
the sewing room. "Nothing," he said aloud, "is going to happen to you.
That's why they put medocenters on these ships." And he went to the
place and spent the afternoon being checked over.

He found himself in perfect health. For some reason he was disappointed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The weeks passed slowly, but they did pass, and Clifton busied himself
with exhaustive checks throughout the entire ship, interested himself
in the stereos (they weren't so bad now that he had nothing else to
do), music tapes (he weeded out the ones he didn't like), massages
(he was pleased to discover they left him with a glow), books (funny
how hard it was to read after the ease of stereo), mathematics (how
much he'd forgotten), a few languages (German was still his hardest),
moods of writing (he just did not have the knack), painting (he was
always drawing machinery and wondering why)--and found the image of
Karen's laughing blue eyes still there at the edge of his mind, though
curiously distant, as if it were one of the stereos he had seen.

Then the hunger started.

He sat for long hours in the chill of the sleep locker and envied
the sleepers there, row on row, all of them without a worry, without
thought, trustful of him, confident he would get them through, none of
them knowing Karen was dead and not caring, and he had an urge to wake
them all and throw a furious party to end all parties.

And sometimes he'd have a party there all by himself.

And then he grew to hate them. When he did, he went to the medocenter
and this was erased and he was made whole again.

But the hunger got worse.

"Karen, Karen!" And he finally wondered if it was really Karen he
wanted. And the medocenter only made his hunger worse and he cursed the
efficiency of it.

Then one day he got out the file of the sleepers, went through it from
Abelard, Johannes, to Yardley, Greta, and put the pictures in the
stereo and saw what the sleepers looked like and wondered which of
them would prove the most companionable. Which man, that is, for a
woman ... well, it just would not be right to awaken a woman. It would
not look right in the log, for one thing, and he was sure all he needed
was another person to talk to and it might as well be a man. After all,
man is a gregarious animal. If he had someone to talk to....

He turned back through the file for Hedstrom, George, a pleasant
looking fellow of thirty--which would make him five years Clifton's
junior--and in passing he came upon the picture of Portia Lavester
again. He slipped the picture in the stereo and spent a long time
looking at it. Quite a girl. Blonde. Unlike Karen in that respect. And
she wore her hair longer. Her eyes weren't as blue as Karen's. But her
skin was darker. Sun? Karen didn't like the sun. It made her freckled.
But this girl must have lived in it. The stereo was inadequate,
however. It didn't tell how she laughed. _Did_ she laugh? Was it
pleasing?

He put it down and looked at the record. Portia Lavester. Twenty years
old. Five-feet-three. Weight 109. He looked at the picture again. The
weight was well distributed.

He shuffled the picture back in the pile, tried to concentrate on
Hedstrom, George. A logical choice among the single men. Mechanical
background. He peeked at the Lavester record again. The girl was a home
economics expert. She'd do well on Ostarpa. Or on the ship.

Clifton sighed and shoved the file away. Only then did he realize how
much he had missed Karen's cooking. The ship's electronic cookery was
all right, but it left much to be desired. It had no personal touch.

But to get back to Hedstrom. How would the fellow act if he awakened
him? Immediately he thought of the girl and wondered what she would be
like.

"Stop it!" he admonished himself. "She's much too young." And he
started going through looking at the other single women. The girl
Lavester was clearly the nicest. Again he studied her.

And again he forced himself to go back to the man.

Finally he decided to do nothing at present, left the office and
started his rounds, determined to think of other things.

Eventually he found himself in the sleep locker looking for number
33, Portia Lavester's compartment. He saw it and discovered it was no
different from number 57, the compartment of George Hedstrom. The same
black oblong box with the ribbon of red plastic where it was sealed
near the top. It would be easy to activate the rollers, move it out
of line and out to the medocenter, rip off the plastic and charge the
contents with life. He wiped away a few dust motes and found that to
him the box suddenly seemed different from the others.

He was sweating.

Later in the tape room he listened to music and pondered the question.
Suppose he awakened her and she proved to be anything but what he
wanted? Sure, she was good looking, but what about her age? Her
mannerisms? Would his fifteen years turn her against him? There were
nine years left to Ostarpa; a lot could happen in nine years and she
would eventually discover he was no ogre. She might even learn to love
him. Why, she might even take Karen's place!

He clicked off the music with a trembling hand, went to the bar, drew
a double shot and ice.

Karen, Karen! Why did it have to happen to you?

_Forgive me, darling, for what I am about to do._

       *       *       *       *       *

Clifton watched the lard-like flesh become suffused with pink, saw the
surge of color in the lips, the catch of breath and the resultant swell
of breast. Then the eyelids flickered.

A moment later Portia Lavester was staring at him, and even as she did
so Clifton could see she did not understand what had happened. But when
the vacant eyes came alive, the girl sat up, crossed her hands to her
bare, hunched shoulders and looked around frantically.

"Don't be frightened," Clifton said, smiling. "You're still on the
ship. You've just been awakened."

"Thanks," she said without gratitude, "but I wasn't frightened. I was
looking for something to put on."

"Oh." Clifton had forgotten about that. Now he blushed and opened a
nearby drawer and withdrew a white gown. "Take this. It will have to do
until I get you something else."

She took it and held it to her nakedness, eying him coldly. He turned,
heard her drop quietly to the floor. "Where are the others?" she asked,
and he could hear the rustle of the gown as she put it around her. "And
where can I pick up my clothes?"

He turned to look at her, found her at the side of the room in front of
its only mirror, inspecting her face and pushing her lush hair this way
and that and grimacing. "How long ago did we land? What's Ostarpa like?"

She was lovely and not unlike Karen in manner and it was going to be
harder for him than he thought.

"Was I the first or the last? Or was I in the middle? Just like me to
be in the middle." She laughed a little and he was glad to hear her,
though her laughter was a little lower in pitch than Karen's. And then
her eyes found his in the mirror and they widened. She turned. "Why
don't you say something? Is anything wrong?" Now she was frightened.

She was very young and he was glad to hear her voice and he wanted to
tell her so, but he knew she wouldn't understand. So he said only, "I
want to talk to you."

"What's happened?" Her eyes were panicky.

"There are no others," he blurted out.

"No others?" Her voice was shrill.

He shook his head. "I awakened you because my wife died and I needed
someone." It was blunt, but he wanted to be honest with her. "The
others are still asleep out there."

She stared with round eyes and a round, open mouth, and her hands fell
away from her face and were lost when the gown's long sleeves fell over
them.

"I--I had to hear someone talk again," Clifton said haltingly. "I went
through the file. I studied all the sleepers. I decided on you. I'm
sorry if--"

"How long?" she murmured, lips hardly moving.

"Long?" he answered. "What do you mean?" And then he understood. "We're
a little more than a year from Earth."

Her moan startled and unnerved him. Her eyes closed and she slumped to
the floor.

When she did not move, he went to her, lifted her head. At once her
eyelids fluttered and she saw him and then her face darkened and she
lashed out with tiny fists, scratching and crying.

"It's not as bad as all that!" he cried, half angry with her now,
trying to stop her, clutching her flailing arms. He drew away quickly
when she bit him.

"You--you _beast_!" she wailed. "You spoiled everything. _Everything._
Everything has been so carefully planned."

"I know, I know," he soothed.

"Oh," she quavered, and she fell to the floor again, sobbing.

Clifton got up, surveyed her weeping figure, a mound of white on the
floor. Well, he thought, at least this is a change for me. And he felt
rather foolish about what he had done. If only it had been a man; he
could reason with a man. He turned in disgust and walked from the
medocenter. She would change. After all, nine years is a long time. No
woman could cry nine years. He smiled a little. Fiery little thing,
isn't she? he told himself as he started his tour of the ship.

       *       *       *       *       *

He didn't find her in the medocenter when he returned. The white gown
was not there either. It was a long time before he found her lying atop
one of the compartments in the sleep locker. She was still clad in the
gown, a gaunt, spiritless figure, her eyes staring at the low ceiling.

"Miss Lavester," he said, "I know it was a shock to wake up this side
of Ostarpa, but believe me, I intended no harm. If only you knew the
loneliness--" and he could not go on, remembering the emptiness of the
days just past.

She said nothing, only blinking her eyes, pale blue eyes in a white
face.

"If I'd known how upset you'd be, I'd never have awakened you," Clifton
said bitterly. "If I could put you back to sleep now I would." Now
her face turned toward his, eyes icy in a withering glance. She rose,
a firm press of breast against the white gown as she slid off the
compartment. Clifton's heart quickened. But she ignored him and walked
away. She looks like Karen sleepwalking, he thought.

The next day he found her in the stereo room, dressed in one of Karen's
gowns from the clothes locker, a thin, pale blue dress that accented
her small waist and blonde hair. She looked ever so much like Karen. He
wondered where she had slept, if she had eaten.

"Portia," he said, sitting in a nearby chair. She only sat, a still
figure, staring ahead, her hair brushed back in a long sweep, glossy
and smooth, and Clifton thought: My God, but she's a beautiful thing.

"Portia," he repeated, "I want to talk to you." What could he do with
this girl? Was there no way to break through to her?

Portia gave him a hateful glance and rose. He watched her and his
hunger was more than he could stand.

"Please," he said desperately. "Don't leave."

She turned at the doorway and looked at him coldly.

"You don't know what it means to lose your wife and have no one to
talk to and have to decide what to do." He looked down at his hands
embarrassedly. Why was he finding it so hard to talk to her? He felt
his face coloring. "I think I'd have gone mad if I hadn't awakened you.
It wasn't a snap judgment, Portia. I just didn't pull your number out
of a hat. You see--" He looked up. She wasn't there.

He saw her in the hallway, her head down, contemplative and walking
slowly, and catching up to her and walking beside her he explained,
"Suppose I'd have an accident like Karen did? Then none of you would
ever land on Ostarpa. Somebody had to be awakened, Portia. Can't you
understand that?" She gave no hint she knew he was there.

He watched her in the massage room, unable to take his eyes off her as
the soft, flexible arms stroked her flesh, and he said softly, "You say
I spoiled everything, but I'd like you to think about that. On Ostarpa
you'd have to go to work right away, be given your duty number just
like you had on Earth. On the ship you've got nine years to play with,
nine years of carefree life. You can do what you want and nobody's
going to say or do a thing to tell you to stop, have you thought of
that?" The moving arms were silent and smooth and so was Portia.

He followed her to the bath but could not bring himself to enter there.
He stayed beyond the filmy curtain and talked to her. "Sure, I know it
was a surprise, awakening you like that, and I know you had in mind
waking on Ostarpa, but being on the ship, the two of us, with all our
wants taken care of--it has its advantages."

And in the bar, with her eyes averted, drinking with her, he
explained, "Oh, I'll admit there are records to keep. But I missed a
few days after Karen died. Taking the whole ten years into account,
that won't make much difference. But suppose I became ill for a few
days. Somebody's got to be on hand to see I get treatment at the
medocenter. That's why you've got to come around, why you've got to
start thinking about this thing."

And finally, in the navigation room, he told her, "You can't go on
like this. You've got to learn all about this ship. Why, if something
happened to me, who'd awaken the sleepers? You will have to do that,
Portia. You'd be the only one left. You've just got to be ready to take
over, that's all there is to it. And don't think it's too hard. The
ship does most of it. Automatic. Just a lever here, a button there.
I'll teach you all about it. Even landing the ship. You won't find it
hard, once you put your mind to it."

Through it all she remained aloof and unspeaking, a beautiful, silent
thing with two accusing orbs for eyes, a lovely mouth with generous
lips much given to a look of disdain.

Until one day.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was totally unexpected. Portia had taken over Karen's bedroom next
to his, closing and locking the intervening door as if forever. He had
gone to sleep in his room, with her still distant and uncommunicative
in hers.

He awakened to the smell of coffee and a cooking breakfast. He sat up
quickly, wondering if Karen's death and the events that followed it had
been a bad dream, and when he assured himself they had not, wondering
if he had at last lost his mind.

Clifton quickly dressed and entered the kitchen.

Portia was there.

She smiled at him.

She said, "Good morning, Clifton." Just like Karen.

He stood speechless, staring.

"Breakfast is about ready."

"Wh--what's come over you?" he said numbly, both pleased and
dumbfounded, his eyes relishing the lovely figure in one of Karen's
sheerest nightgowns.

"You were right," she said, tossing her head to bring the blonde hair
away from her face and smiling. Her teeth were every bit as even and
white as Karen's. "I just realized it. As you said, there are nine
years ahead of us. I might as well make the best of it."

"I'm glad," he said warmly, and the memory of what she had been like
during the days before was eclipsed by what she was now. "I was hoping
you'd come around."

"Come, sit down," she said, indicating the place set for him, the
gleaming silver, the neat napkin, the steaming coffee in the cup.
"Don't let it get cold."

"Karen used to say that." And then he thought: That's a mistake;
I mustn't mention Karen ever again. But Portia seemed not to have
noticed. And she seemed so much like her now.

"I got tired of eating by myself," Portia said, sitting opposite him
at the table. And she stole a sly look as she said, "And I'm afraid I
acted badly."

"Not at all," Clifton said gallantly. "I understand how you felt. It's
just taken a little time, that's all." He started eating, but his eyes
were on her and the transformation of eyes that were no longer cold,
lips that weren't scornful any more.

"Pity the poor sleepers," she said, laughing. "They can't enjoy a
breakfast like this."

"Do you suppose," he said, endeavoring to keep the talk in the same
vein, "that any might rise up when they smell that coffee?" He inhaled
ecstatically. "Hmm. There's nothing like it."

"I hope I never make it that strong." And she giggled.

With a shock he found his knee touching hers. He drew away, wondering
if it had been accidental. Later, when he tried to kiss her, she turned
away, murmuring, "Not yet, Cliff. Give me time. It's so--so sudden."

He obeyed, turned his attention to other things. He could afford to
wait. After all, there were nine years. A day or so--what did it matter?

It was more than a week before he managed to kiss her for the first
time. And then it was nothing like Karen's kisses. But immediately he
felt he was asking too much of Portia too soon. There'd be time for
teaching.

They lost themselves in the intricacies of the ship, covering its
complete operation, the records that had to be kept, the functions of
each section, the matter of awakening the sleepers--which, Clifton
explained, was quite simple, since the medocenter did most of the work,
but still demanded certain procedures and precautions and delicate
adjustments. He even taught her how to use the communications system
that would become operable within a few months of Ostarpa. In all, they
spent a good two months studying together every facet of the ship.

"It's so complicated," she said in an awed voice. She squeezed his hand
she had taken to holding. "But you're an awfully good teacher, Cliff."

"And you're the loveliest student I ever had," he said, squeezing back
and drawing closer to kiss her.

"Cliff!" she said, drawing away and giggling. "You're always joking.
I'll bet I'm the only student you ever had."

"Well," he said lamely, "I hate to admit it, but you are."

And then they both laughed.

       *       *       *       *       *

At length they finished everything he could show her on the ship. Then
he brought up what had been on his mind ever since the day he awakened
her.

"Portia," he said gravely, "I'm captain of this ship and as such I have
invested in me the power to perform marriage."

Portia laughed. "You're always saying things so seriously, Cliff.
So--so pontifically. Is that the word?"

"I'm serious, Portia."

"I know." She laughed a little more, then straightened her face. "I
didn't mean to offend you."

"You're always laughing at me. Why?"

"I don't mean to."

"I want to marry you, Portia."

"I know." And instantly her eyes were grave. "I've known for a long
time."

"I've wanted you since the day you first looked at me."

"I've known that, too."

"It was all I could do to--"

"You've been more than kind, Cliff."

"When, darling? When can I marry you?"

She looked up. "Tomorrow?"

His heart leaped. "Marry you tomorrow?"

She nodded. "Tomorrow."

Was there something odd in her look? He couldn't decide.

When Clifton went to bed that night his heart sang. The years ahead no
longer seemed appalling and interminable. How they'd spend them! The
sewing room ... it could always be changed back into a nursery. Portia
had shown no interest in sewing, so he'd just store Karen's stuff.
Perhaps somebody would find use for it when they landed on Ostarpa. It
wasn't unusual for captains and their wives to have a half dozen kids
during transit.

He went to sleep with the sound of children's feet echoing about the
halls and corridors of the ship. And when he dreamed of the marriage it
was, oddly, Karen he was marrying.

       *       *       *       *       *

He awakened with a start. On this morning there was no welcome aroma of
coffee. At first he thought perhaps he was too early. But it was time.
Portia was probably so excited she was all off schedule.

Clifton was careful on this morning. He took his bath, toweled himself
until his skin tingled, used his deodorant sparingly, gave himself a
close shave. The part in his hair was never straighter.

Dressing himself in a clean, pressed suit, he strolled from his
bedroom. Portia was not in the kitchen. He walked to her bedroom. The
bed had been made. But no Portia.

Where the devil had she gone?

He started walking about the ship, searching first here and then there.
Of course not in stereo. Not on this day. Massage? No. Bath? Not
there. Tape? Same.

She was nowhere to be found. Then he recalled the funny look in her
face the previous night. It meant _something_.

Suicide? Frantic now, he went to both waste chutes. Neither gave
evidence of having been opened. Still....

An hour later he returned, a bewildered and disconsolate man, to his
office.

Portia was there.

With her was a man.

He was George Hedstrom.

Clifton could only sink back against the wall and look at the two of
them, the Portia he had never seen so radiant, George, a dark, handsome
fellow who wore a quizzical look. Clifton was shocked to see they were
holding hands.

"Captain," George said in a friendly way, rising his full six feet,
"Portia tells me--"

"I'm sorry, Cliff," Portia interrupted hastily. "George is my fiance.
We were to be married on Ostarpa, but as long as you--"

_Tomorrow, she had said_....

The two figures blurred before him, the room reeled and Clifton
clutched the doorway for support. Karen, Karen! I've been
bewitched.... This girl--I thought she was you.... I should have
known....

"Let me help you."

Clifton struck out at the dark head of hair, hit it somewhere.

Karen, Karen! Can you hear me?

He stumbled out of the room and down the corridor.

Karen, Karen! Where are you?

He found the ventral waste chute. He was in it, heard the door click
behind him. Now they'd never get him out, never take him away from his
Karen.

The sides of the chute were closing in. It was hot. But it was cool
where Karen was.

"Wait, Karen!" he cried. And as he inched his way down the chute he
hoped he wasn't too late, hoped she'd forgive him.

There was the outer door. On the other side was coolness and Karen.
Dear, beautiful, lovely Karen. The _real_ Karen.

With a surge of joy he held to the smooth sides of the shaft and raised
his foot.

He plunged it down unerringly against the door. It burst open with a
deadly whoosh of air.

The door clicked closed.

The chute was empty.