Boy Meets Dyevitza

                          By ROBERT F. YOUNG

                       Illustrated by BIRMINGHAM

       _For the incurable romantics among us, the power of love
       to conquer everything cannot be overestimated. And so let
       us read this gentle, pleasant, warm-hearted tale, knowing
      as we do that the story it tells is very likely impossible,
       but yet hoping, perhaps, that it could all end this way._

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                     Amazing Stories October 1962.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


A thrilling news bulletin, dated September 11, 1996, was recently
handed to me by an assistant who is too young to remember the star over
Moscow, and it is toward him and others like him that the following
history is directed. If it resembles fiction more than it does fact,
the similarity is wholly intentional, for it is only through fiction
that the past can be brought back to life.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Gordon Andrews first saw the girl, he took it for granted that
she was a Venusian--a natural enough assumption in view of the fact
that he was on Venus. She was kneeling beside a small brook, humming
a little tune and washing out a pair of stockings, and so intent was
she on her tune and her task that she did not hear him when he stepped
out of the forest behind her. Her bobbed hair was the color of horse
chestnuts, and her clothing consisted of gray culottes, a gray blouse,
black leather boots and a small gray kepi. The tune she was humming was
a passage from Tchaikovsky's _Swan Lake_.

Thus far, Gordon had taken Venus pretty much in his stride. The data
supplied by the Venus probes during the early 60's, while obscure with
regard to her cloud-cover, had conclusively disproved former theories
to the effect that she lacked a breathable atmosphere and possessed
a surface temperature of more than 100 degrees Centigrade, and had
prepared him for what he had found--an atmosphere richer in oxygen
content than Earth's, a comfortable climate, and a planet-wide sea,
unbroken as yet save for an equatorial land mass no larger than a
modest island. The data, by its very nature, had also prepared him for
the possibility of human life. It had not prepared him, however, for a
Venusian maiden on humming terms with _Swan Lake_. Small wonder, then,
that he gasped.

The girl dropped her stockings and shot to her feet so fast that she
would have toppled into the brook if he hadn't leaped forward and
caught her arm. She had a heart-shaped face, and her eyes were the hue
of harebells. At the moment they were filled with alarm. Presently,
however, the alarm went away and recognition took its place. "Oh, it's
you," she said, freeing her arm.

       *       *       *       *       *

He took an involuntary step backward. "Me?" he said.

"Yes. Captain Gordon Andrews, of the United States Space Force, is it
not? You look quite a lot like your photograph."

He could only stare at her. "I do?"

"Yes. I saw it in one of your materialistic capitalistic magazines."
She stood up a little straighter--an act that brought her harebell-blue
eyes on a level with the topmost button of his fatigue-alls. "I am
Major Sonya Mikhailovna, of the Soviet Space Force, and my ship is in
the next valley. _I_ arrived here yesterday."

He got the picture then, and he felt sick. He should have known from
her too-correct, slightly stilted English, from the military cut of her
clothing. He should have known in the first place, for that matter.
It was the same old humiliating story. The manned Venus shot had been
publicized for months before the actual launching, and he had been
written up in every newspaper and magazine in the country. Articles
had paid homage to his suburban upbringing, saluted his record at
the Shepard Space Academy, praised his career as an orbital pilot,
romanticized his bachelorhood, described how he liked his eggs, and
inferred what a good catch he would be. Meanwhile, the Russians had
gone quietly and systematically about their business, and at the
precise psychological moment had pulled their usual unexpected coup.
First it had been Laika, then Zrezdochka, then Gagarin, then Dymov, the
first "Man in the Moon". Now it was Major Sonya Mikhailovna.

But why a woman? And why one so seemingly delicate that you marvelled
at her ability to withstand the acceleration of take-off? Suddenly
he got the whole picture, and he really felt sick. He could see the
humiliating headlines--or rather, their English counterparts--in
_Pravda_: SOVIET SPACE GIRL BEATS CAPITALIST COSMONAUT TO VENUS!
USSR TRIUMPH AGAIN!

"I suppose you picked up my ship on your radar while I was coming in,
and fixed the time and location of my landing," he said bitterly.

Sonya Mikhailovna nodded. "My own arrival-time has already been
officially recorded, but the announcement of my success had to be
withheld until I could establish your arrival-time and the exact
time-difference could be computed. Soon now, the news of our glorious
new victory will be released to the world."

       *       *       *       *       *

She bent down, retrieved her stockings from the brook and wrung them
out. Straightening, she hung them on a low-hanging branch of a nearby
tree. They were cotton, he noticed, and there was a hole in one of the
toes.

Suddenly she gave a start. Following the direction of her gaze, he gave
one too. So did the man and the woman who had just emerged from the
forest.

Since his arrival four hours ago, Gordon had been wondering--among
a host of other things--whether the ultra-violet rays of the sun
could penetrate the planet's thick cloud-cover. He saw now that they
not only could, but did. The man and the woman were unquestionably
members of a white-skinned race, and both possessed suntans so deep
and golden that in contrast their dark blue eyes seemed even darker
and their bright blond hair even brighter. Their white knee-length
tunics augmented the effect, and in co-operation with their handsome
faces, supplied them with a god- and goddess-like aspect. Unfortunately
this aspect was somewhat marred by their one concession to personal
adornment--gleaming neckbands forged from a copper-like metal.

As neither native appeared to be armed, Gordon saw no cause for
alarm, and after his initial surprise, he regarded them quite calmly.
So did Sonya Mikhailovna. This time, however, the two Venusians did
not reciprocate. Their eyes had grown wide, and now an unmistakable
expression of disbelief settled upon their handsome faces. At length
the man touched his own neck and then the woman's; then he pointed,
almost accusingly, it seemed, toward Gordon and Sonya, and demanded
something in an unintelligible tongue.

Gordon proceeded to touch his own neck. Next he touched Sonya's ever so
lightly of course. "Gordon," he said. "Sonya."

He was rewarded for his perspicacity by two horrified stares and a
pair of hoarse gasps. Then before he could utter another word, the two
Venusians turned and vanished into the forest.

He stared after them. So did Sonya Mikhailovna. "Did you know," he
asked presently, "that Venus was inhabited?"

"Our scientists suspected that it might be." She shrugged. "Anyway,
what does it matter now? By your stupid action you destroyed whatever
chance we had of establishing friendly relations."

Gordon felt his face grow hot. "When you meet aliens, the first thing
you always do is exchange names with them," he said. "Everybody knows
that!"

"Everybody who reads your stereotyped science fiction knows it, you
mean. And after you find out their names, you say, 'Take me to your
leader,' and their leader turns out to be a big beautiful blond who is
stacked. Well, I think I will be getting back to my ship."

"I don't see anybody stopping you," Gordon said.

She gave him a long look. In the roseate radiance of the Venusian
afternoon, her face had a pink-cheeked little girl aspect. "In
imperialistic idiom, that means, I suppose, that it is a matter of
complete indifference to you what I do."

"It sure does," Gordon said. "Well, I'll be seeing you."

       *       *       *       *       *

Leaving her standing by the brook, he re-entered the forest and struck
out over the little hills that rolled back from the littoral like green
inland waves to break riotously against the high ridge that encompassed
the island's interior. In his initial enthusiasm, he had wandered
farther from his ship than he had meant to, and he had been about to
turn back when he had seen the girl. Now he had another reason for
returning: a dark cloud was due to arrive over Washington in the very
near future, and it was up to him to send out a bad-weather warning.

Multicolored flowers carpeted virtually every square inch of the forest
floor; finch-like birds of rainbow hues darted overhead, leaving
exquisite wakes of song; squirrel-like mammals spiraled tree trunks so
swiftly that they were barely visible. Venus had turned out to be the
Venus of the romantics, rather than the Venus of the scientists, and
Gordon, who, for all his scientific training, was a romantic himself,
found the eventuality exhilarating, even in his present doldrums.
Perhaps when man reached Mars, he would find blue canals after all,
no matter what the scientists said to the contrary, and fragile glass
cities tinkling in cinnamon-scented winds.

The day was nearly done when he reached the cove, near the shore of
which his spaceship stood, and darkness was upon him by the time
he climbed the metal Jacob's ladder and stepped through the lock.
(In blithe disregard of learned opinion, Venus's rotation period
approximated Earth's; however, her cloud-cover brought about an abrupt
and early departure of daylight.) In his haste, he did not bother to
close the lock, but headed straight for the radio alcove and beamed the
news of his historic meeting with Major Sonya Mikhailovna across the
immensities to Space Force headquarters at New Canaveral, appending it
with the information that the peoples of Earth could no longer consider
themselves the sole inheritors of the solar system.

Owing to the distance involved, over five minutes elapsed before he
received a reply. He was informed that the USSR had already released
the news of the new space victory and that the Soviet premier had
declared a national holiday in honor of the occasion. New Canaveral
also provided him with an unsolicited thumbnail-biography of Major
Sonya Mikhailovna. Her father Pëtr, was a famous Russian pianist, she
was twenty-three years of age, unmarried, spoke six languages fluently,
had a nodding acquaintance with eleven more, held a doctor's degree in
anthropology, was an accomplished ballerina, and in the last Olympic
games had won the gold medal in the gymnastics competition. She had
been chosen for the Venus shot from a group of one hundred trained
women volunteers, and the rank of major had been bestowed upon her in
honor of her service to her country. Also--

Gordon heard the footsteps then, and whirled around. But the three
Venusians who had crowded into the little control room were upon him
before he could draw his pistol. They relieved him of it quickly and
tossed it to one side; then two of them held him while the third
covered his nose and mouth with a wet cloth that reeked of a cloying
perfume. He blacked out in a matter of seconds.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new day was dawning when he climbed out of the deep well of
drug-induced unconsciousness and opened his eyes. His wrists and
ankles were bound, and he was lying on a stretcher fashioned of
lashed-together saplings. It was being carried by two gold-skinned
Venusians, one of whom was the male member of the couple who had come
upon him and Sonya the previous afternoon.

He raised his head. Apparently the perfume he had inhaled possessed
only part of the properties of chloroform--in any event, he felt no ill
effects. Turning his head, he discovered that his captors consisted of
about two dozen natives, all told, and that every one of them wore a
metal collar. Half of them were women, and one of the women was the one
he and Sonya had seen the day before.

There was another stretcher just behind his own. Sonya Mikhailovna's
face was hidden, but he could see her horse-chestnut colored hair. "Are
you all right?" he called.

She did not answer. Clearly their captors had used the same drug on
her that they had used on him, and she was still under its influence.
A number of other things were also clear: the two original Venusians
had been part of a larger group--an excursion party, perhaps--and after
vanishing into the forest, they had rejoined the main body and reported
his and Sonya's presence. The decision to capture them must have been
made shortly afterward.

The trees thinned out on Gordon's right, providing him with a glimpse
of distant blue-misted hills and gray-blue sea and bringing home the
realization that he was being borne along the lofty inland ridge that
circled the island's interior. For the first time since he had opened
his eyes, fear touched him. In less than two months, Venus would
approach to within thirty million miles of Earth--the distance which
the Space Force technicians had used in computing his return trajectory
and in estimating the amount of fuel he would need. In all probability,
Sonya's return trajectory and fuel-supply had been similarly computed
and estimated, and if so, she was in the same boat he was. If they were
kept captive for any length of time, they might not be able to return
to Earth for another year, and while it was conceivable that they might
be able to live off the land after their supplies gave out, it was far
from likely.

Maybe, though, eating wouldn't be a problem. Dead people are as unable
to eat as they are unable to tell tales.

       *       *       *       *       *

The trees thinned out again--on his left, this time--and he saw a
bowl-shaped valley far below. There were green fields and blue lakes,
and scattered clusters of white buildings. Villages, no doubt. They
weren't large enough to have registered on his viewscope during his
orbit, but they were large enough to register on his retina now.

The faint trail which the Venusians had been following began
zigzagging down the side of the ridge, and the going became more
difficult. They kept glancing uneasily at the sky as though they
momentarily expected it to fall down upon them. Gordon could discern no
cause for their concern; as far as he could see, the sky was the same
hazy pink it had been yesterday--but then, he was not a Venusian and
consequently knew nothing about such matters.

At the foot of the ridge, the procession was joined by other natives,
indicating that a courier had been sent ahead to herald its approach.
All of the new-comers wore metal collars, and all of them looked at
Gordon and Sonya briefly, then quickly glanced away. Sonya, Gordon saw,
turning his head, had awakened, and was regarding her surroundings with
eyes that seemed to have even more harebell-blue in them than before.
"Are you all right?" he called again.

"Yes," she said, after a pause. "I am all right."

One of the nearer villages proved to be their captors' destination, and
after passing between several neatly laid-out fields, the principal
crop of which appeared to be a Venusian form of sweetcorn, the
procession started down a narrow thoroughfare in the direction of a
large circular stone building surmounted by a steeple-like chimney
from which smoke arose in a tenuous blue-white column. The buildings
on either side of the street were plain to the point of bleakness,
the façades featureless save for oval windows and narrow doorways.
Villagers were everywhere, and all of them, men and women alike,
sported metal collars. Children, however, were noticeably absent,
though once Gordon caught sight of a round, wide-eyed face in one of
the oval windows. He had to look fast to see it, though, because an
instant later a woman appeared and yanked the child back out of sight.

He was more bewildered than ever. Obviously, judging from their
reactions, the Venusians considered him and Sonya to be guilty of some
manner of immoral crime; but the only crime they had committed that he
could think of was trespassing--and certainly trespassing couldn't be
construed as _immoral_. What in the world _had_ they done then?

The procession had reached the large circular structure and was
filing through its vaulted entrance. Terraced tiers of stone benches
encircled a small, flagstone-paved arena in the center of which were
two altar-like stone blocks, placed about five feet apart. Just behind
the blocks stood a primitive forge, and beside the forge stood an even
more primitive anvil. A gold-skinned blacksmith was busily operating a
pair of crude bellows.

Gordon and Sonya were placed on the blocks and strapped down by means
of leather thongs. The tiers of benches filled rapidly, and an air of
expectation rapidly permeated the smoky atmosphere. Gordon began to
sweat--a reaction due partly, but not wholly, to the heat thrown off
by the forge. Sonya's face was white. He tried to think of something
reassuring to say to her, but for the life of him he couldn't. Quite
by accident, his eyes met hers, and to his consternation her cheeks
changed from white to pink, and she turned abruptly away.

       *       *       *       *       *

The audience began to chant, and presently a man of noble mien
appeared, bearing two strips of copper-like metal. He handed them to
the blacksmith and then stepped back and took up a position equidistant
from each block, after which he proceeded to look sternly down first
into Gordon's face and then into Sonya's. Gordon couldn't see what
the blacksmith was doing in the meantime, but judging from the sounds
the man was making, he was busily occupied. Bellows wheezed and coals
crackled, and metal clanged on metal as though a Venusian tarnhelm
was in the works. Gordon knew perfectly well, however, that one wasn't
and he wasn't particularly surprised when, a little while later, a
water-soaked cloth was wrapped around his neck and was followed by
one of the two metal strips. Steam rose from the wet cloth as the
blacksmith held the two ends of the strip together until they fused,
and even more steam arose when he tempered the resultant seam with a
container of water. The job completed to his satisfaction, he removed
the cloth and let the still-warm collar settle against Gordon's neck.

The other strip was similarly fused around Sonya's neck, after which
the man of noble mein went into action. Raising his hand in a signal
for the audience to cease its chanting, he launched a long sonorous
speech, part of which he directed at Gordon and part of which he
directed at Sonya. After a ringing peroration, during which he seemed
to threaten each of them, he produced a pinch of white powder and
sprinkled some of it over each of their heads. Finally he drew a long
double-edge knife.

Well this is it, Gordon thought. But it wasn't. The man of noble mein
merely used the knife to cut their bonds; then, after untying the
thongs that secured them to the stone blocks, he raised both arms in a
gesture for them to stand up. Gordon massaged his legs before putting
his weight on them, and Sonya followed the same precaution. He could
hardly believe that they were still alive, but seemingly they were.
And healthy too--if the pinkness of Soyna's cheeks was an accurate
criterion.

The man of noble mein nodded his noble head in the direction of the
entrance, and they accompanied him outside. Gordon did a doubletake
when they stepped into the street. It was strewn with freshly picked
flowers of every hue and description and lined by little children
waving green twigs that resembled olive branches. He came to a staring
stop. "Won't someone please tell me what's coming off?" he said.

Sonya stopped beside him. "Don't you really know?" she asked, her eyes
fixed on a flower at her feet that was almost as red as her face had
become.

"I know we're the focal point of some kind of ceremony--but what kind
of a ceremony is it?"

Slowly Sonya raised her eyes. "It's a wedding ceremony," she said.
"They--they married us."

       *       *       *       *       *

The flower-carpet stretched all the way to the outskirts of the
village, and so did the two lines of little children. Gordon stumbled
along at Sonya's side, hopeful that he would wake up any second in the
bachelor's barracks at New Canaveral. But the street stubbornly refused
to dissipate, and so did the little children and the man of noble mein.
As for Sonya, much less than dissipating, she took on added detail,
and the metal collar around her neck seemed to throw off flame after
lambent flame, and each one was brighter than its predecessor.

The man of noble mein escorted them outside the village, then turned
his back on them as though they no longer existed and returned the way
he had come. After his passage, the little children broke ranks and
began playing in the flowers. Gordon faced Sonya. "Now maybe you'll
tell me _why_ they married us," he said.

"I will tell you on the way back to our ships."

She did not speak again till they reached the top of the ridge.
Then, after she got her breath back, she said. "They married us
because, underneath their demigod exteriors, they are nothing more
than bronze-age puritans. Yesterday, when the man and woman saw us
standing together by the brook, they were bewildered because neither
of us was wearing what to them is a universal symbol of marriage--a
metal collar--and when you touched me they were shocked. You see, in
their society, no man and woman can be alone together unless they are
married, and it is unthinkable for a man to touch a woman unless she is
his wife, or some immediate member of his family."

"We could have been brother and sister," Gordon pointed out.

"Do I look like your sister?"

He had to admit that she didn't.

"Anyway," Sonya went on, "their trailing us to different houses must
have convinced them and the rest of their party that we are not. In the
eyes of the Venusians, you see, our spaceships are just that. Houses.
Odd one, perhaps, by their architectural standards, but houses just the
same. How else could a simple bronze-age culture interpret them?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Gordon ducked beneath a blossom-laden bough. "How did you know they're
puritans?"

"I didn't--at first. I merely assumed, from their reactions to us,
that they must be. And then I got to thinking about how neither the
sun nor the moon can be seen through the cloud-cover, and it occurred
to me that their concept of one god must have come much earlier in
their civilization than would have been the case on earth, owing to
the fact that there could have been no intermediate phase of sun- or
moon-worship. Perhaps, somewhere along the line, they had a Christ
whose teachings they misinterpreted, and no doubt they have a version
of Genesis similar to the Judaeo-Christian one--except that in theirs,
the problem of creating the sun and the moon and the stars never arose.
Anyway, now that they have married us, they are no longer interested in
us. All that concerned them was our moral welfare.... It seems to be
growing dark."

"It can't be," Gordon said. "It's only a little past noon. Which
reminds me--I skipped breakfast, and supper too." He pulled two
concentrated food biscuits out of his fatigue-all pockets. "I suggest
that we stop for lunch."

They sat down side by side beneath a tree with blue blossoms shaped
like Dutchman's-breeches hanging from its boughs. They were halfway
down the opposite slope of the ridge now, but Sonya's ship was still
many hours away, and his was an hour farther yet. They ate silently for
a while. Then, "There is one thing that puzzles me," Sonya said.

"Yes?"

"Why did they marry us so soon? Why was there such a need for haste?"

"You made it clear enough. They misinterpreted our behavior and were
shocked out of their self-righteous puritanical skins."

She shook her head. "Shocked, yes--but not enough to have rushed
us through a ceremony that under ordinary circumstances would have
required days of preparation. There must have been another reason."
Suddenly she glanced up through the foliage at the sky. "It is growing
dark."

There was no longer any denying the fact. The roseate radiance of the
youthful afternoon had transmuted to a sort of gray murk; moreover, the
air had grown appreciably colder. Gordon stood up. "I think we'd better
be on our way," he said. "It's going to rain."

       *       *       *       *       *

A good three hours passed, however, before he felt the first drop. He
and Sonya were in the hills now, and the ridge was far behind them.
The rain was gentle, but it was persistent too, and both of them were
soaked before another hour had gone by. "We will go to my ship," Sonya
said, brushing back a rain-wet strand of horse-chestnut colored hair
from her forehead. "It is much closer than yours."

Somehow her offering him shelter in a Soviet ship did not strike him as
being in the least incongruous. And when, a moment later, he slipped
his arm around her waist, that didn't seem incongruous either. And when
she permitted it to remain there, even _that_ didn't seem incongruous.
For some crazy mixed-up reason life seemed singularly devoid of
incongruities all of a sudden. And amazingly forthright and simple.

The rain was extremely penetrating--so penetrating, in fact, that it
penetrated his skin as well as his clothing. And it had a curious
lulling effect. No, that wasn't the word. A curious soporific effect.
No, that wasn't the word, either. Well what word was it, then?

He couldn't call it to mind till after they reached Sonya's ship and
were standing at the base of the Jacob's ladder. By then it was too
late. By then he was gazing softly down into her eyes and she was
gazing softly up into his, and the world was well on its way toward
being well lost.

He tried to force himself to step back and regard the situation with
the cold and objective eye of a scientist, to evaluate this strange
and wondrous quality that fell in the form of rain and to tie it in
with the Venusians' motivation in marrying him and Sonya posthaste. In
vain. All he could think of was the tune she had been humming by the
brook and the hole he had seen in one of her cheap cotton stockings.
And then she was in his arms and he was kissing her rain-wet lips, and
Washington and Moscow were forgotten place-names on a map that had no
more meaning than the paper it was printed on.

The rain continued to fall. Softly; gently. Insistently. It sang soft
songs in the leaves. It murmured; it whispered. It laughed.

       *       *       *       *       *

It did not cease till morning. After starting back to his ship, Gordon
mentally rehearsed the report which he and Sonya had agreed to send to
their respective headquarters. It described briefly how they had been
captured and released, but discreetly made no reference either to the
wedding ceremony or to the rain. They had unanimously agreed that the
situation was complicated enough without complicating it further.

He had gone less than half a mile when his collar began to press
against his throat. Thereafter the pressure increased with every step
he took, till finally he came to a semi-strangled stop. It was as
though he had reached the end of an invisible leash.

The pressure lessened after he backed up a few paces, went away
altogether after he backed up a dozen more. There was only one
explanation. The metal from which his and Sonya's collars--as well as
those of the Venusians--had been forged, possessed magnetic properties
unknown to terrestrial metals, and the attraction between objects
fashioned from it grew progressively stronger as the square of the
distance between them _increased_. Either the Venusians had disciplined
this attraction so that it was limited to objects fashioned from the
same stock, or the ore from which the metal was processed was naturally
subdivided into small magnetically independent veins. Gordon did not
know which was the case, but there was one thing he did know; when the
Venusians married you, they meant business.

He began retracing his steps back to Sonya's ship. Halfway there, he
saw her running toward him. Her white face told him that her collar
had been giving her a hard time too, and that she had arrived at a
conclusion similar to his own. "Gordon, what are we going to do?" she
gasped when she came up to him.

"We'll get them off someway," he reassured her. "Come on--I've got the
necessary tools in my ship."

He tried all morning before he gave up. The collars were impervious to
his best shears, and his hardest file failed to scratch their surface.
Using his acetylene torch was out of the question.

       *       *       *       *       *

He sat disconsolately down on the ground several feet from one of the
landing jacks. Sonya sat down beside him. "We won't be able to go back
at all now," she said. "Neither your ship nor mine can carry us both,
and there's no way we can occupy more than one of them at a time."

Gordon sighed. "I suppose we could radio for help," he said presently.
"But if we did we'd have to tell them everything that happened. I'm
afraid they'd be sort of skeptical about the rain. Of course, we could
leave that part out--but I'm afraid they'd be skeptical about the
collars too. In fact, I don't think they'd even believe us. They'd
simply jump to the conclusion that we've fal--that we don't want
to return and would order us back on the double the minute maximum
juxtaposition occurred. No, if we radio for help, we've got to have
a good concrete reason for doing so--one that they'll be able to
understand and believe."

Sonya managed a wan smile. "I--I can just see myself standing before
the Council of Ministers, blaming what happened on the rain," she said.

Gordon laughed, "And I can just see myself standing before a
congressional investigating committee, explaining about the collars."
He began to feel better. A situation that could lend itself to humor
could not be wholly hopeless. "Here's what we'll do for now," he went
on. "We'll radio back the report we agreed upon, and then we'll go on
with our work as though nothing is wrong. Sometimes problems solve
themselves; but just in case this one shouldn't, and we can't go back,
we'll build a cabin so we'll have some place to live."

Sonya's eyes sparked like a little girl's. "Let's build it by that
little brook," she said. "Where--where we first met."

"Fine," Gordon said.

       *       *       *       *       *

During the ensuing weeks, they spent their mornings gathering data and
their afternoons working on the cabin. They took time out to analyze
a sample of rain water, but it evinced no unusual qualities. Gordon
was not surprised. Shortly after landing, he had tested a sample
of Venusian water for drinking purposes, and with the same result.
Clearly, the quality that had undermined their inhibitions originated
in the cloud-cover, and evaporated soon after it reached the ground.

After the cabin was finished, they began going on afternoon-hikes into
the hills, tramping through idyllic woods, talking and laughing,
exclaiming now and then at unexpected patterns of flowers, starting at
sudden rainbow-flights of birds. They saw but few Venusians, and the
few they did see ignored them. One afternoon they found a fern-bordered
pool beneath a white-skirted waterfall, and after that they came there
every day to swim. Sonya's skin darkened to a deep gold, and looking at
her, Gordon sometimes found it hard to breathe. Every so often the sky
darkened, and rain fell; but the rain was superfluous now. And as for
the invisible magnetic chain that bound them together, that had been
supplanted by another invisible chain that was ten times as strong.

And yet the original one still remained, and the problem it represented
grew more and more acute as their scheduled departure-times
approached. They desperately needed a good practical reason to give
their respective governments for not returning to Earth--and quite
providentially at the very last moment (though it seemed anything but
providential at the time) they discovered that they had one. Or rather,
Sonya did. On the morning of the day she was scheduled to undergo the
rigors of acceleration, she regarded Gordon shyly across the little
breakfast table he had built. "I--I am going to have a baby," she said.

       *       *       *       *       *

The news, when it arrived in Moscow, had something of the impact of
a hydrogen bomb, and when it leaked through a hitherto unsuspected
crevice in the Kremlin, there was a sort of chain-reaction throughout
the entire Soviet Union. It was at this point in his political career
that the Soviet premier discovered a universal truth: people the world
over, whether they be communistic or capitalistic, have a very large
soft spot in their hearts when it comes to babies.

That spring, Venus outshone herself, and hung in the evening sky over
Moscow somewhat in the manner of the star over Bethlehem. The premier
had a haunted look on his face when he appeared before the Council of
Ministers. He was not alone. The Ministers had haunted looks on their
faces too. What did you _do_ when you had to cope with a forthcoming
space baby who would be half capitalist and half communist and who
was already adored by the whole world? The premier did not know. But
there was one thing he did know: in the last analysis, any party is
the people, and while you can con the people into believing that black
bread is white bread and that caraway seeds are caviar, you cannot con
them into believing that a child conceived on the Planet of Love by a
Russian girl and an American boy is anything other than a harbinger of
peace.

So in the long run, what the premier did was the only thing he could
have done. He arranged a summit meeting with the president of the
United States and the prime minister of Great Britain, and for the
first time in history, the East and the West really got together. The
threat of war could not, of course, be totally eliminated at such short
notice; but a number of aggravations that could precipitate a war could
be eliminated--and were. This accomplished, the three leaders drew up
plans for a super three-man spaceship to be built posthaste by the best
engineers the three nations could supply, and unanimously agreed that
the pilot would be English, the obstetrician, Russian, and the nurse,
American.

It has been said that after the meeting the Soviet premier and the
president of the United States got together and began thinking up
names. This is extremely doubtful. Anyway, if they did, they were
wasting their time, for Sonya Mikhailovna and Gordon Andrews had
already taken care of the matter. The name they chose is well-known
today--except, perhaps, by those for whom this history has been
recorded. Which brings us back to the aforementioned news bulletin. In
common with most news bulletins, it has about as much poetry in it as
an old shoe, but its message shines forth with a radiance that excels
even the radiance cast by the star over Moscow.

_Geneva, Switzerland, September 11, 1996--The young Russo-American
ambassador-at-large, Pëtr Gordonovitch Andrews, announced this morning
that his peace plan has been accepted by all major and minor powers,
and that the war that has threatened mankind for the past half century
can no longer occur._


                                THE END