would have betrayed Agron.”
“But you didn’t. Why not?”
“When I saw what their efficiency really meant—”
“You changed your mind before you knew about the transmitters?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re libeling yourself. Don’t trap yourself in another self-delusion, Edward. All that’s happened is that you’ve grown up.”
Dirrul said slowly, feeling for words that would express the idea as he felt it, “When I was in the center of the galaxy, looking out on space, I almost grasped a new concept but I lost it when the Agronian patrol attacked me. It’s coming back.
“Time and space seem to be one and the same. Neither exists as an objective reality. There is no past and no future—all of it occurs eternally in the instant of my own being. I am everything and nothing—infinity and a speck lost in space.”
“Thus you discover the Rational Potential,” Dr. Kramer smiled. “I think you’re ready for the space-pilot promotional, Edward.” After a pause Dr. Kramer inquired, “Did you see the Chief of Vinin, Edward?”
“Then you know about that too?”
“I’ve guessed—it seems likely.”
“I scraped off the putty and the face color. Beneath it he was an Earthman. A hundred thousand of them rule the Confederacy.”
“All time and space, forever occurring for each of us in the instant of now! Yes, he would be an Earthman, Edward—quite logically. Both good and evil begin with the same source. Both have the same Rational Potential. The act of being has always been the same struggle of constant forces, between the absolute and the relative. The time never changes nor the event but merely the passing illusion of place.”
Shaking his head the chubby professor departed. Dirrul closed his eyes, at peace with himself.
Death Between the Stars
by Marion Zimmer Bradley
They asked me about it, of course, before I boarded the starship. All through the Western sector of the Galaxy, few rules are stricter than the one dividing human from nonhuman, and the little Captain of the Vesta—he was Terran, too, and proud in the black leather of the Empire’s merchant—man forces—hemmed and hawed about it, as much as was consistent with a spaceman’s dignity.
“You see, Miss Vargas,” he explained, not once but as often as I would listen to him, “this is not, strictly speaking, a passenger ship at all. Our charter is only to carry cargo. But, under the terms of our franchise, we are required to transport an occasional passenger, from the more isolated planets where there is no regular passenger service. Our rules simply don’t permit us to discriminate, and the Theradin reserved a place on this ship for our last voyage.”
He paused, and re—emphasized, “We have only the one passenger cabin, you see. We’re a cargo ship and we are not allowed to make any discrimination between our passengers.” He looked angry about it. Unfortunately, I’d run up against that attitude before. Some Terrans won’t travel on the same ship with nonhumans even when they’re isolated in separate ends of the ship.
I understood his predicament, better than he thought. The Theradin seldom travel in space. No one could have foreseen that Haalvordhen, the Theradin from Samarra, who had lived on the forsaken planet of Deneb for eighteen of its cycles, would have chosen this particular flight to go back to its own world.
At the same time, I had no choice. I had to get back to an Empire planet—any planet—where I could take a starship for Terra. With war about to explode in the Procyon sector, I had to get home before communications were knocked out altogether. Otherwise—well, a Galactic war can last up to eight hundred years. By the time regular transport service was reestablished, I wouldn’t be worrying about getting home.
The Vesta could take me well out of the dangerous sector, and all the way to Samarra—Sirius Seven—which was, figuratively speaking, just across the street from the Solar System and Terra. Still, it was a questionable solution. The rules about segregation are strict, the anti—discriminatory laws are stricter, and the Theradin had made a prior reservation. The captain of the Vesta couldn’t have refused him transportation, even if fifty human, Terran women had been left stranded on Deneb IV. And sharing a cabin with the Theradin was ethically, morally and socially out of the question. Haalvordhen was a non—human telepath; and no human in his right senses will get any closer than necessary even to a human telepath. As for a nonhuman one -
And yet, what other way was there?
The captain said tentatively, “We might be able to squeeze you into the crewmen’s quarters—” he paused uneasily, and glanced up at me.
I bit my lip, frowning. That was worse yet. “I understand,”
I said slowly, “that this
Theradin—Haalvordhen—has offered to allow me to share its quarters.”
“That’s right. But, Miss Vargas—”
I made up my mind in a rush. “I’ll do it,” I said. “It’s the best way, all around.”
At the sight of his scandalized face, I almost regretted my decision. It was going to cause an interplanetary scandal, I thought wryly. A human woman—and a Terran citizen—spending forty days in space and sharing a cabin with a nonhuman!
The Theradin, although male in form, had no single attribute which one could remotely refer to as sex. But of course that wasn’t the problem. The nonhuman were specifically prohibited from mingling with the human races. Terran custom and taboo were binding, and I faced, resolutely, the knowledge that by the time I got to Terra, the planet might be made too hot to hold me.
Still, I told myself defiantly, it was a big Galaxy. And conditions weren’t normal just now and that made a big difference. I signed a substantial check for my transportation, and made arrangements for the shipping and stowing of what few possessions I could safely transship across space.
But I still felt uneasy when I went aboard the next day—so uneasy that I tried to bolster up my flagging spirits with all sorts of minor comforts. Fortunately the Theradin were oxygen—breathers, so I knew there would be no trouble about atmosphere—mixtures, or the air pressure to be maintained in the cabin. And the Theradin were Type Two nonhumans, which meant that the acceleration of a hyperspeed ship would knock my shipmate into complete prostration without special drugs. In fact, he would probably stay drugged in his skyhook during most of the trip.
The single cabin was far up toward the nose of the starship. It was a queer little spherical cubbyhole, a nest. The walls were foam—padded all around the sphere, for passengers never develop a spaceman’s skill at maneuvering then: bodies in free—fall, and cabins had to be designed so that an occupant, moving unguardedly, would not dash out his or her brains against an unpadded surface. Spaced at random on the inside of the sphere were three skyhooks—nested cradles on swinging pivots—into which the passenger was snugged during blastoff hi shock—absorbing foam and a complicated Garensen pressure—apparatus and was thus enabled to sleep secure without floating away.
A few screw—down doors were marked LUGGAGE. I immediately unscrewed one door and stowed my personal belongings in the bin. Then I screwed the top down securely and carefully fastened the padding over it. Finally, I climbed around the small cubbyhole, seeking to familiarize myself with it before my unusual roommate arrived.
It was about fourteen feet in diameter. A sphincter lock opened from the narrow corridor to cargo bays and crewmen’s quarters, while a second led into the cabin’s functional equivalent of a bathroom. Planet—bound men and women are always surprised and a little shocked when they see the sanitary arrangements on a spaceship. But once they’ve tried to perform normal bodily functions in free—fall, they understand the peculiar equipment very well.
I’ve