Short Fiction by Algis Budrys (good story books to read .txt) 📕

Mac hit the viewport with his fist. “Easy! Easy⁠—nothing’s easy. I hate this life,” he said in a murderous voice. “I don’t know why I keep signing on. Mars to Centaurus and back, back and forth, in an old rust tub that’s going to blow herself up one of these⁠—”

Daniels called me on the phone from Communications. “Turn up your Intercom volume,” he said. “The stoker’s jamming the circuit.”

I kicked the selector switch over, and this is what I got:

“—so there we were at a million per, and the air was gettin’ thick. The Skipper says ‘Cheer up, brave boys, we’ll⁠—’”

He was singing. He had a terrible voice, but he could carry a tune, and he was hammering it out at the top of his lungs.

“’Twas the last cruise of the Venus, by God you should of seen us! The pipes were full of whisky, and just to make things risky, the jets were⁠ ⁠…”

The crew were chuckling into their own chest phones. I could hear Daniels trying to cut him off. But he kept going. I started laughing myself. No one’s supposed to jam an intercom, but it made the crew feel good. When the crew feels good, the ship runs right, and it had been a long time since they’d been happy.

He went on for another twenty minutes. Then his voice thinned out, and I heard him cough a little. “Daniels,” he said, “get a relief down here for me. Jump to it!” He said the last part in a Master’s voice. Daniels didn’t ask questions. He sent a man on his way down.

He’d been singing, the stoker had. He’d been singing while he worked with one arm dead, one sleeve ripped open and badly patched because the fabric was slippery with blood. There’d been a flashover in the drivers. By the time his relief got down there, he had the insulation back on, and the drive was purring along the way it should have been. It hadn’t even missed a beat.

He went down to sick bay, got the arm wrapped, and would have gone back on shift if Daniels’d let him.

Those of us who were going off shift found him toying with the theremin in the mess compartment. He didn’t know how to play it, and it sounded like a dog howling.

“Sing, will you!” somebody yelled. He grinned and went back to the “Good Ship Venus.” It wasn’t good, but it was loud. From that, we went to “Starways, Farways, and Barways,” and “The Freefall Song.” Somebody started “I Left Her Behind For You,” and that got us off into sentimental things, the way these sessions would sometimes wind up when spacemen were far from home. But not since the war, we all seemed to realize together. We stopped, and looked at each other, and we all began drifting out of the mess compartment.

And maybe it got to him, too. It may explain something. He and I were the last to leave. We went to the bunkroom, and he stopped in the middle of taking off his shirt. He stood there, looking out the porthole, and forgot I was there. I heard him reciting something, softly, under his breath, and I stepped a little closer. This is what it was:

“The rockets rise against the skies,
Slowly; in sunlight gleaming
With silver hue upon the blue.
And the universe waits, dreaming.

“For men must go where the flame-winds blow,
The gas clouds softly plaiting;
Where stars are spun and worlds begun,
And men will find them waiting.

“The song that roars where the rocket soars
Is the song of the stellar flame;
The dreams of Man and galactic span
Are equal and much the same.”

What was he thinking of? Make your own choice. I think I came close to knowing him, at that moment, but until human beings turn telepath, no man can be sure of another.

He shook himself like a dog out of cold water, and got into his bunk. I got into mine, and after a while I fell asleep.

I don’t know what MacReidie may have told the skipper about the stoker, or if he tried to tell him anything. The captain was the senior ticket holder in the Merchant Service, and a good man, in his day. He kept mostly to his cabin. And there was nothing MacReidie could do on his own authority⁠—nothing simple, that is. And the stoker had saved the ship, and⁠ ⁠…

I think what kept anything from happening between MacReidie and the stoker, or anyone else and the stoker, was that it would have meant trouble in the ship. Trouble, confined to our little percentage of the ship’s volume, could seem like something much more important than the fate of the human race. It may not seem that way to you. But as long as no one began anything, we could all get along. We could have a good trip.

MacReidie worried, I’m sure. I worried, sometimes. But nothing happened.

When we reached Alpha Centaurus, and set down at the trading field on the second planet, it was the same as the other trips we’d made, and the same kind of landfall. The Lud factor came out of his post after we’d waited for a while, and gave us our permit to disembark. There was a Jek ship at the other end of the field, loaded with the cargo we would get in exchange for our holdful of goods. We had the usual things; wine, music tapes, furs, and the like. The Jeks had been giving us light machinery lately⁠—probably we’d get two or three more loads, and then they’d begin giving us something else.

But I found that this trip wasn’t quite the same. I found myself looking at the factor’s post, and I realized for the first time that the Lud hadn’t built it. It was a leftover from the old colonial human government. And the city on the horizon⁠—men had built it; the touch of our architecture was on every