Subspace Survivors | Page 3

paused, thought a moment, then went
on: "Maybe I wouldn't, either. She'd make me dress for dinner. She'd
probably have a live waiter; maybe even a butler. So I guess I wouldn't,
at that."
"You nor me neither, brother. But what a dish! What a lovely, luscious,
toothsome dish!" Eddie mourned.
"You'll be raving about another one tomorrow," Deston said,
unfeelingly, as he turned away.
"I don't know; but even if I do, she won't be anything like her," Eddie
said, to the closing door.
And Deston, outside the door, grinned sardonically to himself. Before
his next watch, Eddie would bring up one of the prettiest girls aboard
for a gold badge; the token that would let her--under approved escort,
of course--go through the Top.
He himself never went down to the Middle, which was passenger
territory. There was nothing there he wanted. He was too busy, had too
many worthwhile things to do, to waste time that way ... but the hunch
was getting stronger and stronger all the time. For the first time in all
his three years of deep-space service he felt an overpowering urge to go
down into the very middle of the Middle; to the starship's main lounge.
He knew that his hunches were infallible. At cards, dice, or wheels he
had always had hunches and he had always won. That was why he had
stopped gambling, years before, before anybody found out. He was that
kind of a man.

Apart from the matter of unearned increment, however, he always
followed his hunches; but this one he did not like at all. He had been
resisting it for hours, because he had never visited the lounge and did
not want to visit it now. But something down there was pulling like a
tractor, so he went. He didn't go to his cabin; didn't even take off his
side-arm. He didn't even think of it; the .41 automatic at his hip was as
much a part of his uniform as his pants.
Entering the lounge, he did not have to look around. She was playing
bridge, and as eyes met eyes and she rose to her feet a shock-wave
swept through him that made him feel as though his every hair was
standing straight on end.
"Excuse me, please," she said to the other three at her table. "I must go
now." She tossed her cards down onto the table and walked straight
toward him; eyes still holding eyes.
He backed hastily out into the corridor, and as the door closed behind
her they went naturally and wordlessly into each other's arms. Lips met
lips in a kiss that lasted for a long, long time. It was not a passionate
embrace--passion would come later--it was as though each of them,
after endless years of bootless, fruitless longing, had come finally
home.
"Come with me, dear, where we can talk," she said, finally; eying with
disfavor the half-dozen highly interested spectators.
And a couple of minutes later, in cabin two hundred eighty-one, Deston
said: "So this is why I had to come down into passenger territory. You
came aboard at exactly zero seven forty-three."
"Uh-uh." She shook her yellow head. "A few minutes before that. That
was when I read your name in the list of officers on the board. First
Officer, Carlyle Deston. I got a tingle that went from the tips of my toes
up and out through the very ends of my hair. Nothing like when we
actually saw each other, of course. We both knew the truth, then. It's
wonderful that you're so strongly psychic, too."

"I don't know about that," he said, thoughtfully. "All my training has
been based on the axiomatic fact that the map is not the territory.
Psionics, as I understand it, holds that the map is--practically--the
territory, but can't prove it. So I simply don't know what to believe. On
one hand, I have had real hunches all my life. On the other, the signal
doesn't carry much information. More like hearing a siren when you're
driving along a street. You know you have to pull over and stop, but
that's all you know. It could be police, fire ambulance--anything.
Anybody with any psionic ability at all ought to do a lot better than that,
I should think."
"Not necessarily. You've been fighting it. Ninety-nine per cent of your
mind doesn't want to believe it; is dead set against it. So it has to force
its way through whillions and skillions of ohms of resistance, so only
the most powerful stimuli--'maximum signal' in your jargon,
perhaps?--can get through to you at all." Suddenly she giggled like a
schoolgirl. "You're either psychic or the biggest wolf in the known
universe, and I know you aren't a wolf. If you hadn't been