Part 9 (1/2)

Then, on February 19, 1955, my daughter, Robyn Joan, was born, and I moved into the corridor in antic.i.p.ation. It was the only place left to me. The fourth of my Lucky Start novels was begun on the very day she was brought home from the hospital. It was LUCKY STARR AND THE BIG SUN OF MERCURY (Doubleday, 1956) and it was dedicated ”To Robyn Joan, who did her best to interfere.”

The interfering was entirely too efficient. With a child in each bedroom and me in the corridor it was bad enough, but eventually Robyn Joan would be large enough to need a room of her own, so we made up our mind to look for a house.

That was traumatic. I had never lived in a house. For all my thirty-five years of life, I had lived in a series of rented apartments. What had to be, however, had to be. In January 1956 we found a house in Newton, Ma.s.sachusetts, just west of Boston, and on March 12, 1956, we moved in.

On March 16, 1956, Boston had one of its worst blizzards in memory, and three feet of snow fell. Having never had to shovel snow before, I found myself starting with a lulu in a deep, broad driveway. I had barely dug myself out when, on March 20, 1956, a second blizzard struck and four more feet fell.

The melting snow packed against the outer walls of the house found its way past the wood and into the bas.e.m.e.nt and we had a small flood. Heavens, how we wished ourselves back in the apartment.

But we survived that, and then came a graver worry for me at least. My life had changed so radically, what with two children, a house, and a mortgage, that I began to wonder if I would still be able to write. (My novel THE NAKED SUN, Doubleday, 1957, had been finished two days before the move.) You know, one gets such a feeling that a writer is a delicate plant who must be carefully nurtured or he will wither, that any traumatic change in one's way of life is bound to give the feeling of all the blossoms being lopped off. the move.) You know, one gets such a feeling that a writer is a delicate plant who must be carefully nurtured or he will wither, that any traumatic change in one's way of life is bound to give the feeling of all the blossoms being lopped off.

What with the blizzards and the snow-shoveling and the bas.e.m.e.nt pumping and everything else, I didn't get a chance to try to write for a while.

But then Bob Lowndes asked me to do a story for Future, Future, and in June 1956 I began my first writing job in the new house. It was the first heat wave of the season but the bas.e.m.e.nt was cool, so I set up my typewriter there in the unique luxury of being able to feel cool in a heat wave. and in June 1956 I began my first writing job in the new house. It was the first heat wave of the season but the bas.e.m.e.nt was cool, so I set up my typewriter there in the unique luxury of being able to feel cool in a heat wave.

There was no trouble. I could still write. I turned out EACH AN EXPLORER and it appeared in issue #30 of Future Future (the issues of this magazine were so irregular at this time that it was not felt safe to put a month-designation on the issues). (the issues of this magazine were so irregular at this time that it was not felt safe to put a month-designation on the issues).

EACH AN EXPLORER.

Herman Chouns was a man of hunches. Sometimes he was right; sometimes he was wrong-about fifty-fifty. Still, considering that one has the whole universe of possibilities from which to pull a right answer, fifty-fifty begins to look pretty good.

Chouns wasn't always as pleased with the matter as might be expected. It put too much of a strain on him. People would huddle around a problem, making nothing of it, then turn to him and say, ”What do you think, Chouns? Turn on the old intuition.”

And if he came up with something that fizzled, the responsibility for that was made clearly his.

His job, as field explorer, rather made things worse. ”Think that planet's worth a closer look?” they would say. ”What do you think, Chouns?”

So it was a relief to draw a two-man spot for a change (meaning that the next trip would be to some low-priority place, and the pressure would be off) and, on top of it, to get Allen Smith as partner.

Smith was as matter-of-fact as his name. He said to Chouns the first day out, ”The thing about you is that the memory files in your brain are on extraspecial can. Faced with a problem, you remember enough little things that maybe the rest of us don't come up with to make a decision. Calling it a hunch just makes it mysterious, and it isn't.”

He rubbed his hair slickly back as he said that. He had light hair that lay down like a skull cap.

Chouns, whose hair was very unruly, and whose nose was snub and a bit off-center, said softly (as was his way) , ”I think maybe it's telepathy.”

”What!”

”Nuts!” said Smith, with loud derision (as was his his way).” Scientists have been tracking psionics for a thousand years and gotten nowhere. There's no such thing: no precognition; no telekinesis; no clairvoyance; way).” Scientists have been tracking psionics for a thousand years and gotten nowhere. There's no such thing: no precognition; no telekinesis; no clairvoyance; and and no telepathy.” no telepathy.”

”I admit that, but consider this. If I get a picture of what each of a group of people are thinking-even though I might not be aware of what was happening-I could integrate the information and come up with an answer. I would know more than any single individual in the group, so I could make a better judgment than the others-sometimes.”

”Do you have any evidence at all for that?” Chouns turned his mild brown eyes on the other. ”Just a hunch.”

They got along well. Chouns welcomed the other's refres.h.i.+ng practicality, and Smith patronized the other's speculations. They often disagreed but never quarreled, Even when they reached their objective, which was a globular cl.u.s.ter that had never felt the energy thrusts of a human-designed nuclear reactor before, increasing tension did not worsen matters.

Smith said, ”Wonder what they do with all this data back on Earth. Seems a waste sometimes.”

Chouns said, ”Earth is just beginning to spread out. No telling how far humanity will move out into the galaxy, given a million years or so. All the data we can get on any world will come in handy someday,”

”You sound like a recruiting manual for the Exploration Teams, Think there'll be anything interesting in that thing?” He indicated the visi-plate on which the no-longer distant cl.u.s.ter was centered like spilled talc.u.m powder.

”Maybe. I've got a hunch-” Chouns stopped, gulped, blinked once or twice, and then smiled weakly.

Smith snorted, ”Let's get a fix on the nearest stargroups and make a random pa.s.s through the thickest of it. One gets you ten, we find a McKomin ratio under 0.2,”

”You'll lose,” murmured Chouns. He felt the quick stir of excitement that always came when new worlds were about to be spread beneath them. It was a most contagious feeling, and it caught hundreds of youngsters each year. Youngsters, such as he had been once, flocked to the Teams, eager to see the worlds their descendants someday would call their own, each an explorer- They got their fix (made their first close-quarters hyperspatial jump into the cl.u.s.ter, and began scanning stars for planetary systems. The computers did their work; the information files grew steadily, and all proceeded in satisfactory routine-until at system 23, shortly after completion of the jump, the s.h.i.+p's hyperatomic motors failed.

Chouns muttered, ”Funny. The a.n.a.lyzers don't say what's wrong.”

He was right. The needles wavered erratically, never stopping once for a reasonable length of time, so that no diagnosis was indicated. And, as a consequence, no repairs could be carried through.

”Never saw anything like it,” growled Smith. ”We'll have to shut everything off and diagnose manually.”

”We might as well do it comfortably,” said Chouns, who was already at the telescopes. ”Nothing's wrong with the ordinary s.p.a.cedrive, and there are two decent planets in this system.”

”Oh? How decent and which ones?”

”The first and second out of four: Both water-oxygen. The first is a bit warmer and larger than Earth; the second a bit colder and smaller. Fair enough?”

”Life?”

”Both. Vegetation, anyway.” Smith grunted. There was nothing in that to surprise anyone; vegetation occurred more often than not on water-oxygen worlds. And, unlike animal life, vegetation could be seen telescopically-or, more precisely, spectroscopically. Only four photochemical pigments had ever been found in any plant form, and each could be detected by the nature of the light it reflected.

Chouns said, ”Vegetation on both planets is chlorophyll type, no less. It'll be just like Earth; real homey.”

Smith said, ”Which is closer?”

”Number two, and we're on our way. I have a feeling it's going to be a nice planet.”

”I'll judge that by the instruments, if if you don't mind,” said Smith. you don't mind,” said Smith.

But this seemed to be one of Chouns's correct hunches.

The planet was a tame one with an intricate ocean network that insured a climate of small temperature range. The mountain ranges were low and rounded, and the distribution of vegetation indicated high and widespread fertility.

Chouns was at the controls for the actual landing.

Smith grew impatient. ”What are you picking and choosing for? One place is like another.”

”I'm looking for a bare spot, ” said Chouns. ”No use burning up an acre of plant life.”

”What if you do?”

”What if I don't?” said Chouns, and found his bare spot.

It was only then, after landing, that they realized a small part of what they had tumbled into.