Triplanetary - E. E. Smith (phonics reader TXT) 📗

wrong,” Clio was saying, very seriously. “I know how you feel, but it’s false chivalry.”

“That isn’t it, at all,” he insisted, stubbornly. “It isn’t only that I’ve got you out here in space, in danger and alone, that’s stopping me. I know you and I know myself well enough to know that what we start now we’ll go through with for life. It doesn’t make any difference, that way, whether I start making love to you now or whether I wait until we’re back on Tellus; but I’m telling you that for your own good you’d better pass me up entirely. I’ve got enough horsepower to keep away from you if you tell me to⁠—not otherwise.”

“I know it, both ways, dear, but.⁠ ⁠…”

“But nothing!” he interrupted. “Can’t you get it into your skull what you’ll be letting yourself in for if you marry me? Assume that we get back, which isn’t sure, by any means. But even if we do, some day⁠—and maybe soon, too, you can’t tell⁠—somebody is going to collect fifty grams of radium for my head.”

“Fifty grams⁠—and everybody knows that Samms himself is rated at only sixty? I knew that you were somebody, Conway!” Clio exclaimed, undeterred. “But at that, something tells me that any pirate will earn even that much reward several times over before he collects it. Don’t be silly, my dear⁠—goodnight.”

She tipped her head back, holding up to him her red, sweetly curved, smiling lips, and his arms swept around her. Her arms went up around his neck and they stood, clasped together in the motionless ecstasy of love’s first embrace.

“Girl, girl, how I love you!” Costigan’s voice was husky, his usually hard eyes were glowing with a tender light. “That settles that. I’ll really live now, anyway, while.⁠ ⁠…”

“Stop it!” she commanded, sharply. “You’re going to live until you die of old age⁠—see if you don’t. You’ll simply have to, Conway!”

“That’s so, too⁠—no percentage in dying now. All the pirates between Tellus and Andromeda couldn’t take me after this⁠—I’ve got too much to live for. Well, goodnight, sweetheart, I’d better beat it⁠—you need some sleep.”

The lovers’ parting was not as simple and straightforward a procedure as Costigan’s speech would indicate, but finally he did seek his own room and relaxed upon a pile of cushions, his stern visage transformed. Instead of the low metal ceiling he saw a beautiful, oval, tanned young face, framed in a golden-blonde corona of hair. His gaze sank into the depths of loyal, honest, dark blue eyes; and looking deeper and deeper into those blue wells he fell asleep. Upon his face, too set and grim by far for a man of his years⁠—the lives of Sector Chiefs of the Triplanetary Service were not easy, nor as a rule were they long⁠—there lingered as he slept that newly-acquired softness of expression, the reflection of his transcendent happiness.

For eight hours he slept soundly, as was his wont, then, also according to his habit and training he came wide awake, with no intermediate stage of napping.

“Clio?” he whispered. “Awake, girl?”

“Awake!” her voice come through the ultra phone, relief in every syllable. “Good heavens, I thought you were going to sleep until we got to wherever it is that we’re going! Come on in, you two⁠—I don’t see how you can possibly sleep, just as though you were home in bed.”

“You’ve got to learn to sleep anywhere if you expect to keep in.⁠ ⁠…” Costigan broke off as he opened the door and saw Clio’s wan face. She had evidently spent a sleepless and wracking eight hours. “Good Lord, Clio, why didn’t you call me?”

“Oh, I’m all right, except for being a little jittery. No need of asking how you feel, is there?”

“No⁠—I feel hungry,” he answered cheerfully. “I’m going to see what we can do about it⁠—or say, guess I’ll see whether they’re still interfering on Samms’ wave.”

He took out the small, insulated case and touched the contact stud lightly with his finger. His arm jerked away powerfully.

“Still at it,” he gave the unnecessary explanation. “They don’t seem to want us to talk outside, but his interference is as good as my talking⁠—they can trace it, of course. Now I’ll see what I can find out about our breakfast.”

He stepped over to the plate and shot its projector beam forward into the control room, where he saw Nerado lying, doglike, at his instrument panel. As Costigan’s beam entered the room a blue light flashed on and the Nevian turned an eye and an arm toward his own small observation plate. Knowing that they were now in visual communication, Costigan beckoned an invitation and pointed to his mouth in what he hoped was the universal sign of hunger. The Nevian waved an arm and fingered controls, and as he did so a wide section of the floor of Clio’s room slid aside. The opening thus made revealed a table which rose upon its low pedestal, a table equipped with three softly-cushioned benches and spread with a glittering array of silver and glassware.

Bowls and platters of a dazzlingly white metal, narrow-waisted goblets of sheerest crystal; all were hexagonal, beautifully and intricately carved or etched in apparently conventional marine designs. And the table utensils of this strange race were peculiar indeed. There were tearing forceps of sixteen needle-sharp curved teeth; there were flexible spatulas; there were deep and shallow ladles with flexible edges; there were many other peculiarly-curved instruments at whose uses the Terrestrials could not even guess; all having delicately-fashioned handles to fit the long slender fingers of the Nevians.

But if the table and its appointments were surprising to the Terrestrials, revealing as they did a degree of culture which none of them had expected to find in a race of beings so monstrous, the food was even more surprising, although in another sense. For the wonderful crystal goblets were filled with a grayish-green slime of a nauseous and overpowering odor, the smaller bowls were full of living sea spiders and other such delicacies; and