Free One in 300 by J. T. McIntosh

me, without actually moving. John Stowe, sunk in his

thoughts, probably wasn't even hearing what was going on.
     
     
"Does anyone doubt," I asked, "that I had to do what I did?"
     
     
"Did you?" asked Miss Wallace bluntly, looking at me steadily. "Did you

have to? Did you really have to?"
     
     
I cast one swift glance at her. I hadn't thought this out. But it was

obvious that I couldn't explain to them all exactly what the fuel situation

was. Sammy, perhaps -- I'd have to share it with someone. Not anyone else,

for that would mean a voyage of even greater tension, a hopeless voyage,

a voyage in the course of which it would be difficult to make anyone do

anything hard or unpleasant, since there would seem to be no purpose in

it. So I said:
     
     
"Do you believe that I chose ten people from over three thousand and

then started off by murdering one of them?"
     
     
"No," said John Stowe, dragging himself into the present with an obvious

effort. "There's no question of it being deliberate, Lieutenant Easson.

But my wife" -- his voice quivered -- "my wife is dead. Did it have to

happen? Or was it . . . unnecessary?"
     
     
I understood perfectly what he meant. It would be easier to bear if it

was an accident, something that couldn't have been avoided. What was

torturing him was the thought that Mary might have died because of a

small, careless miscalculation. My miscalculation.
     
     
"You'll have to take my word for it," I said matter-of-factly, trying to

freeze the raw emotion that was in the air, "that it was necessary. It did

have to happen. We needed that extra acceleration. If I were doing it again,

knowing someone would die, I'd still have to do it."
     
     
No one said anything, but they believed me. Stowe was nodding slowly,

the dull anger and suspicion gone from the ache in his heart. The ache was

still there, but it was a cleaner ache. And the others, after looking from

him to me and back to him, were looking a little ashamed of themselves,

ashamed of the ready assumption that because I had changed my plans I

was to blame for Mary's death, ashamed that they had been so ready to

think the worst.
     
     
"We always knew we had to leave the rest of Simsville behind," I pointed

out. "Everyone else had to die if we were to have a chance. We accepted

that, didn't we? Then let's try to think of Mary Stowe with the rest --

part of Simsville we couldn't take with us."
     
     
"God damn the man who passed that couch," said Stowe through his teeth.
     
     
"He probably has," I said quietly. "Not many of the people who made the

lifeships had a chance to go on one of them."
     
     
That seemed to be that. No one wanted to pursue the matter.
     
     
"Better get that imprex tape off, all of you," I said. "Roll it up carefully.

We'll need it for the landing. The women can stay here and the men go down

to the air lock."
     
     
Miss Wallace opened her mouth -- to protest, obviously, that there was

hardly any screening between the two places I'd mentioned. I waved her

silent, rather impatiently.
     
     
"How much privacy do you think any of us is going to get this trip?"

I demanded.
     
     
She looked around quickly, and seemed to see the force of that. She made

no objection.
     
     
I had to tell someone the truth. If Pat Darrell had been along, it would

have been she. As it was, Sammy was the only one I could talk to. I wasn't

sure yet about Leslie. The last time she and I had been alone together,

back on Earth in those last tense, terrified days, she had tried to buy

her passage to Mars, and I had lunged away from her in disgust. If Pat

had lived Leslie wouldn't have been there at all.
     
     
I jerked my head at Sammy, not looking at Leslie, and we pushed off and

guided ourselves into the control room.
     
     
"Sammy," I said, "I've got my troubles, you know that. Mind if I share

them with you?"
     
     
He grinned. "No, Bill," he said. "I may grouse and swear and be bitter

about