Free Watson, Ian - Novel 11 by Chekhov's Journey (v1.1) Page A

was
still there. It buzzed impotently, and turned round and round in circles. How
in the name of all that was wonderful had a fly got on board the ship? It
eclipsed a star as he watched.
                 A common house fly ! Not a bluebottle or a horsefly or
anything exotic like a tsetse fly . . . Just a common
house fly. It was astonishing enough in itself.
                 Really,
he ought to catch it sharpish and snuff it out. Yet sentiment overwhelmed him.
That wretched little fly was a tiny living portion of the earthly biosphere—and
it was about to leave solar space for ever and for ever. As such, it seemed
uniquely precious.
                 ‘I’ve
got myself a pet at last!’ he thought in amazement. ‘A pet fly, of all things!’
                 Bringing
out a little plastic box of space-sickness gum, he emptied the contents
carefully back into his zippered pocket and secured them. A gentle push, and a
few seconds later he caught the fly in the box with all the neatness of a deep
orbit station receiving the docking of a supply craft. He shut the lid. The
insect could gain some purchase now. The box zizz-zizzed in
his fingers as the fly flopped and somersaulted, wings vibrating feverishly.
                 “Little pet,’’ he addressed the box, “I name thee Pandora.’’ He tucked it into a smaller zippered pocket. “Mustn’t forget
that it’s you in there! Butterflies in the tummy are one thing—but a
fly? That’s another matter . . .’’
                A moment later his continuing
trajectory carried him up against the thick radiation-proof
plasticrystal—stronger than steel— which formed the transparent hull of the
pod. Gripping the nearest hand-hold, he hung just a few centimetres away from
hard vacuum and gazed at the three-quarters-lit Earth. It was a fine day over
the Indian Ocean and much of Asia . What little he could see of the Soviet Union was up near the visual North Pole.
                 They’ll
think I’m nuts, talking to a fly when we’re about to set off for the stars! But
it’s this sort of thing that makes a man, a man . . .
                 ‘And
a woman, a woman,’ he reflected. For his Astrogator, Sasha Sorina, had just
poked her flaxen curls up through the hatch from the Control Room. Her blue
eyes regarded him coolly: those same eyes which would soon pick out a suitable
star with a habitable world orbiting it a couple of hundred or couple of
thousand light years towards the antapex of the Sun’s motion— Right Ascension
90°, Declination 34° South—far beyond the stars composing the visible
constellation of Columba . . .
                 How
far, of course, depended on how many times they would have to jump through the
Flux before they found themselves close enough to a suitable new sun.
                 “We’re
nearly ready, Commander. I thought I heard you calling.’’
                 “No,
no. I was just wondering aloud whether they’ll ever build a second Flux-ship .
. .’’ The less said to her about pet flies, the better.
                 “‘They’?’’
                 “I mean, us. The Soviet Union . It’s so altruistic, isn’t it? Sending out a
colony when you can never receive any news of it.’’
                 Sasha
was beautiful, but she was very literal-minded. “But wouldn’t there be a
paradox of cause and effect, if they could hear from us? We jump one hundred years back through time, and this puts us a
hundred light years downstream of the Sun’s motion round the Galaxy. Anything less, and a radio message could reach the Earth before we
even set off!’’
                “What bothers me,” remarked Anton
flippantly, “is what exactly happens if we don’t find a suitable star? Shall we
just keep on jumping back along the Earth’s world-line? If we go far enough
we’ll circle the Galaxy, and