“O.K.,” Jim agreed, “but keep it quiet. I’m going to take a nap.” The left-hand head closed its eyes, soon it was snoring. Joe and Hugh continued their discussion in whispers.
“The trouble with you youngsters,” Joe said, “is that if you can’t understand a thing right off, you think it can’t be true. The trouble with your elders is, anything they didn’t understand they reinterpreted to mean something else and then thought they understood it. None of you has tried believing clear words the way they were written and then tried to understand them on that basis. Oh, no, you’re all too bloody smart for that—if you can’t see it right off, it ain’t so—it, must mean something different.”
“What do you mean?” Hugh asked suspiciously.
“Well, take the Trip, for instance. What does it mean to you?”
“Well—to my mind, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a piece of nonsense to impress the peasants.”
“And what is the accepted meaning?”
“Well—it’s where you go when you die—or rather what you do. You make the Trip to Centaurus.”
“And what is Centaurus?”
“It’s—mind you, I’m just telling you the orthodox answers; I don’t really believe this stuff—it’s where you arrive when you’ve made the Trip, a place where everybody’s happy and there’s always good eating.”
Joe snorted. Jim broke the rhythm of his snoring, opened one eye, and settled back again with a grunt. “That’s just what I mean,” Joe went on in a lower whisper. “You don’t use your head. Did it ever occur to you that the Trip was just what the old books said it was—the Ship and all the Crew actually going somewhere, moving?”
Hoyland thought about it. “You don’t mean for me to take you seriously. Physically, it’s an impossibility. The Ship can’t go anywhere. It already is everywhere. We can make a trip through it, but the Trip—that has to have a spiritual meaning, if it has any.”
Joe called on Jordan to support him. “Now, listen,” he said, “get this through that thick head of yours. Imagine a place a lot bigger than the Ship, a lot bigger, with the Ship inside it— D’you get it?”
Hugh tried. He tried very hard. He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “There can’t be anything bigger than the Ship. There wouldn’t be any place for it to be.”
“Oh, for Huff’s sake! Listen—outside the Ship, get that? Straight down beyond the level in every direction. Emptiness out there. Understand me?”
“But there isn’t anything below the lowest level. That’s why it’s the lowest level.”
“Look. If you took a knife and started digging a hole in the floor of the lowest level, where would it get you?”
“But you can’t. It’s too hard.”
“But suppose you did and it made a hole. Where would that hole go? Imagine it.”
Hugh shut his eyes and tried to imagine digging a hole in the lowest level. Digging—as if it were soft—soft as cheese.
He began to get some glimmering of a possibility, a possibility that was unsettling, soul-shaking. He was falling, falling into a hole that he had dug which had no levels under it. He opened his eyes very quickly. “That’s awful!” he ejaculated. “I won’t believe it.”
Joe-Jim got up. “I’ll make you believe it,” he said grimly, “if I have to break your neck to do it.” He strode over to the outer door and opened it. “Bobo!” he shouted. “Bobo!”
Jim’s head snapped erect. “Wassa matter? Wha’s going on?”
“We’re going to take Hugh to no-weight.”
“What for?”
“To pound some sense into his silly head.”
“Some other time.”
“No, I want to do it now.”
“All right, all right. No need to shake. I’m awake now, anyhow.”
Joe-Jim Gregory was almost as nearly unique in his, or their, mental ability as he was in his bodily construction. Under any circumstances he would have been a dominant personality; among the muties it was inevitable that he should bully them, order them about, and live on their services. Had he had the will to power, it is conceivable that he could have organized the muties to fight and overcome the Crew proper.
But he lacked that drive. He was by native temperament an intellectual, a bystander, an observer. He was interested in the “how” and the “why,” but his will to action was satisfied with comfort and convenience alone.
Had he been born two normal twins, and among the Crew, it is likely that he would have drifted into scientisthood as the easiest and most satisfactory answer to the problem of living and as such would have entertained himself mildly with conversation and administration. As it was, he lacked mental companionship and had whiled away three generations reading and rereading books stolen for him by his stooges.
The two halves of his dual person had argued and discussed what they had read, and had almost inevitably arrived at a reasonably coherent theory of history and the physical world—except in one respect, the concept of fiction was entirely foreign to them; they treated the novels that had been provided for the Jordan expedition in exactly the same fashion that they did text and reference books.
This led to their one major difference of opinion. Jim regarded Allan Quartermain as the greatest man who had ever lived; Joe held out for John Henry.
They were both inordinately fond of poetry; they could recite page after page of Kipling, and were nearly as fond of Rhysling, “the blind singer of the spaceways.”
Bobo backed in. Joe-Jim hooked a thumb toward Hugh. “Look,” said Joe, “he’s going out.”
“Now?” said Bobo happily, and grinned, slavering.
“You and your stomach!” Joe answered, rapping Bobo’s pate with his knuckles. “No, you don’t eat him. You and him—blood brothers. Get it?”
“Not eat ’im?”
“No. Fight for him. He fights for you.”
“O.K.” The pinhead shrugged his shoulders at the inevitable. “Blood brothers. Bobo know.”
