COMPETITION

GRETA

January 18, Earth Time

I wish Max would treat melike a woman.

An hour ago, at dinner,John Armitage proposed a toast,especially for my benefit. Heloves to play the gallant. Big man,silver mane, very blue eyes, aporcelain smile. The head ofWSC, the perfect example of thepolitician-scientist.

"To the colony," he announced,raising his glass. "May Epsilonlove them and keep them.May it only be transmittal trouble."

"Amen," Max said.

We drank. Taylor Bishop putdown his glass precisely. Bishopis a gray little man with a diffidentvoice that belies his reputationas the best biochemist inthe system. "Has Farragut hintedotherwise?" he asked mildly.

Armitage frowned. "It wouldbe scarcely prudent for SenatorFarragut to alarm the populacewith disaster rumors."

Bishop looked at him out ofhis pale eyes. "Besides, it's anelection year."

The silence was suddenly ugly.

Then Armitage chuckled. "Allright," he said. "So the Senatorwants to be a national hero. Thefact still remains that Epsilonhad better be habitable or Pan-Asiawill scream we're hoggingit. They want war anyway. Withina month—boom."

For a moment, I was afraidhe was going to make a speechabout Earth's suffocating billions,the screaming tension ofthe cold war, and the sacred necessityof Our Mission. If he had,I'd have gotten the weepingshrieks. Some responsibilities aretoo great to think about. But insteadhe winked at me. For thefirst time, I began to realize whyArmitage was the Director of theScientists' World Council.

"Hypothesis, Greta," he said."Epsilon is probably a paradise.Why should the test colony letthe rest of the world in on it?They're being selfish."

I giggled. We relaxed.

After supper, Armitage playedchess with Bishop while I followedMax into the control room.

"Soon?" I said.

"Planetfall in eighteen hours,Doctor." He said it stiffly, busyinghimself at the controls. Maxis a small dark man with angryeyes and the saddest mouth I'veever seen. He is also a fine pilotand magnificent bacteriologist. Iwanted to slap him. I hate theseprofessional British types thatthink a female biochemist is somesort of freak.

"Honestly," I said. "What doyou think?"

"Disease," he said bitterly."For the first six months theyreported on schedule, remember?A fine clean planet, no dominantlife-forms, perfect for immigration;unique, one world in a billion.Abruptly they stopped sending.You figure it."

I thought about it.

"I read your thematic on Venusianviruses," he said abruptly."Good show. You should be anasset to us, Doctor."

"Thanks!" I snapped. I wasso furious that I inadvertentlylooked into the cabin viewplate.

Bishop had warned me. It takesyears of deep-space time to enablea person to stare at thenaked Universe without screaming.

It got me. The crystal thunderof the stars, that horrible hungryblackness. I remember I was sortof crying and fighting, then Maxhad me by the shoulders, holdingme gently. He was murmuringand stroking my hair. After atime, I stopped whimpering.

Illustrated by STONE

"Thanks," I whispered.

"You'd better get some sleep,Greta," he said....