Star-crossed? Worse than that! Even Earth
itself was hopelessly out of reach for these
landlocked space-travelers who lived in a—
World in a Bottle
By ALLEN KIM LANG
Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine October 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Pouring sweat and breathing shallow, I burned east on U.S. Twenty atninety miles an hour, wishing I could suck into my lungs some of thewind that howled across the windshield.
I heard the siren in my phones. I glanced out the left side of myhelmet to find a blue-clad figure on a motorcycle looming up besideme, waving me toward the shoulder. A law-abider to the last gasp ofasphyxia, I braked my little green beast over to the berm. The statecop angled his bike across my left headlamp and stalked back to where Isat, tugging a fat book of traffic-tickets out of his hip pocket.
"Unscrew that space-helmet, Sonny," he said. "You've just beengrounded."
"Grounded, I'll grant," I said, my voice wheezing from the speaker onthe chest of my suit; "but I can't take off the fishbowl, officer."
"Then maybe you'd better climb out of your flying saucer," thepoliceman suggested. "And if you're toting pearl-handled ray-guns, justleave 'em hang."
I got out of the car, keeping my hands in view, feeling like thefugitive from a space-opera this cop evidently took me for. He examinedme the way a zoologist might examine the first live specimen of a newspecies of carnivore; very interested, very cautious. After observingthe cut of my wash-and-wear plastic sterility-suit—known to us whowear them as a chastity-suit—the policeman walked around me to examinemy reserve-air tank, which is cunningly curved and cushioned against myspine so that I can lean back without courting lordosis. He inspectedthe bubble of plastic that fit over my head like the belljar over amuseum specimen, and stared at the little valve on the left shoulderof my suit, where used air was wheezing out asthmatically. "I guessfallout has got you bugged," he said.
"Not fallout, bacteria," I explained. "I'm one of the Lapins fromCentral University."
"That's nice," the policeman said. "And I'm one of the Bjornsons,from Indiana State Police Post 1-A. What were you trying to do justnow, break Mach One on wheels? Or do you maybe come from one of theseforeign planets that don't know the American rules of the road?"
I breathed deep, trying to find myself some oxygen. "I was born righthere in Indiana," I said. "The reason I'm wearing this suit and helmetis that I'm bacteriologically sterile."
"So maybe you could adopt a kid," Officer Bjornson suggested.
"Sterile like germ-free," I said. "Gnotobiotic. I grew up in the BigTank at Central University."
"You'll spend the night in the big tank at South Bend if you're snowingme, Sonny," he said. "Let's see your driver's license." I got mybillfold out of the glove-compartment—a chastity-suit doesn't haveany pockets—and handed my license to Bjornson. "John Bogardus, M.D.,"he read. "You're a doctor, eh? This says you live at BICUSPID, CentralUniversity, South Bend. What's that BICUSPID, Doc? Means your practiceis limited to certain teeth?"
"I'm a resident in path