Peron was overwhelmed by the thought. Could she be telling the truth? If she were, Sol and Earth itself were only a couple of months away. And if they had been on their journey for five hours already, they must be deep into interstellar space. He was beginning to feel drowsy, but suddenly he had a tremendous desire to see Cassay again. And what would the starscape be like, at this tremendous speed?

“What’s wrong?” She had seen his expression.

“Can we look out of here — look at the stars?”

She shook her head. “I sometimes have that wish myself. When you wake up, take a look in the next room. There’s an exterior port there. You’ll find that things look rather different in S-space. But now, I have to go. My name, by the way, is Ferranti; Dr. Olivia Ferranti. I will be seeing a good deal of you until we’re sure that you are stable here. And I’ll be back tomorrow.” She gave him a reassuring nod. “Be patient. Command: Take me to my apartment.”

“But what — “

Peron didn’t bother to finish his sentence. She had gone, vanished instantly into the air. In another thirty seconds the drugs had taken him and he was sound asleep.

The room where he had first regained consciousness lacked clothing, food, or drink. There was a terminal near the table, which must clearly communicate with other parts of the ship, but when he next awoke Peron resisted his first urge, to call and ask for something to eat. He felt ravenous, and still oddly disoriented, but there were other overriding priorities.

All the monitors by the table were still working, but now they received telemetered data originating from small sensors attached to his body. They undoubtedly passed on those signals to some central monitoring computer, possibly one that responded only to emergencies. Peron felt that he should have at least a few minutes before his actions were controlled again. He slid off the table, took a moment to collect his balance, and then headed for one of the room’s two doors.

It led to a long windowless corridor. Wrong choice. He backtracked, and found that the other led to a bigger room, with a great transparent port at one end. Peron went to it and stared out.

He had certainly expected something different from the usual starscape seen from within the Cass system; perhaps the familiar constellations, but subtly distorted. But what he was looking at was wholly inexplicable.

Beyond the port, the whole sky was filled with a faint, pearly glow. It seemed to possess no orientation, and everywhere it was of the same uniform brightness. No stars, no nebulae, no dust clouds, no galaxies; the whole universe had disappeared, lost in a diffuse, glowing haze.

Peron felt his head begin to spin. He was in S-space, and it was so far different from anything he had imagined that he had no idea what to do next. If he had been trapped and held prisoner — for that was the way he was beginning to perceive his situation on this ship — in any ordinary environment he could perhaps have gained control and had some say in his own actions. But what could he do here? There was nothing in Pentecost’s science that even hinted at the possibility of this. Sy, far more able scientifically than Peron, had scoffed at the very idea.

Peron felt a moment of annoyance. If only Sy could be here now, to see how far his theories would take him.…

The rest of the room lacked any furnishings or useful sources of information. There was a set of small and mysterious doors or panels in the base of the wall, each only a couple of feet high, but he could not open them. He turned to go back to the corridor, and was reminded of his own hunger and thirst. He remembered Dr. Ferranti’s ability to conjure drink from nothing (And ask Sy to explain that, while he was at it!). Could it possibly work for him, too? There seemed nothing he could lose by trying.

“Command.” Even though he was alone, he felt self-conscious — what he was attempting was impossible! But it had worked, he was convinced of that. “Command. Bring me a drink.”

He waited, feeling foolish. And to confirm his feeling, absolutely nothing happened. He tried once more. “Command. Bring me something to eat.” Nothing. How could anything else be the result? He must have been hallucinating, to be convinced that Ferranti had magical powers to make objects — including herself — appear and disappear instantly.

Peron had scarcely come to that conclusion when everything about him changed in one brief and bewildering flicker of movement. There was a second of total disorientation. Then he was no longer standing at the entrance to the corridor. Instead he was in a room with pale yellow walls, decorated with elaborate murals and amateurish paintings. He was fully clothed, in well-fitting brown shirt and trousers. His own shoes, last seen when he donned a suit before leaving for Whirlygig, were on his feet. He was seated in a hard chair, with his hands resting firmly on its arms. In front of him was a long, polished desk of silvery metal, its upper surface containing a single, orange folder and one pen. And sitting behind that desk, looking at him with a slightly bored and definitely supercilious expression, was a wizened, brown-eyed, hairless man. Peron took an instant and inexplicable dislike to him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“I am Captain Rinker, in command of this ship,” said the man. “Dr. Ferranti tells me that you are fully stable and adapted to S-space. Is that so?” “I don’t know. I feel no pain, but I certainly don’t feel normal.” “That will pass. Anything else?”

“Someone seems to want to starve me to death.”

“Your own fault. When you awoke you could have called for food. Instead you chose to pry.” Rinker gestured at a wall display that was showing the room where Peron had returned to consciousness. “You were observed. It would serve you right if we did not feed you for a while. But you are lucky. Regulations would not permit us to starve you. Command: Bring food and drink, suitable for the awakening.”

A tray appeared instantly, resting on Peron’s knees. The clear carafe held the same liquid as he had drunk before, but the plates of food were unfamiliar. There were brown patties with a coarse granular texture, orange-red jelly, and white slabs of smooth creamy consistency. Rinker gestured to them. “Carry on. You may eat while we talk.”

Peron looked around him. There was no other person in the room, and no sign that the door had opened or closed. “How are you able to do that?”

“It is not appropriate that I tell you. Such information will be given to you at Headquarters — if it is given at all.” Rinker waved his hand at the display. “Your efforts to use the service system were already noted. To save you further wasted time, I will point out that any more efforts on your part will be just as unsuccessful. Let me also point out that I am under no official obligation to talk to you, or to deal with you in any way except to provide safe transfer to Headquarters. But I want you to know how much trouble you have caused, you and that fool Wilmer.”

Peron could not resist the food in front of him. His body insisted that it had been weeks since it had received nourishment. He ate ravenously. The patties had a reasonable resemblance to bread, and although the white material tasted nothing like the cheese that Peron had expected, it tasted good. He stared across the desk at Captain Rinker, swallowed, and spoke.

“I can’t speak for Wilmer, but any trouble I caused was not my doing. I would have died on Whirlygig without his help. I don’t see why you assign blame to me.”

Rinker gave an impatient wave of his hand. “You were marked as a troublemaker before you left the planet. So were your companions on Whirlygig. You were all scheduled for special indoctrination on the ship Eleanora, to be kept apart from the other contestants. As for Wilmer, he was supposed to be there as an observer — not as a participant. I have warned several times of the danger of using local recruits as observers. They have too many ties to your planet and its people. But my advice was ignored.”