Grief
* * *
Don West knew death. He of all of them knew it. He of all of them had been trained to bring it about.
Yet he had never given it much thought before. It had always been an abstract, dealt from afar. Press a button, launch a missile, the life of that man or that woman over there, who is trying even as you speak to launch their own missile at you, comes to an end. Then you paint another mark on the side of your fighter and never think of it again.
Only he did. That was why he had gotten out of combat flight and into the Jupiter program. That was the truth, the real reason. It hadn't been the glory of exploration, of being the first pilot to guide a Jupiter colony scout to a new world. That was fine but it wasn't enough.
He had never told anyone this.
Not even Judy.
He watched her now, Don West did, watched as his young wife tended to her family, watched as the truth of death sank in deep into each of them. This was not a sudden thing.
Shock, that first day. The Robot, roaming, scanning, its own voice lower as it reported in.
"Negative, Major West. Negative. The cavern has collapsed past the range of my sensors."
Nightfall. Dawn.
Returning to the Jupiter II in the Chariot, which Judy had brought out to them.
Silence.
#
Don West watched now, as a day became another, as the silence extended over the Jupiter II. He watched each of them.
Each had claimed a space.
Maureen on the lower deck, facing the closed lower viewport, looking thin and pale, sitting with Judy, eating a little from time to time, taking a sip of water as her daughter offered it to her, sometimes just sitting, sometimes and without warning bursting into tears. And Judy would hold her then, hold her and rock her.
Smith.
Don watched the man. He tried to take his measure now, looked for any reason, any at all, to take Smith out and beat the hell out of him. Maybe, he thought as the day passed, maybe I could just do it. Who would stop me?
But Smith gave no cause. Once, in the morning, he had actually gone to Maureen, blubbering into his lace handkerchief, and he had simply sat beside her and held her and they had wept together. And Don saw, then, that this was not the time to take out his rage against the doctor, traitor though he was. To beat the man in to a bloody pulp would do no good. He would feel no better afterward.
Will, on the upper deck in one of the flight chairs, staring out the window. He didn't weep, not once, those first days. He only stared, rousing himself from time to time to get something, to tinker a bit with the Robot, to leave his tinkering half finished.
And John.
John frightened Major West most of all.
Because it was as though John was dead.
He lay in his cabin, unmoving, eyes drawn, face gaunt. He lay there alone; when Maureen had gone in to him he had turned away from her, turned his back on his wife, hidden himself until she had gone. He neither ate nor spoke, the food Judy brought to him remaining untouched.
Judy.
Don watched his young wife and wondered, marveled at her. She worked, through the day, tending to her mother and her father, watching Will carefully, doing their chores and Penny's chores, the little tasks that could not be neglected. Don worked too, the work not quite helping him forget, not quite covering the deep pain he dared not show just now.
Because things had to be done. He loaded the deutronium into the Jupiter II, did a check of the drives.
Night came.
#
Judy lay in his arms now, in the small space of their cabin. It was very silent and he wondered if she was sleeping.
No. She spoke softly.
"I'm trying to remember."
"Remember what?" he asked.
"The last thing I said to her. I don't remember it. I don't remember."
Don said nothing, only kissed her gently on the cheek.
She was silent for a time.
And then she had pressed against him, and she was sobbing and he felt the wetness of her tears against his skin, and he wondered about those things that cannot be understood.
* * *
Don West knew death. He of all of them knew it. He of all of them had been trained to bring it about.
Yet he had never given it much thought before. It had always been an abstract, dealt from afar. Press a button, launch a missile, the life of that man or that woman over there, who is trying even as you speak to launch their own missile at you, comes to an end. Then you paint another mark on the side of your fighter and never think of it again.
Only he did. That was why he had gotten out of combat flight and into the Jupiter program. That was the truth, the real reason. It hadn't been the glory of exploration, of being the first pilot to guide a Jupiter colony scout to a new world. That was fine but it wasn't enough.
He had never told anyone this.
Not even Judy.
He watched her now, Don West did, watched as his young wife tended to her family, watched as the truth of death sank in deep into each of them. This was not a sudden thing.
Shock, that first day. The Robot, roaming, scanning, its own voice lower as it reported in.
"Negative, Major West. Negative. The cavern has collapsed past the range of my sensors."
Nightfall. Dawn.
Returning to the Jupiter II in the Chariot, which Judy had brought out to them.
Silence.
#
Don West watched now, as a day became another, as the silence extended over the Jupiter II. He watched each of them.
Each had claimed a space.
Maureen on the lower deck, facing the closed lower viewport, looking thin and pale, sitting with Judy, eating a little from time to time, taking a sip of water as her daughter offered it to her, sometimes just sitting, sometimes and without warning bursting into tears. And Judy would hold her then, hold her and rock her.
Smith.
Don watched the man. He tried to take his measure now, looked for any reason, any at all, to take Smith out and beat the hell out of him. Maybe, he thought as the day passed, maybe I could just do it. Who would stop me?
But Smith gave no cause. Once, in the morning, he had actually gone to Maureen, blubbering into his lace handkerchief, and he had simply sat beside her and held her and they had wept together. And Don saw, then, that this was not the time to take out his rage against the doctor, traitor though he was. To beat the man in to a bloody pulp would do no good. He would feel no better afterward.
Will, on the upper deck in one of the flight chairs, staring out the window. He didn't weep, not once, those first days. He only stared, rousing himself from time to time to get something, to tinker a bit with the Robot, to leave his tinkering half finished.
And John.
John frightened Major West most of all.
Because it was as though John was dead.
He lay in his cabin, unmoving, eyes drawn, face gaunt. He lay there alone; when Maureen had gone in to him he had turned away from her, turned his back on his wife, hidden himself until she had gone. He neither ate nor spoke, the food Judy brought to him remaining untouched.
Judy.
Don watched his young wife and wondered, marveled at her. She worked, through the day, tending to her mother and her father, watching Will carefully, doing their chores and Penny's chores, the little tasks that could not be neglected. Don worked too, the work not quite helping him forget, not quite covering the deep pain he dared not show just now.
Because things had to be done. He loaded the deutronium into the Jupiter II, did a check of the drives.
Night came.
#
Judy lay in his arms now, in the small space of their cabin. It was very silent and he wondered if she was sleeping.
No. She spoke softly.
"I'm trying to remember."
"Remember what?" he asked.
"The last thing I said to her. I don't remember it. I don't remember."
Don said nothing, only kissed her gently on the cheek.
She was silent for a time.
And then she had pressed against him, and she was sobbing and he felt the wetness of her tears against his skin, and he wondered about those things that cannot be understood.