Kris Neville

“ Johnny Nine took the bottle and smashed it against the deck plates.
"We'll never need one of those again. Where we're going there's no tolerance factor. A man doesn't have to die just because he can't do all the work he once could. Earth is such a big terrarium that a man can just keep on living."
"Johnny, old Sam's confused. He's all mixed up." One lone tear ran down his cheek.
"You go to your cabin and get some rest. You'll never need a bottle. Understand that, Sam? You'll never need a bottle." ”

“ An Earth doctor, the pilot ship's surgeon, made it very plain.
"... Twenty-one generations is a long time," the doctor had told him, "for an animal that can adapt itself as easily as man...."
Johnny Nine could complete the rest of it: Sometime, long ago, perhaps as early as the Second Generation, perhaps at the time of the Great Sickness, the terrarium had been thrown out of balance. And, as the balance continued to shift, man continued to adapt. ”

“ A germ of thought lay buried beneath the words, a half-formed memory concept: Ferry us down like they ferried our ancestors up—four hundred years ago—to the Leviathan—built in space—too big ever to land.
The voice from Earth sighed out of the speaker; only the sputter of static remained. Earth was awaiting, now, the reply.
The Mate snapped off the speaker. The new silence was stark, as if something other than sound had been withdrawn. ”

“ They can do anything they want to—anything in the whole wide world. And they can live in the air." She blinked her eyes.
"It makes me so glad I want to cry."
The Big Ship, the balanced terrarium of fifty lives, swung downward in her path, rushing toward her parent sun, the first interstellar voyager coming home.
Home. After twenty-one generations had peopled her vast bulk, after four hundred long years in space.
The radio in Control crackled and sputtered; the nearly seven hour wait was over. The Captain, the Mate, and Johnny Nine, the pilot, listened intently. ”

“ I think I feel something like God must have felt when he made it."
"If you were to look hard enough, Marte, you could almost see our little farm down there—"
"Our farm.... Say it again, Johnny."
"Our farm," he said.
The Ship drew nearer and nearer. The balanced terrarium pointed Home, rushing faster than the wind, faster than sound, faster—
The Captain sat at his desk. For the past hour he had been drawing strange designs, contorted in helical animation, on a pad of yellow paper. Occasionally, he paused to stare out of the Observation window, lost in thought. ”

“ To help things grow, with your own two hands, and to harvest them when they're ripe and waiting, not 'ponics, like Sam, but really growing out of the Earth."
"Someday," he said softly, "you're going to write the kind of poetry they wrote."
Marte looked down at her hands.
"I want to do so many things.... Maybe help things grow, most of all.... ”

“ The rest of the passengers had been doing Sam's work for nearly three years now. But it didn't matter. They were so near Home that it didn't matter. They no longer needed to produce a balance for a new generation; it was journey's end.
Johnny Nine began to rummage through the supplies, extra parts for all sorts of fancied emergencies that never occurred, and no parts, of course, for those that did, over the long, four hundred years of the trip.
Johnny Nine finally found the radio spares. Mislaid behind a mass of junk that once had been air control gauges. ”

“ To be broadcast to the three planets. At conclusion of it, we will send yur pilot to you. He will move yur Ship into an orbit around Earth, and you can be taken down within three days. That will be the fastest course, and we know all of you are anxious to land at the first possible moment."
Johnny Nine started for the door.
"Wait!" the Captain ordered. "I'll tell the passengers. You get ready to board their ship for the welcome."
Johnny Nine felt a lump in his throat. "Yes, sir!"
"Hello, Flight One. We can approach you to a thousand meters."
Marte helped him into his suit. ”

“ They could see a moving finger of fire, like a tiny comet, except that its tail thrust sunward.
"Have located yur Ship, Flight One. We are making ready for the approach."
The radio was silent a moment. Then:
"We have a request."
"Yes?" the Mate said into the microphone.
"... We have full transmission equipment on our ship for a world program. Since you have no magnet plates to couple us, will you send one of yur passengers over for formal welcome?" ”

“ But this time I'm going to sound a little like Johnny. Things may have changed, Skippy. From what we've read about. We've got to expect that. But it can't be too different. We can adjust. Man can always adjust. ”

“ Weird. "Yur message...." They could make out the words; the vowels were shorter, the consonants more sibilant, but they could make out the words. "... Repeat ... pilot...." The voice rose and fell, rose and fell. Static hacked away inside the speaker, split sentences, scattered words.
"... World waiting eagerly for...." Hiss and sputter. "In answer.... Repeat.... pilot inside Mar's orbit.... Repeat ... pilot...."
Johnny Nine bent forward. "I guess he means we'll get a pilot ship inside the orbit of Mars. They'll probably set us around Earth. We've got too much bulk to land." ”

“ Their little, circumscribed hopes and fears. The little things out of the night drench of a thousand lives. How well they lived together, the mutual respect and the mutual affection....
The little things whose total is life.
Or the big things.
Like the Great Sickness, during the Second Generation. It had almost finished the Ship.
The little things and the big, all rolled into an emotion that meant the Ship. That was the Ship....
The History of the Ship. Who could tell that? Who? ”