Mack Reynolds: Amazon Planet

There is something about a passenger freighter that is unchanging, down through the centuries. Be it a Phoenecian galley that sets bravely forth from Tyre with stops at Malta, Carthage, Tingis and Cadiz on the way to far Cornwall. Be it a motorship originating in Sydney and stopping off in Madras, Ceylon, Aden and Port Said on its way to Genoa. Or be it a spacecraft, burning off from Earth and orbiting in turn, Avalon, Kropotkin, Shangri-La and Amazonia as touching points en route to Phyrgia, man’s furthest frontier in his reaching toward the center of his galaxy.

Unlike on a liner, the freighter passenger is an afterthought. The cargo is the thing, the occasional traveler a secondary matter and a method of realizing a bit more on the trip, but nothing special. His needs can be met when more pressing matters have been disposed of.

He comes hesitantly aboard, often carrying his own luggage. A harried steward, with a thousand duties before departure, hustles him to his drab quarters, mumbles something about the location of the mess, the hour of the first meal aboard, and is gone.

There is the sinking feel of dismay. Is this to be home for the following long weeks? Is it too late to change plans? Couldn’t the budget be stretched to acquire more comfortable passage? Couldn’t…? But no, the die has been cast.

It is with a certain trepidation that he first sets foot into the dining-salon to meet his fellows and the officers of the craft that carries him. Guy Thomas, thirty-odd of years, medium of height, average of weight, less than handsome of face and with a vulnerable quality in his brown eyes, hesitated at the entry of the SS Schirra’s salon.

A lackluster steward, on the young side for a spaceman, Guy thought, was setting up. He shot the passenger a glance from the side of his eyes, grunted, and went on with his work.

Guy said, “I didn’t understand just when it was that…” He let the sentence dribble away.

The steward grunted.

Guy said, “I suppose I’m in the way. Is there any place I can locate some reading tapes, or…” He let that sentence fade too.

“You’re supposed to bring your own entertainment things,” the steward said. “You think this is some molly passenger ship, huh?”

Guy looked at him. “Sorry,” he said.

“Maybe some of the officers got some stuff you can borrow. They got lots of time on their hands. Nothing to do but sit in front of all them dials a few hours a day. You don’t see me with time to sit around reading. I shoulda gone in for deck candidate school.”

Guy said, “Is it too late?” The other was a weasel-like type, in a month of Tuesdays the traveler couldn’t have pictured him as an officer, a leader of men.

The steward finished with the table and stood erect. He scowled at the newcomer, possibly wondering if there was a crack intended in that last question.

“I wouldn’t want to be no molly officer,” he sneered. Neither of them had noticed the newcomer who said now, from the door. “A what kind of officer, Happy?”

The steward’s eyes darted, but relief came into them immediately. He said grudgingly, “Yes, sir. I was just telling this here passenger, maybe he could get some reading tapes from some of you officers.”

“Happy,” the other announced pleasantly, “you’re not only the laziest cloddy aboard but a lying funker in the bargain.” The ship’s officer, two gold stripes on his sleeve, grinned at Guy Thomas. “That reading tape thing applies only to deck officers. Engineers can’t read.”

He was cheerfully outgoing, about Guy’s own age though some forty pounds his senior and already tending to a bit of German goiter around the waist, a heaviness about the jowls.

Guy said, “My name’s Thomas. Guy Thomas. I’m one of the passengers.”

The deck officer shook easily. “That makes you fifty percent of the list then. There’s only one other.” He hauled a heavy envelope from a pocket. “I might as well get this over with. Sit down and we’ll twist Happy’s arm until he brings us some coffee. I’m the second on the Schirra and one of the duties they shuffle off on the second is the paper work involved in passengers. No purser on a kettle the size of the Schirra”

He had plopped himself down at a table even as he spoke. “My name’s Rex. Rex Ravelle. I’m an easy going slob. Even cloddies like Happy, here, haven’t any respect for me. If all the officers were like old Rex, the ship’d go to pot, eh Happy? Holy Jumping Zen, how about that coffee, fella?”

Happy grunted sourness and left.

Rex Ravelle looked up from the papers he was drawing from the folder and looked after the little steward for a moment, shaking his head. “What is it about the eternal yoke?” he said.

Guy had taken a chair to one side of the ship’s officer. He said, “Do you mean to tell me there’s only two passengers aboard?”

“That’s right,” Ravelle said. “And I hate to be blunt, fella, but the other one’s better looking than you are.” He scanned one of the papers. “Let’s see. Her name’s Patricia O’Gara and she’s going to…well, well…Amazonia, huh. Doesn’t look the type. Well, let’s see. What’s your own destination? Have you taken care of whatever landing technicalities apply? Visas? Shots? What citizenship do you carry?”

Guy said, “I’m going to Amazonia, too. I’m from Earth. Citizen of United Planets. All papers in order.”

But Rex Ravelle was staring at him. Amazonia! Are you drivel-happy?” His eyes rapidly scanned the other’s ticket. “Zen, you are!”

Guy said, “What’s the matter?”

“The matter ? No man ever sets down on Amazonia.” He was goggling at the passenger as though dumbfounded.

Another officer, a one striper, entered the small salon. “How about sorne coffee?” he said. “Where’s Happy?”

He couldn’t have been more than in his early twenties, and had a freshness about his open face that hinted he needed to shave but once or twice a week.

Ravelle said, “Hey, Jerry, Citizen Thomas, here, guess where he thinks he’s going? Amazonia.”

Jerry looked from one of them to the other. “Amazonia? The old man wouldn’t let him land there; He wouldn’t have the heart.”

Guy said, in growing perplexity. “What do you mean, I think I’m going? You’ve got my ticket. It’s in order. You put in at Amazonia, don’t you?”

“We orbit the planet,” Ravelle told him earnestly. “We don’t set down. If there’s any cargo being dropped, they send up lighters for it. No, sir, we don’t set down on Amazonia and neither does any other spaceship.”

Happy came in with the coffee, grumbling still, but passed it around to the three of them.

Jerry took a seat next to Rex and across from the passenger. “Nobody lands on Amazonia.” He dropped a pellet of sweetner in his beverage and stirred as though in agitation at the very idea.

There was an element of mild irritation in the voice of Guy Thomas. “Look,” he said. “You just told me the other passenger was going there too.”

“But that’s a girl , or at least a woman,” the second officer said, as though that explained everything.

Guy looked from one of them to the other. “What in the name of the Holy Ultimate are you talking about?”

They leaned forward, ignoring their coffee in their earnestness. Both began to speak, but the senior officer took the conversation, overriding the one striper.

“Listen, that planet’s a matriarchy. Women run the place.”

“Well, I know that, of course. What’s it got to do with me? I’m a resident of Earth. A citizen of United Planets.”