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All These Earth's
By Busby, F.M.
PART ONE:
PEARSALL'S RETURN
The door was locked so Pearsall rang the door chime—who carries a
housekey light-years down the Galaxy's arm and back, eight months by
Skip Drive? It was long enough, he saw, for the white paint to begin
flaking off the door. Pearsall had applied that paint, slowly and lovingly
after sanding down the roughness, only a few weeks before
Hawk Flight's
departure. The industrial fumes were getting worse.
His wife opened the door. "Who—?
Woody
!" She flung herself to him,
arms tight around—but only for a moment. Then she recoiled and
staggered back, face contorted.
"No!
No
!" She backed away toward the living room, hands clenching
and unclenching, gray eyes wide and mouth gone slack with shock.
He followed, but didn't try to touch her. "What's the matter, Glenna?"
Everything was happening too fast—he couldn't believe her reaction, let
alone understand it. "You heard the ship was in, didn't you?" Her face was
pale, the fine cheekbones standing out from the faint hollows below. She
shook her head; her mouth worked but no words came out.
"You've cut your hair," he said. She had always worn it long and
 straight; now it was a mass of short curls, tinted a lighter red-brown than
he remembered. One curl hung loose over her right eyebrow, near the tiny
black mole at the corner of her eye. Almost as tall as he, still slim, she
stood rigidly defensive, angles of bone accenting her loose beige robe.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
It didn't make sense. He tried to smile but the smile died—he
suppressed an impulse to reach out to her. "Well, who do I look like?" His
tone was gentle. "Have I changed so much in only eight months?"
Her hands, fists, stood out a little from her sides, shaking. "Whoever
you are, it isn't funny! It's a cruel,
cruel
joke!" Now he felt the edge of
panic—sweat prickled at his armpits.
She turned and ran to the bedroom, paused in the doorway. "Get out!
You get out of here! I have a gun. My—my husband's. So you just better
get out of here!" She disappeared behind the half-open door—he heard her
rummaging through drawers.
To Pearsall, his mind stalled at dead center, the chime of the
picturephone came almost as a relief. Automatically he set his bag on the
floor and crossed the room to flip the answer switch. The thought came
that he'd never heard of anyone being shot while answering the phone,
and he almost grinned. But not quite—a bullet wasn't what he feared.
The chubby-faced man on the screen was familiar by sight but not by
name—a junior member of the spaceport commander's staff. The picture's
bluish tint did not aid recognition.
"Yes," the man said, "we thought you might be there." He waved
Pearsall to silence. "We've pinpointed the discrepancy in the records, that
was noted when
Hawk Flight
landed. Admiral Forgues wants to discuss
that with you. Meanwhile, a John Laird urgently requests that you call
him at his home. One of your navigation personnel, I believe. The young
man seemed almost hysterical."
Forgues, the port commander, moved into the picture. "I'll take it—I'll
take it." Peripherally, Pearsall saw Glenna in the bedroom doorway. She'd
found the old automatic pistol but her arm hung slack; the gun pointing
at the floor as she watched Pearsall and the screen.
 "All right," said Forgues, "let's get to the bottom of this. Who are you,
anyway?"
Exasperation drove out fear. Pearsall exhaled, hard. "Sir, I am
Commander Harwood Jay Pearsall, First Officer on
Hawk Flight
. You've
known me for years. Is my identity in doubt?"
"It certainly is. Whoever you are, you're not Woody Pearsal, and what
you were doing on
Hawk Flight
, I don't know. But I intend to find out. So
you might as well tell the truth. Now."
"Damn it, sir, I
am
Woody Pearsall." He shook his head, briskly to clear
the cobwebs. "Who the hell else would I be?"
Forgues grinned tightly. "Well, in that case, we do have a problem.
Because, you see, you're dead."
The viewscreen, as Pearsall maneuvered
Hawk Flight
to its final
descent, was spattered with random moving dots. He jiggled a tuning
knob slightly, but saw no improvement.
The knob was sticky. He made a mental note to tell young Laird that if
he absolutely had to eat on watch, for God's sake to wipe his hands before
touching the equipment.
The landing area showed clearly enough, but the flashing dots were a
distraction. The viewing equipment was due for a full overhaul—but then,
so was the entire ship. And so was Pearsall.
The spaceport looked unfamiliar, somehow. To his right toward the
nearby city he remembered a soaring tower, topping a white, shining
building. Surely it couldn't have been torn down in the eight months he'd
been away—the building had been almost new. Perhaps he was confusing
one spaceport with another—perhaps an overdose of Skip Drive was
fogging his memory. He put full attention to landing the ship. The impact
was barely noticeable.
"Nice grounding, Woody." The voice over the intercom was Captain
Vaille's. "Give the watch to Laird and report here to my quarters, would
you, please?"
Pearsall acknowledged. "All yours," he said to John Laird. "See you next
 on the ground, probably. The maintenance crew will be here to relieve you
as soon as our landing blast cools. When they arrive, call the captain's
quarters for clearance and you're home free."
"Yes, sir," said Laird. "Now remember, Commander, I want you and
your wife to meet my family, have dinner with us, as soon as you can. You
have the address?"
"Right." He tipped Laird a mock salute and left.
The captain's quarters were one deck below. Halfway down the narrow
ladder Pearsall's heel caught on a torn edge of plastic; he almost fell, but
caught himself. "Damned old crock really needs some work," he grumbled.
But he patted the bulkhead beside him, to soften the curse, before
proceeding to the captain's cabin.
Vaille was big, taller and heavier than Pearsall. On his desk were a
bottle and two small glasses.
"A toast, Woody? It's been a hard trip, but a good one." They raised
their glasses, then sipped. The liquor was an off world product, a brandy
from Harper's Touchdown. Golden flecks hung in the dark fluid; its
aftertaste was tart fruit.
"You're right, skipper—a good, hard trip." Eight months on high Skip
Factor, never landing, only slowing a few times for fly-by reconnaissance of
new planetary systems, took a lot out of men and ship alike. But the odds
had been good to them—
Hawk Flight's
unmanned one-way probes had
discovered two new habitable planets, potential colony sites.
"We should be able to disembark in an hour or two," said Vaille. "All
the tapes and solar wind samples are boxed to go, and I imagine everyone
has his own stuff packed, or nearly. I can throw my gear together in five
minutes."
Pearsall grinned. "Me, too. Or leave it—and good riddance." Vaille
laughed with him. It was good to be home; even the normally reticent
captain was affected.
In due time the maintenance-and-repair crew boarded. Its chief
brought clearance papers, thus accepting responsibility for the ship—red
tape was minimal. Spaceport personnel began the unloading of cargo. And
 finally
Hawk Flight's
crew, fifteen men and nine women, trod the catwalk
to the outside gantry, rode the elevator down and touched shoe soles to
Earth's concrete rind. As always, that moment gripped Pearsall's throat.
Port Commander Forgues no longer greeted returning crews personally.
Many ships came and went now, and Forgues had other duties;
procedures had been streamlined. Even the newspersons stayed away,
making do with official handouts unless a real news item were involved.
Announcement of the two new colony planets, Pearsall guessed, would
soon bring them running.
He didn't recognize the subordinate who was preparing to do the
honors. The man struck him as a bit of a fussbudget, with his clipboard in
one hand and pencil shifted awkwardly back and forth between
handshakes.
"Captain Vaille? Yes." Checkmark, shift pencil, handshake. "Welcome.
Honored, sir." End of handshake. Shift pencil. "First Officer Frantiszek?"
Checkmark. Shift pencil.
"No. I'm First Officer Pearsall." No handshake. The pencil wavered.
"Pearsall? Must be a mixup. Where's Frantiszek?"
Pearsall looked for Vaille to answer, but the captain was talking with
someone else a few feet away. ""I replaced Frantiszek when he broke his
leg skiing, a week before we left. Funny you didn't get the correction."" The
mishap had boosted Pearsall to First Officer a year or two before he had
expected the promotion.
Erase checkmark, scribble note. "All right; we'll check it out," the man
said, and moved along to the next person. No handshake for Pearsall.
Bored, he withdrew his attention while the man checkmarked and
handshook his way down the list.
A tone of exclamation broke his reverie. "
Laird
? My roster shows no
John Laird. What is your position on this ship?"
"Junior Navigator, sir," the boy answered. "On Commander Pear sail's
watch."
"Pearsall, eh? Neither of you on my roster." He harumphed. "We'll
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