COMPETITION

_They would learn what caused
the murderous disease--if it
was the last thing they did!_


GRETA

_January 18, Earth Time_

I wish Max would treat me like a _woman_.

An hour ago, at dinner, John Armitage proposed a toast, especially for
my benefit. He loves to play the gallant. Big man, silver mane, very
blue eyes, a porcelain smile. The head of WSC, the perfect example of
the politician-scientist.

"To the colony," he announced, raising his glass. "May Epsilon love them
and keep them. May it only be transmittal trouble."

"Amen," Max said.

We drank. Taylor Bishop put down his glass precisely. Bishop is a gray
little man with a diffident voice that belies his reputation as the best
biochemist in the system. "Has Farragut hinted otherwise?" he asked
mildly.

Armitage frowned. "It would be scarcely prudent for Senator Farragut to
alarm the populace with disaster rumors."

Bishop looked at him out of his pale eyes. "Besides, it's an election
year."

The silence was suddenly ugly.

Then Armitage chuckled. "All right," he said. "So the Senator wants to
be a national hero. The fact still remains that Epsilon had better be
habitable or Pan-Asia will scream we're hogging it. They want war
anyway. Within a month--boom."

* * * * *

For a moment, I was afraid he was going to make a speech about Earth's
suffocating billions, the screaming tension of the cold war, and the
sacred necessity of Our Mission. If he had, I'd have gotten the weeping
shrieks. Some responsibilities are too great to think about. But instead
he winked at me. For the first time, I began to realize why Armitage was
the Director of the Scientists' World Council.

"Hypothesis, Greta," he said. "Epsilon is probably a paradise. Why
should the test colony let the rest of the world in on it? They're being
selfish."

I giggled. We relaxed.

After supper, Armitage played chess with Bishop while I followed Max
into the control room.

"Soon?" I said.

"Planetfall in eighteen hours, Doctor." He said it stiffly, busying
himself at the controls. Max is a small dark man with angry eyes and the
saddest mouth I've ever seen. He is also a fine pilot and magnificent
bacteriologist. I wanted to slap him. I hate these professional British
types that think a female biochemist is some sort of freak.

"Honestly," I said. "What do you think?"

"Disease," he said bitterly. "For the first six months they reported on
schedule, remember? A fine clean planet, no dominant life-forms, perfect
for immigration; unique, one world in a billion. Abruptly they stopped
sending. You figure it."

I thought about it.

"I read your thematic on Venusian viruses," he said abruptly. "Good
show. You should be an asset to us, Doctor."

"Thanks!" I snapped. I was so furious that I inadvertently looked into
the cabin viewplate.

Bishop had warned me. It takes years of deep-space time to enable a
person to stare at the naked Universe without screaming.

It got me. The crystal thunder of the stars, that horrible hungry
blackness. I remember I was sort of crying and fighting, then Max had me
by the shoulders, holding me gently. He was murmuring and stroking my
hair. After a time, I stopped whimpering.