The great interstellar liner Voyager stood in the dock of the orbital station Genoa, preparing to jump. The usual bustle filled the docking bays, negotiations in dozens of languages could be heard, but on the liner's command deck, that tense, nervous silence had already descended—the kind that involuntarily seizes people before a long voyage. Only in the economy-class compartments were passengers fussily stowing their belongings into the tight cubes of the luggage nets. The first-class passengers, from the height of their observation deck, silently observed this human anthill.
Shaking the air in the dock, the liner roared one last time. Crew members hastily began to retract the docking collar.
At that moment, two figures appeared in the airlock. The one following behind made a sign with his hand to the technicians, and they froze, leaving the gangway open.
The latecomers stepped onto the deck. A well-dressed, slim, broad-shouldered young man, his hands thrust into the pockets of an expensive "dress" type spacesuit, strode briskly toward the cabins. His clean-shaven face was perfectly calm. Yet an observant person might have noticed, from the stranger's furrowed brow and slight ironic smile, that this calm was feigned. Following him, not a step behind, was a stocky man of middle age. His helmet was pushed back on his head. His sweaty, worn face expressed a mixture of fatigue, satisfaction, and intense attention, like a cat carrying a mouse in its teeth. He never took his eyes off his companion for a second.
On the liner's deck, not far from the airlock, stood a young woman in an elegant white jumpsuit. For a moment, her eyes met those of the latecomer who walked in front.
As the strange pair passed, the young woman, Miss Rose, heard the technician sealing the airlock say to his comrade, nodding towards the departing passengers:
"See that? That's old Jim Pompeo, a detective from Earth Bureau. He's caught some young fellow."
"Pompeo?" replied the other technician. "Well, he doesn't hunt small game."
"Yeah, look at the guy's clothes. Some kind of specialist in bank safes, if not worse."
Miss Rose felt a chill. A criminal, perhaps even a murderer, would be flying with her all the way to New Washington on Alpha Centauri. It was thrilling and exciting, for until now she had only seen portraits of those mysterious and terrifying people in holonews.
Miss Rose hastily ascended to the upper deck. Here, among people of her own circle, in this place inaccessible to ordinary passengers, she felt relatively safe. Leaning back in a comfortable anti-G-force chair, Miss Rose surrendered to idle contemplation—the best gift of space travel for nerves frayed by city bustle. The transparent dome of the panoramic screen protected her from the blinding light of distant stars. Above her, the leaves of orbital ferns swayed gently in special niches between the chairs. From somewhere to the side came the aromatic scent of expensive synthetic tobacco.
"A criminal. Who would have thought?" whispered Miss Rose, still recalling the encounter at the airlock. And, to finally shake off the unpleasant impression, she took out a small, elegant white polymer cigarette case, the work of Martian artisans with constellations etched on the lid, and lit a thin cigarette with a heather aroma. A bluish stream of smoke curled upward toward the fern leaves.
The liner was departing, carefully maneuvering out of the dock. It seemed as if the liner stood still while the surrounding scenery moved, as if on a rotating stage. Now the entire Genoa station turned toward the liner's side, as if wanting to show itself to the departing passengers one last time. White modules and residential sectors crowded in zero gravity like a herd of bizarre crystals. And above them rose the prismatic forms of gravidocs and communication towers. But then, someone turned the scenery again. The view opened onto the Orion Nebula—a fantastic, radiant cloud veiled in cosmic dust. Tugs and yachts seemed immersed in a piece of dark velvet upon which the diamonds of distant systems sparkled—so clearly were all the lines of the vessels visible through the transparent void. Endless swarms of meteors darted among the whimsical asteroids. Gradually, the stars grew brighter until the station vanished from sight...
"How did you like your cabin, Miss?"
Miss Rose turned. Before her stood the captain, who included paying courteous attention to the most "valuable" passengers among his duties.
"Thank you, Mister..."
"Clyde."
"Mr. Clyde, it's excellent. Will we be stopping at Venus?"
"Mars and New New York are our first stop. Although, we may delay a few hours at the orbital outpost Gibraltar. Did you wish to visit Venus?"
"Oh, no," Miss Rose said hastily, even with a touch of alarm. "I'm utterly bored with the Solar System." And, after a pause, she asked: "Tell me, Captain, is there... a criminal on our liner?"
"What criminal?"
"Some arrested person... I heard rumors..."
"Possibly even several. It's a common thing. That sort has a habit of fleeing Earth justice for the colonies, and colonial justice for Earth. But detectives track them down and deliver these lost sheep back home. There's nothing dangerous about their presence on the liner—you can be completely at ease. They are brought aboard without handcuffs only to avoid drawing public attention. But in their cabin, magnetic bracelets are put on them immediately, and they are chained to their bunks."
"But that's terrible!" exclaimed Miss Rose.
The captain shrugged.
Neither the captain nor even Miss Rose herself understood the vague feeling that prompted this exclamation. It's terrible that people are chained up like wild animals. That's what the captain thought, though he found it a reasonable precaution.
It's terrible that this young man, who so little resembles a criminal and is no different from people of her circle, will sit shackled in a cramped cabin the entire journey. That was the vague, subconscious thought that troubled Miss Rose.
And, taking a deep drag from her cigarette, she fell into silence.
The captain discreetly moved away from Miss Rose. The artificial gravity was flawless, but it seemed as if a light breeze from the ventilation system played with the end of her white silk scarf and her chestnut curls.
Even here, many kilometers from the station, a faint, almost imperceptible scent of ozone and metal seemed to seep into the ventilation—a final farewell from Genoa. The giant liner tirelessly cleaved through space, leaving a distant, distorted wake behind. And the void immediately hastened to heal the scar that had formed on the silken fabric of reality.