After a few weeks Cas was supervising entering and housekeeping and Mama O'Toole could give all of her time to the scientific and technical end—except that she continued to keep an eye on the cooking.

But the Vasco da Gama should not have made me brood; I didn't know anybody in that ship. If Cas could pull out of it and lead a normal, useful life, I certainly should not have had the mulligrubs. No, I think it was my birthday as much as anything.

The mess room had two big electric clocks in it, controlled from the relativists' computation room, and two bank-style calendars over them. When we started out they were all right together, showing Greenwich time and date. Then, as we continued to accelerate and our speed got closer to that of light, the "slippage" between Elsie and the Earth began to show and they got farther and farther out of phase. At first we talked about it, but presently we didn't notice the Greenwich set... for what good does it do you to know that it is now three in the morning next Wednesday at Greenwich when it is lunch time in the ship? It was like time zones and the date line back on Earth: not ordinarily important. I didn't even notice when Pat groused about the odd times of day he had to be on duty because I stood watches any time of day myself.

Consequently I was caught flat-footed when Pat woke me with a whistle in the middle of the night and shouted, "Happy birthday!"

("Huh? Whose?")

"Yours, dopey. Ours. What's the matter with you? Can't you count?"

("But—")

"Hold it. They are just bringing the cake in and they are going to sing "Happy Birthday." I'll echo it for you."

While they were doing so I got up and slipped on a pair of pants and went down to the mess room. It was the middle of "night" for us and there was just a standing light here. But I could see the clocks and calendars—sure enough, the Greenwich date was our birthday and figuring back zone time from Greenwich to home made it about dinner time at home.

But it wasn't my birthday. I was on the other schedule and it didn't seem right.

"Blew 'em all out, kid," Pat announced happily, "That ought to hold us for another year. Mum wants to know if they baked a cake for you there?"

("Tell her 'yes.' ") They hadn't, of course. But I didn't feel like explaining. Mother got jittery easily enough without trying to explain Einstein time to her. As for Pat, he ought to know better.

The folks had given Pat a new watch and he told me that there was a box of chocolates addressed to me—should he open it and pass it around? I told him to go ahead, not knowing whether to be grateful that I was remembered or to be annoyed at a "present" I couldn't possibly see or touch. After a while I told Pat that I had to get my sleep and please say good night and thank you to everybody for me. But I didn't get to sleep; I lay awake until the passageway lights came on,

The following week they did have a birthday cake for me at our table and everybody sang to me and I got a lot of pleasantly intended but useless presents—you can't give a person much aboard ship when you are eating at the same mess and drawing from the same storerooms. I stood up and thanked them when somebody hollered "Speech!" and I stayed and danced with the girls afterwards. Nevertheless it still did not seem like my birthday because it had already been my birthday, days earlier.

It was maybe the next day that my Uncle Steve came around and dug me out of my room. "Where you been keeping yourself, youngster?"

"Huh? Nowhere."

"That's what I thought." He settled in my chair and I lay back down on my bunk. "Every time I look for you, you aren't in sight. You aren't on watch or working all the time. Where are you?"

I didn't say anything. I had been right where I was a lot of the time, just staring at the ceiling. Uncle Steve went on, "When a man takes to crouching in a corner aboard ship, it is usually best, I've found, to let him be. Either he will pull out of it by himself, or he'll go out the airlock one day without bothering with a pressure suit. Either way, he doesn't want to be monkeyed with. But you're my sister's boy and I've got a responsibility toward you. What's wrong? You never show up for fun and games in the evenings and you go around with a long face; what's eating you?"

"There's nothing wrong with me!" I said angrily.

Uncle Steve disposed of that with a monosyllable. "Open up, kid. You haven't been right since the Vasco was lost. Is that the trouble? Is your nerve slipping? If it is, Doc Devereaux has synthetic courage in pills. Nobody need know you take 'em and no need to be ashamed—everybody finds a crack in his nerve now and again. I'd hate to tell you what a repulsive form it took the first time I went into action."

"No, I don't think that is it." I thought about it—maybe it was it. "Uncle Steve, what happened to the Vasco?"

He shrugged. "Either her torch cut loose, or they bumped into something."

"But a torch can't cut loose... can it? And there is nothing to bump into out here."

"Correct on both counts. But suppose the torch did blow?

The ship would be a pocket-sized nova in an umpteenth second. But I can't think of an easier way to go. And the other way would be about as fast, near enough you would never notice. Did you ever think how much kinetic energy we have wrapped up in this bucket at this speed? Doc Babcock says that as we reach the speed of light we'll be just a flat wave front, even though we go happily along eating mashed potatoes and gravy and never knowing the difference."

"But we never quite reach the speed of light."

"Doc pointed that out, too. I should have said 'if.' Is that what is bothering you, kid? Fretting that we might go boom! like the Vasco? If so, let me point out that almost all the ways of dying in bed are worse... particularly if you are silly enough to die of old age—a fate I hope to avoid."

We talked a while longer but did not get anywhere. Then be left, after threatening to dig me out if I spent more than normal sack time in my room. I suppose Uncle Steve reported me to Dr. Devereaux, although both of them claimed not.

Anyhow, Dr. Devereaux tackled me the next day, took me around to his room and sat me down and talked to me. He bad a big sloppy-comfortable stateroom; he never saw anybody in surgery.

I immediately wanted to know why he wanted to talk to me.

He opened his frog eyes wide and looked innocent. "Just happened to get around to you, Tom." He picked up a pile of punched cards. "See these? That's how many people I've had a chat with this week. I've got to pretend to earn my pay."

"Well, you don't have to waste time on me. I'm doing all right."

"But I like to waste time, Tom. Psychology is a wonderful racket. You don't scrub for surgery, you don't have to stare down people's dirty throats, you just sit and pretend to listen while somebody explains that when he was a little boy he didn't like to play with the other little boys. Now you talk for a while. Tell me anything you want to, while I take a nap. if you talk long enough, I can get rested up from the poker party I sat in on last night and still chalk up a day's work."

I tried to talk and say nothing. While I was doing so, Pat called me. I told him to call hack; I was busy. Dr. Devereaux was watching my face and said suddenly, "What was on your mind then?"

I explained that it could wait; my twin wanted to talk to me.

"Hmm... Tom, tell me about your twin. I didn't have time to get well acquainted with him in Zurich."

Before I knew it I had told him a lot about both of us. He was remarkably easy to talk to. Twice I thought he had gone to sleep but each time I stopped, he roused himself and asked another question that got me started all over again.