THE FLOATER
BY KENNETH O'HARA
Barton was unique—an absolutely self-sufficient
human being. The biggest problem he had in space
was holding on to his sanity. And he solved it by
altering time itself to suit his needs....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, February 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
As a Watchman in a man-made kind of observational meteor floatingmillions of miles from nowhere out among the planets, Barton had twomain duties. To keep his sanity and to keep the watch. The second wassimple. The gadgets all took care of themselves. All Barton did wassend in a report in case an alarm went off indicating something waswrong with some gadget or other.
Staying sane was supposed to be a watcher's big problem. Bartoncouldn't figure out why they were so concerned, especially theneuropsychologist or whatever he was, Von Ulrich, who was alwayscoming around in his clinical space boat, studying Barton, asking himquestions, giving him all kinds of tests.
Once something glinted like a mote in sunlight past the observationport and Von Ulrich said, "That's Collins out there. Collins was hereonly a week and he put on a pressure suit and jumped into space. He'sstill rotating round and round out there."
"Poor devil," Barton said.
"Most of them don't even last a week out here, Barton. Six months isthe maximum. You've been here almost a year and you're liable to startcracking any minute. I don't like the way things look."
"I feel fine, sir."
Several months later, Von Ulrich dropped by again. "How are thingsgoing, Barton?"
"Great, sir. Just swell."
"You feel comfortable, no anxiety?"
"I feel fine."
"You've done a fine job, Barton—so far."
"Thank you, sir."
"You manage to keep occupied?"
"I just take it easy, sir."
"I see."
A few months later, Von Ulrich was back, watching Barton mouldingsomething out of clay, a sort of human shape without a face. Therewere other self-amusement gimmicks, wood-working, soap-carving, moviesand the like, but Barton preferred moulding things haphazardly out ofclay, and sometimes reading one of the books he wasn't supposed to havebrought along because books were no longer popular.
"What were you thinking about when you moulded this thing?" Von Ulrichasked.
"Nothing much, sir."
"You must have been thinking of something?"
"I guess I was thinking of a man sleeping beside a river in green grasswith nobody for miles around. Something like that."
"You weren't by any chance thinking about a dead man?"
"I don't like death much."
Later on sometime, Von Ulrich dropped around again on his therapeutictour of basketballs, and Martian bases, and other bases even moreremote. Barton wondered how anyone could find the basketball driftingin all that blackness. Just a little ragged spheroid like a piece ofdead slag, something like a cork bobbing in a black ocean too big evento bother thinking about. If no one ever found the basketball Bartonwould have been happier, because the basketball was self-sustaining andcould go on and on for years without supplies or any human contact.
"Getting a little lonely maybe?" Von Ulrich asked.
"No sir."
"Don't miss having people around. Your wife, your son?"
Barton wanted to laugh.
"Well, I'll be back to see you, Barton. I may be gone a ye