The Sentinel - Arthur C. Clarke [78]
“Who started the rumor,” he said to Mitchell as they met at the port, “that the British were reserved and standoffish? Heaven help me if I ever meet a demonstrative Englishman.”
“I take it,” replied Mitchell, “that you had a good time.”
“Ask me tomorrow,” Saunders replied. “I may have reintegrated my psyche by then.”
“I saw you on that quiz program last night,” remarked Chambers. “You looked pretty ghastly.”
“Thank you: that’s just the sort of sympathetic encouragement I need at the moment. I’d like to see you think of a synonym for ‘jejune’ after you’d been up until three in the morning.”
“Vapid,” replied Chambers promptly.
“Insipid,” said Mitchell, not to be outdone.
“You win. Let’s have those overhaul schedules and see what the engineers have been up to.”
Once seated at the control desk, Captain Saunders quickly became his usual efficient self. He was home again, and his training took over. He knew exactly what to do, and would do it with automatic precision. To right and left of him, Mitchell and Chambers were checking their instruments and calling the control tower.
It took them an hour to carry out the elaborate preflight routine. When the last signature had been attached to the last sheet of instructions, and the last red light on the monitor panel had turned to green, Saunders flopped back in his seat and lit a cigarette. They had ten minutes to spare before take-off.
“One day,” he said, “I’m going to come to England incognito to find what makes the place tick. I don’t understand how you can crowd so many people onto one little island without it sinking.”
“Huh,” snorted Chambers. “You should see Holland. That makes England look as wide open as Texas.”
“And then there’s this royal family business. Do you know, wherever I went everybody kept asking me how I got on with Prince Henry—what we’d talked about—didn’t I think he was a fine guy, and so on. Frankly, I got fed up with it. I can’t imagine how you’ve managed to stand it for a thousand years.”
“Don’t think that the royal family’s been popular all the time,” replied Mitchell. “Remember what happened to Charles the First? And some of the things we said about the early Georges were quite as rude as the remarks your people made later.”
“We just happen to like tradition,” said Chambers. “We’re not afraid to change when the time comes, but as far as the royal family is concerned—well, it’s unique and we’re rather fond of it. Just the way you feel about the Statue of Liberty.”
“Not a fair example. I don’t think it’s right to put human beings up on a pedestal and treat them as if they’re—well, minor deities. Look at Prince Henry, for instance. Do you think he’ll ever have a chance of doing the things he really wants to do? I saw him three times on TV when I was in London. The first time he was opening a new school somewhere; then he was giving a speech to the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers at the Guildhall (I swear I’m not making that up), and finally he was receiving an address of welcome from the mayor of Podunk, or whatever your equivalent is.” (”Wigan,” interjected Mitchell.) “I think I’d rather be in jail than live that sort of life. Why can’t you leave the poor guy alone?”
For once, neither Mitchell nor Chambers rose to the challenge. Indeed, they maintained a somewhat frigid silence. That’s torn it, thought Saunders. I should have kept my big mouth shut; now I’ve hurt their feelings. I should have remembered that advice I read somewhere: “The British have two religions—cricket and the royal family. Never attempt to criticize either.”
The awkward pause was broken by the radio and the voice of the spaceport controller.
“Control to Centaurus. Your flight lane clear. O.K. to lift.”
“Take-off program starting—now!” replied Saunders, throwing the master switch. Then he leaned back, his eyes taking in the entire control