Ship of Strangers

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The print-out listed five G2 suns—all within a radius of six light-years—whose gravitational profiles showed the complexities caused by planets. One of them, designated as Prospect One by Aesop, appeared to have as many as thirty worlds swarming around it like electrons in a shell.

“That makes things simple,” Surgenor said, looking at the star which Aesop had enclosed in a pulsing green circle. “The sooner we get to Prospect One and start checking out the living accommodation the better it’ll be.”

Gillespie nodded. “There’s a lot of booze being shifted in the mess room.”

Surprisingly Mike Targett looked doubtful. “I’m not so sure about the whole programme Aesop has set out. I’ve been thinking things over all afternoon, and something tells me we should get out of this cluster altogether and start from scratch somewhere else.”

“Something tells you? We need more authority than that, Mike. It isn’t going to bother any of us if there are a few big bangs around here in a century or two.”

“I know, but…’ Targett hunched broodily in his chair, staring over the edge of the catwalk which seemed to bridge eternity. “I get a feeling there’s something really weird about this region.”

Surgenor recalled that Mike Targett, hard-headed young gambler, was not the sort of person to be influenced by moods or mysticism. “But it Aesop thinks it’s all right…’

“Aesop is a computer—as I know better than anybody else—and he is programmed. Admittedly, his programmes are big, subtle, sophisticated, open-ended, self-expanding, anything else you can think of, but they’re still programmes and therefore only equip him to deal with the conceivable. Faced with the inconceivable, Aesop can’t be relied on.”

“What’s so inconceivable about a condensing cluster?”

“How can I answer that?” Targett replied. “But for all we know we’ve strayed into a zone of time reversal. Perhaps the cluster is actually expanding when seen in normal time.”

Now, that’s inconceivable—so much so that I couldn’t swallow it.”

“We’d be able to detect the remains of the central explosion,” Gillespie said.

“Would we? With our basic constants no longer…’ Targett broke off and gave a wry smile. “I don’t believe we’re in a zone of time reversal, either—I was only trying to give you an example of something outside Aesop’s areas of competence.”

Surgenor cleared his throat significantly. “We’re wasting time, Mike. Unless you can come up with a more concrete objection, I’m going to move that we take Prospect One as our next destination.”

“I’ve said my piece.”

“That’s it then,” Gillespie said. “I vote for Prospect One, as well, so let’s get the show on the road. I’ll round up the others while you’re telling Aesop.”

The twelve chairs in the observation room were filled within a short time. Now that the initial shock had passed and there had been a period of adjustment, the crew members’ true reactions to their predicament were becoming apparent. Some were drinking hard to maintain a kind of grim joviality, some were watchful yet withdrawn, and others kept up a purposeful bustle of activity. The general atmosphere was one of calmness in the face of crisis, something for which Surgenor was grateful, even though he suspected that to some extent it had been brought about by Aesop. If tranquillizers had been introduced into the food and water it had been done discreetly and effectively.

Surgenor kept his gaze on the target star, mentally bracing himself for the instant in which it would be transformed from a distant point of light into the blinding disc of a nearby sun. The range was less than four light-years, which meant that Aesop should be able to take them right into the multi-world system in a single accurately judged leap. This was one of the reasons he had preferred to stay in a densely packed star cluster—most of the journey time on any mission was used up in the normal-space approaches to planets, and where food supplies were limited there was an advantage in making very short, very precise leaps right into the hearts of target systems.

As the seconds ticked by Surgenor felt the familiar build-up of excitement that always preceded the near-miracle of a beta-space jump. On this occasion, perhaps because so much depended on the outcome, the wait seemed more prolonged than usual, the tension more unbearable. Surgenor forced himself to sit without fidgeting, apparently at ease, while he struggled to relate subjective and objective time; not until he saw both Gillespie and Voysey glancing at their watches did he acknowledge a growing conviction that—monstrously unfair it might seem—something else had gone wrong on board the Sarafand.

“Do you think we should quiz Aesop?” Gillespie whispered from the seat beside him.

“If there’s any kind of hold-up he’s bound to…’ The sound of the chime which always preceded a general announcement froze Surgenor to silence.

“I must inform all those present,” came Aesop’s voice, “that it is not possible for the ship to complete the scheduled beta-space transition to Prospect One.”

There was an immediate ripple of surprise and annoyance, above which several men could be heard demanding an explanation. None of them seemed particularly alarmed, and Surgenor began to wonder if all his foreboding about a jackpot trip had made him unduly pessimistic.

“The reason we are unable to make the transition is that my beta-space sensors are supplying me with data which I cannot accept.” Aesop had adjusted the volume of his voice to make himself heard above the general noise level.

“Be more precise, Aesop,” Voysey called.

“As you will know, if you have studied your CS indoctrination books, a beta-space jump is completed in stages. In the first stage a sensor unit is rotated through five-space into beta-space, then is brought back after it has surveyed and recorded the graviton flux. As soon as its readings have been correlated with normal-space astrogation data—in other words, as soon as the target star has been identified and located—the entire ship is rotated into beta-space, the correct impulsion is applied, and the ship is then rotated back into normal-space in the vicinity of the target star.”

“I know all that stuff,” Voysey said peevishly. “Get to the point, Aesop.”

“I have already made my point, Victor, but for your benefit I will explain the situation again.” The hint of reproof in Aesop’s voice caused Voysey to glance sideways at the men nearest him and pull a face.

“The ship’s astrogation system has a series of built-in blocks which prevent a jump from being carried out until I am satisfied that I know where we are jumping to. I am unable to locate our destination in beta-space—and, therefore, the ship is unable to move.”

“Is that all that’s wrong?” Ray Kessler said, breaking the ensuing silence. “Well, hurry up and get a bead on Prospect One, Aesop. It’s almost in our laps, isn’t it?” He pointed at the brilliant star within its pulsing green circle. While he was speaking, the cold of the starless intergalactic deep, which had been dormant inside Surgenor, began to stir within him and spread its black tentacles.

“The fact that a stellar object is readily identifiable in normal-space does not mean that it can be easily identifiable in beta-space,” Aesop replied. “There is no light or any other form of electromagnetic radiation in beta-space. Astrogation is carried out by sensing and analysing the flow patterns of gravitons emitted by stellar masses. Gravitons are difficult to perceive, and their courses are not predictable. To quote the analogy used in your indoctrination books, the beta-space traveller is like a blind man in a large draughty room in which a number of people are blowing soap bubbles. He has to find his way, correctly, from one person to another—and all he has to guide him is the incidence of bubbles breaking on his skin.”

“So what’s the problem now? Can’t you feel the bubbles?”

Not in any useful manner. The graviton, the gravity quantum, was believed to be a universal constant, but in this region of space it appears to be variable which increases with time.”

“Aesop!” Mike Targett had leapt to his feet, his eyes fixed on Surgenor’s face. “Is it a local condition? Confined to this cluster?”

“That conclusion is in agreement with the evidence I have.”

“Then get us out of here, for Christ’s sake! Make a blind jump. To anywhere!”

There was a pause before Aesop replied, time enough for the numbing, sterilizing coldness to reach Surgenor’s brain.

“I repeat, the astrogation system has a series of built-in blocks which prevent a jump from being carried out until the destination has been selected and verified. It is impossible for me to select a destination—therefore, the ship cannot move.”

Targett shook his head, refusing to believe. “But that’s only a mechanical thing, a safety procedure—we can override it.”

“It is one of the most basic design parameters of the ship’s control system. To alter it one would have to redesign and rebuild the central control unit—a task which would require a high degree of specialized knowledge, plus the resources of a large production plant.” Once again, the bland and pedantic tones of Aesop’s voice had no correspondence with the burden of his meaning, and Surgenor—his mind ricocheting away into allegory—conceived a fantastic image of a judge putting on a red nose to pronounce a death sentence.

“I see.” Targett gazed around the ship’s company, gave them a thin, unnatural smile and walked out in the direction of the mess.

“What were you characters talking about?” Kessler demanded. “What’s going on here?”

“I’ll tell you,” Burt Schilling put in, his voice blurred with panic. “They say the ship can’t move. That’s right, isn’t it, big Dave?”

Surgenor stood up, glancing after Targett. “It’s a bit early to jump to conclusions.”

“Don’t try to gas me, you big bastard.” Schilling came towards Surgenor, jabbing an accusing finger. “You know we’re stuck here. Come on—admit it.”

Surgenor realized that the familiar transference had occurred, that—as had happened in the past—he was being identified with the ship and its nonexistent captain. But now he had no reserves upon which others could draw.

“I’ve nothing to admit,” he growled at Schilling. “You have the same access to Aesop as anybody else—talk to him about it.” He turned to go after Mike Targett.

“I’m talking to you!” Schilling clawed at Surgenor’s right arm, pulling him back. Surgenor, instead of resisting the drag of the younger man’s hands, allowed his arm to swing back freely, then threw his own strength into the sweeping movement. Taken by surprise, Schilling stumbled backwards, struck the low parapet of the observation area and fell, screaming, towards the stars. A second later he landed on the curved projection screen. An automatic switch brought on lights and the stars paled to invisibility on the inner surface of a glassy grey sphere. Schilling, who appeared to be winded but not seriously hurt, lay clutching his stomach and staring up at Surgenor with slit-eyed hatred.

“When junior recovers from his little accident,” Surgenor said to the watching group, “tell him to take up his complaints with Aesop—I’ve got problems of my own.”

Theo Mossbake cleared his throat. “Are we really stuck?”

“That’s the way it looks right now, but with rationing we can make our feed last three months, if not longer. That’s quite a bit of time to try working something out.”

“But if the ship can’t be…’

“Talk to Aesop!” Surgenor turned and strode out of the observation room and into the deserted mess, breathing heavily. He went to the drinks dispenser, drew himself a glass of iced water and drank it slowly, then climbed the companionway. The door to the fifth room was closed, but not locked. Surgenor tapped it gently and spoke Targett’s name. There was no reply, and after waiting a few seconds he pushed the door open. Mike Targett was sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched. His forehead was glistening with sweat and his eyes were dull, but otherwise he appeared normal and in control of himself.

“I haven’t decided to end it all, if that’s what’s worrying you,” he said.

“I’m glad about that.” Surgenor tapped the door jamb. “Mind if I come in?”

“Sure, but I told you I’m all right.”

Surgenor entered the room and closed the door behind him. “Okay, young Mike—out with it.”

Targett looked up at him with the same unnatural smile as before. “I could do you a big favour and not tell you this.”

“No favours—just talk.”

“Okay, Dave.” Targett paused to gather his thoughts. “You’ve heard of pulsars, quasars, mythars, block holes, white holes, time windows—right?”

“Right.”

“But you’ve never heard about dwindlars.”

“Dwindlars?” Surgenor frowned at him. “Can’t say I have.”

“That’s because I’ve just invented the word. It’s a new term for a new astronomical phenomenom. New to us, anyway.”

“What happens in it?”

Targett’s smile wavered. “What does the name suggest to you?”

“Dwindlar? Well, the only thing I can…’

“I got the first inkling today when Aesop mentioned that the velocities of the stars in the cluster appeared to be proportionate to their distance from the centre. We see the outermost stars approaching fastest, and so on.”

“We already knew we were in an imploding cluster,” Surgenor said, still puzzled.

“Ah, but that’s the whole point—we aren’t.” Some animation returned to Targett’s eyes. “I’m glad I managed to work this out—the whole notion of a star cluster falling in on itself was an offence to reason.”

“Are you saying that Aesop’s instruments are wrong? That the stars in this cluster aren’t moving in towards the centre?”

Not quite. What I’m saying is that no matter where you went in the cluster, no matter where you carried out your observations from, you would find that the stars appeared to be moving towards you, with the most distant moving fastest.”

Surgenor shifted his weight. “Mike, does that make sense?”

“Unfortunately—yes. Long-range astronomy has always been familiar with this type of effect, only in reverse. When an astronomer measures the speeds of distant galaxies, he always finds that the most distant ones are retreating fastest—but it isn’t because he’s positioned at a real central point. In an expanding universe, everything moves outward uniformly from everything else—and—by simple arithmetic—the farther an object is from an observer, the faster it will appear to be retreating from him.”

“That’s in an expanding universe,” Surgenor said slowly, his thoughts beginning to leap ahead. “Are we…’

“The evidence is that we’ve jumped into the centre of a contracting volume of space. That’s why there are so many suns packed so close together. The space between them is shrinking. The suns themselves are shrinking. We must be shrinking, Dave.”

Surgenor glanced involuntarily at his own hands before his common sense asserted itself. “That doesn’t make sense. In an expanding system our bodies didn’t get bigger—and even if they had done it wouldn’t have made any difference…’ He stopped speaking as he saw Targett was shaking his head.

“We’re in a different kind of set-up,” Targett said. “It’s not as if somebody had grabbed a big gear lever and thrown the entire cosmos into reverse. We’re in a kind of inclusion—like a diamond in a rock, or a bubble in a glass paperweight—only a few tens of light-years across, and everything in it is shrinking. And that includes us.”

“But there’s no way to know that. Our measuring rules would be shrinking at exactly the same rate as everything we tried to measure, so…’

“Except gravitons, Dave. The gravity quantum is a universal constant. Even here.”

Surgenor thought again, trying to adapt to alien concepts. “Aesop said it was an increasing variable.”

“Appeared to be an increasing variable. That’s because we’re getting smaller, and that’s what screwed up his whole astrogation and control complex.”

Surgenor sat down on the room’s only chair. “If all this is true, doesn’t it mean we’re making progress? If Aesop now knows that the problem is…’ “There isn’t time Dave.” Targett leaned back on his bed, stared at the ceiling and spoke in a dreamy, almost peaceful voice. “In just over two hours from now we’ll all be dead.”