Lucifer Comet (2464 CE) Page 18

  One day when she and Narfar were alone in the hut, he sat on her cot (withes woven on a rude wood-frame and raised half a meter off the floor on two pyramid-piles of cross-branches withe-tied), pulled her onto his lap and demanded: What this marriage thing? You mindspeak so I get it for sure.

  She wriggled herself into a comfortable position, reflecting that this lap-sitting would be a ball, indeed a highball, when the right moment would come to let him turn loose. But that moment hadn’t come yet….

  Hard to explain marriage, she told him. I say it this way. We two agree that we will be the most important people to each other, all our lives.

  That mean you be more important to me than leaders?

  Not what I say. What I say mean, / be more important to you than any one leader, or any one man or woman. And you be more important to me than anybody.

  We not need marriage for that!

  No; but in marriage, we say it to each other in front of other people, we give our word, it is a promise, it is a bond.

  But I god, I not like bonds. You not saying I not schlurp you without marriage?

  Yes. I am saying that.

  But that silly, Dorita! I want you, I schlurp you when I want!

  But don’t you want me to want it?

  Well, sure, you no special fun if you not want it— All right. I not want it without marriage. With marriage I I want it. That good enough?

  He shrugged. I guess so. He was no longer holding her on his lap, but she stayed aboard by hooking an arm around his thick neck.

  He said presently, looking somewhere-nowhere: That mean I can’t schlurp anybody else?

  I didn’t say that. I wouldn’t stop you, I couldn’t. But if we get married, I come first. If / need you more than she does, you come to me. Always.

  He slipped an arm about her, mind-murmuring: Well, that better. I can live with that.… He gripped her, eye-confronting her: Marriage mean you can’t schlurp anybody else?

  She answered demurely: As long as you with me, you plenty for me. And you always come first.

  His arm-grip tightened about her waist, and she sensed a beginning of Narfar-arousal. He said aloud, “So far, that sound okay. You tell me how do marriage thing.”

  On another day, she mounted his back; he caught her up into the sky and overflew the city with her in leisurely-intricate flight-patterns, now soaring high, now low; so that Dorita, enthralled as much by the experience as by the spectacle below, could comprehend the living city in detail and in fullness. “This my city,” he kept reminding her. “I make.”

  To her it resembled nothing so much as a congeries of African cities in various nations when pre-white Africa had been black-culture high. She had seen pictures. And she had picked up enough about cultural anthropology to be amazed that Narfar had been able to bring his biologically primitive people to so high a level during the few thousand years of his reign—and all without any sort of fire!

  It also served to remind her of her utter isolation from Erth and indeed from humans who were biologically full-developed. And briefly, in midair, she regretted B. J. Methuen. He was sweet, he was potent, he was humanly patient and professionally competent, he was all a woman would want for a husband, and he had wanted her. Had she been on Erth with her own face and legs, would she have accepted him? No, sardonically she reflected; for despite her marriage plans, a husband was not what Dorita wanted.

  Departing the city, they were overflying lush jungle; there was a distinct possibility that he would continue straight ahead, possibly setting her down for jungle bivouac a night or two or three en route, until they had girdled his world.

  A question was nagging her; and his wingbeat-wind, cooling even in tropical heat, brought the question to imperative. She mind-inquired: Is it true that there is glacial ice above and below this middle belt of Dora?

  Is so.

  Does anybody live up there, or down there?

  The question troubled Narfar, he thought about it soberly during an appreciable time of flying. Then he evaded: I bring them all to warm country. Colder country not good for living. Need fire. I not like fire.

  Because of Quarfar?

  I not like fire.

  She kept thinking, she always kept thinking about the dying words of Quarfar: Not far below the north pole on Dora, there is a certain crater like a circular box. It contains something of great value. Knowing you, I am sure that you will find it. Dorita—you must not open it! Under no circumstances may you open it. Do you understand, Dorita? Do not open that box!

  And of course, out of respect for Quarfar, she would not open that box. But she did intend to find it—had not Quarfar expressed confidence that she would? She wanted to know, among other things, what sort of box it might be—and what sorts of things it might contain, what essential ingredient that Narfar had somehow drained away from the people on Dora. And it surely wouldn’t hurt if she should discover how to open it, even if she would leave it unopened. Finding a secret box containing world-tabu material, and learning how to open it and release the contents, would be fulfilling triumph—the greatest of her life! She would be total mistress of a planet’s ultimate secret!

  Now she mind-coaxed: I would like very much to see that polar ice.

  Eagerly Narfar returned: Goddess want to see polar ice? I show from here! And he began to ascend rapidly aloft, perhaps five kilometers per minute….

  After less than two minutes, Dorita, freezing cold and choking for air, mind-pleaded: Down, Narfar, downl I am dying up here— Abandoning his impulse to take her up about a thousand kilometers, Narfar power-dived for planetary surface. Just short of crash-down, Dorita lost consciousness in a fifteen-G pull-out.

  She awakened on her cot in her hut. Five heads bent over her: Narfar’s concerned face; the worried faces of Merli and Lari and Kosa; and a grinning skull. She jerked herself up and around to stare at the skull: it was a wooden mask on a witch-doctor who was doing droning-swishing things with a string-swung gourd containing dried beans.

  Narfar voice-gentled her, timidly finger-touching her. “Be quiet, Dorita. We be married soon. Then I take you to ice.”

  23

  Day Twelve through Day Twenty-Four

  Methuen-driven, the frigate Farragut, crewed and task-forced and intricately equipped, departed Erth lazily on stubby retractable wings until she was five hundred kilometers aloft; orbited into position; then catapulted herself into an arrow-shot directly at Saiph. Some maneuvering was needed around a couple of solar planets which were currently eclipsing Saiph, and it was always a good idea to pick one’s way carefully through the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter. Nevertheless, when after twelve hours Farragut passed Pluto-orbit nearly six billion kilometers out, she was already thrusting more than six hundred G’s, although (behind her battleship-grade 1:1,500,000 inertial shield) passengers and crew were noticing little if any acceleration.

  But then the frigate leaped again. By the end of twenty-four hours, she was maintaining a steady acceleration of 5,600,000 G’s, which seemed a continually oppressive four G’s to the passengers—they felt as though they were in a jet plane which accelerated in ten seconds from zero to 1,500 kilometers per hour and then maintained this takeoff burst endlessly undiminished. This G-thrust would get the Farragut up to 109,500 times the velocity of light at mid-course; whereafter she would rotate and brake the rest of the way, reaching Saiph-orbit in a neat fourteen days. In 2464, they straightened out space-curvature with repulsor-drive which fed on raw space.

  Farragut, like all trans-light ships of the era, was able to exceed light-velocity (and higher velocities are limited only by thrust) with the aid of its differential mass. This mass was a mighty sphere in ship bowels which had the property of becoming geometrically more massive as velocity increased. Thus, as the speed of light was approached, the mass of the ship became greater than the distance-relative mass of any star they might pass; and since (by relativistic convention) the motion of a less-massive body is relative to the position o
f the largest mass in the vicinity, it worked out (relatively speaking) that the Farragut was motionless, and it was the star that moved. Nobody had ever worked out the math of what this did to the entire cosmic system of motions when many ships using differential masses were moving in different directions at the same time.

  Before departure, Methuen had anticipated the tensions which could arise among his scientific passengers, who were unaccustomed to interstellar voyaging over a period of many days, and who certainly would be dangerously oppressed by a sustained thrust which would appear to them like four G’s. He had convened the task force to discuss this hazard, which, as he pointed out, could disable them for useful work either during the voyage or afterward on Dora, and which might even incapacitate some of them for life. Most of the scientists were inclined to downgrade the hazard, pointing to the cases of interstellar crew members who made voyage after voyage like this (Methuen himself, for instance), and citing their own experiences in high-G joy-park centrifuges. But some of them, notably Psychobiologist Ombasa, comprehended the hazard more soberly and shepherded the committee into a more usefully serious mood.

  At a suitable moment, Zorbin, having discussed the matter last night with Methuen, proposed a two-part solution. First, the crew program director would be instructed to devise diversionary programs for passengers at numerous times during each day, and these could be attended optionally by scientists who desired or needed psychic relief. Second, the standard complement of three cryogenic capsules for crewmember emergencies would be increased to thirteen; and a passenger might at any time be deep-frozen in a capsule, either voluntarily, or by direction of the ship surgeon or Zorbin or Methuen.

  The second part of this proposal came under sharply argumentative criticism, the most acerbic critics being Olga

  Alexandrovna and Sita Sari. Each insisted that she was the best judge of her own condition and would tolerate no freezing by direction. Ready for this type of objection, Methuen amended the proposal: non-voluntary freezing would be done only by concurrence of any two among the three mentioned by Zorbin; and he made it plain that in any case, unfreezing would start as soon as G-pressure would cease in freefall around Saiph, so that the scientist would be ready for action immediately at touchdown on Dora. Sari claimed an exception: if by some unfair decision she should be forced into a tank, she must be already operational again when Saiph orbit would be achieved; and Glaciologist Liana Green seconded this for herself, observing that she should be able to make glacial observations from aloft coming in on Dora. Methuen said that as chairman he could accept these exceptions in the case of these two if the committee could. Sudafrikan Geologist Hoek moved acceptance of Zorbin’s proposal as amended by Methuen, Sari, and Green. Eskimo Mabel Seal seconded. Carried, seven to two with Olga abstaining.

  In the space-outcome, Olga experienced a nervous breakdown on the fourth day and was tank-committed by concurrence of Methuen, Zorbin, and the surgeon; while Sari, on the fifth day, stalked coolly onto the bridge, reported to the captain that she had placed all her instruments under computerized control for star-observations in transit, and requested that she be frozen forthwith. Microbiologist Manumuko capitulated on the sixth day. By the eighth day, either voluntarily or by direction, all scientists were frozen except three: Seal, Green, and Ombasa; even these three were internalized, remaining in their cabins or talking moodily in twos and threes, unresponsive to the diversions provided by the program director.

  All these personal dynamics were discussed at length, off watch after off watch, among Methuen and Zorbin and the surgeon, sometimes with Ombasa present (it was his bag, but he listened apathetically). The surgeon had read a great deal of very early archival space-age literature filled with dire 20th-century predictions about the emotional effects of long periods in space under tight confinement. Few of those predictions had come to pass—yet now, after nearly five centuries of space travel, here they all were, abruptly, with this group: why? Zorbin reminded the surgeon that, from the very beginning, astrocrews had been intensively trained to head off emotional trauma. True, said the surgeon, but how about lay passengers? Well, reflected Methuen aloud, as the interplanetary and interstellar services had developed, they had never been activated until all passengers could be suitably coddled. This was perhaps the first time in history when ten passengers, all amateurs in space and some first-timers, had driven themselves through the cosmos for days at a sustained apparent thrust of four G’s. Here, the others agreed, must lie the explanation.

  Privately, Zorbinr judged, and Methuen had to admit to himself, that the fault really lay in the lap of Captain Methuen, who had dynamized the fourteen-day trip to Dora without adequate prior training for the lay passengers (all scientists, but nevertheless laypeople in space), because of Methuen’s private passion to pursue Dorita. Otherwise, the expedition might easily have been delayed at least six months for personnel preparation and trip-time could have been extended to (say) thirty days for thrust-reduction, while Dora would have stayed there patiently awaiting the arrival of Dora’s investigators. (Zorbin knew nothing of Methuen’s dreams.)

  And Methuen felt guilt: lacerated himself with guilt, having to exercise rigorous self-discipline in order to husband his guilt and stay captain-operational. Many times he seriously considered resigning from Astrofleet after this trip; and the question remained active in his mind.

  Zorbin, however, concluded to exonerate his captain. Was it not Methuen who had thought up the cryogenic capsule gambit which would almost surely head off lasting trauma for any member of the task force?

  Then, too, there was Quarfar’s ambiguous warning about a possible threat from Dora.

  After one late watch, Methuen encountered Dr. Harlo Ombasa just off the bridge; and on an impulse he inveigled the psychobiologist (with an interest in the paranormal) into the captain’s mess for a nightcap. Ombasa, less apathetic than usual for him lately, offered to fix the captain an Afrikan drink that Methuen would long remember; and at the bar, he came up with a long quick-frosted glass filled with a melange of vodka and fruit juices, altogether tangy. The vodka, he explained, substituted for the natural ferment of the fruits. As for Ombasa, he stayed with icewater, his religion being Erebian.

  Neither was much for small talk, so Methuen went casually pro. “Dr. Ombasa, you never told us whether you got anything out of your look-see at paranormality in connection with the Quarfar and Narfar disappearances.”

  Ombasa consulted his ice water. “Nothing,” he responded in his purling basso. “There has to be something, but there was no evidence to indicate what.”

  “Will you pursue it?”

  “How can I?”

  Methuen was on the edge of extremely deep water, and he wanted to broach the topic to this scientist in some way that would not make the captain seem nuts. While he hesitated over this, Ombasa leaned forward. “Captain, I have seriously studied many aspects of paranormal phenomena, and I exclude no competent testimony. I think you want to give me some.”

  Having strengthened himself with the drink, Methuen looked straight at Harlo’s eyes. “There are some things that I am not ready to tell you, but I would like to hit you with a few hypothetical questions.”

  “Pray do.”

  “Have you ever studied the old old fictional stories about time travel?”

  “Of course.”

  “And have you theorized about the possibility?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you brief your thoughts?”

  “Concerning time travel by spirits, I have nothing to say. Concerning time travel by physical animal bodies, I do have a few theory-grounded ideas.”

  “Please push them at me.”

  “You have what you consider to be a practical interest?” “Perhaps.”

  “Then, Captain, it would be best for you to ask questions—the topic is far too complex for me to attempt a quick briefing.”

  “All right.” Methuen felt more confident. “First, do you think it theoretically
possible for a bodied human to invade the past? Never mind how it would be done.”

  “Yes, I think it might be possible.”

  “Might it be done without some kind of time-machine?”

  “If it can be done at all, most likely a machine would be useless; it would have to be brought-off psychobiologically.”

  “Might a time-invader bring another body along with him?”

  “If they were in physical contact, it might be done, if the act can be done at all.”

  Methuen breathed and drank deeply, then inquired: “If a person should enter the past, how could he possibly influence the past, all of which is all over and done with?”

  Ombasa drank, then addressed the tabletop: “I think you understand how complex your question is. Let me remark that there are two main parts to it. The first part is, how could a person go into the past and change the behavior of what is already past? The second is, if such change could be effected, would it change the entire course of subsequent history? You are perhaps thinking about time paradoxes, of which I will mention a classic: a man goes into the past and kills his own grandfather before his father is conceived, thus cancelling his own existence so that he could not have killed his grandfather.”

  “Something like that,” Methuen agreed, finishing his drink and holding out the glass.

  Taking it and standing, Ombasa remarked, “There were three ounces of vodka in the drink, and the fruit juices reinforced it.”

  “Fine,” declared Methuen. “Thank you.”

  Ombasa made him a new drink, reflected, made himself a drink, brought them back, sat and sipped, remarking, “On occasions such as this one, when the thinking is almost mystical, the ethics of my religion can be superseded by the recommendations of Lao Tse.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Methuen, awaiting the answer which Ombasa must have been formulating at the bar.