“Do you think,” I asked, loping next to Smith, “they’ll believe Higgins?”
Smith gave something like a running shrug. “They can’t all be as suicidal as Freddy.”
We passed an observation alcove. Smith stopped and backtracked, walking up to the port and peering into space.
“Where are those two ships of Freddy’s from here?”
“Depends. Let me look. They may be out of view.”
Smith moved aside. I could see the Big Gate’s focusing ring, button-sized, below me. What must have been two or three hundred kilometers from it, the “Collins” asteroid stood, waiting for our mining crews. Between them, only detectable because of their position in relation to the Sun, two space craft, easily mistaken for faint stars, gleamed. I pointed.
“There they are, between the Gate and the rock.”
Smith looked, squinting and shaking his head. “Too far. I can’t see them. Eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.”
“The two bright specks.”
“No good. You watch them,” said Smith. “If either one moves in the next ten minutes, come to the control room.”
“Otherwise?”
“Otherwise—” Smith smiled, a broad ironic smile. “Frankly, buddy boy, I don’t think there is any otherwise.”
He started down the corridor. “Smith,” I shouted. “Where are you going?”
“Control room.”
I looked out the port. Neither ship had moved. I stared at the two faint points of light. Once I thought they moved, but I noticed everything had moved and realized it was my eyes. I blinked and moved back from the port, aligning the Gate with the edge of the port for perspective. I wondered why Smith left me behind. On our first visit to the Merryweather Enterprize, Smith had been able to see constructors near the focusing ring. Constructors were smaller than spacecraft. Heroics? Possibly. If one or both of the ships moved, it meant Spieler’s men believed Dr. Higgins and fled. At that point, it would be possible to stop Spieler.
Smith would need help. If nothing moved, Spieler could not be stopped. Smith was giving me a few extra minutes to live.
I tried to think about the situation, watching the two spacecraft. Spieler would have re-established matter transmitter contact with the relay ship. His men could take either ship or both. Presumably, the equipment deflecting the Merryweather ground Gate was in the relay ship. The men would take the station’s Gate to the second ship, leaving the deflection equipment in operation to hinder pursuit.
Something moved. I stared out the port. Imagination? I squinted at the spacecraft.
Somewhere farther down the corridor, I heard a shot, loud and reverberating. Several more shots followed. I checked the automatic, familiarizing myself with it. Would I shoot anyone? I didn’t want to. In self-defense? If they shot first?
I checked the port again. One ship had disappeared, breaking out of solar orbit and changing its angle to the Sun, its reflection gone. I started for the station control-room.
I expected noise. I heard none, only my own footsteps on the deck. Ahead of me, the control-room door was open. I stopped, checking the gun again.
“Smith?” I called.
No one answered. I shivered, realizing what I had just done. If Smith were safely in the control room, calling was unnecessary. Otherwise, it warned Spieler.
I moved up to the door, wondering what I was doing there, a cocked automatic in my hand, about to step into a room where I might have to use it. I wiped my forehead with my sleeve. I remember being surprised at how much I was sweating. My stomach felt knotted. I kept thinking, You’re an engineer, Collins. It buzzed in my head. Engineer. Smith should take care of this. Smith, not you. My bowels wanted to move.
“Smith?” I called again, almost involuntarily.
No one responded.
I pointed the gun ahead of me and stepped through the doorway.
Spieler stood at the Big Gate controls, his left shirtsleeve drenched with blood and his left arm dangling, limp and useless, at his side. He looked at me, trying to steady himself on the control panel. His face was blanched and slack. In spite of the physical shock to his body, his eyes were alive. He began fumbling with the unfamiliar safety on the first switch for the Big Gate. He got it up and touched the plate. The “Power” light glowed green.
I hesitated, unable to decide whether to say something or shoot. I looked around the control-room. On the raised area in front of the main observation wall, the air shimmered. The matter transmitter in the relay ship was focused on the control-room. Did Spieler think he could escape, drag a pulsar into the Solar System and escape? Or was it a door to the relay ship in case he failed?
On the floor, partly obscured by Captain Wilkins’ desk, a standup table like an old-style drafting board, lay Smith, motionless, blood glistening on the deck along his left side.
I moved toward him, dazed. When I moved, Spieler flicked up the second safety cover and touched the plate. The “Focus” switch lit amber. I turned on him. He freed the automatic from his belt, leveling it at me and leaning against the control panel.
In spite of the gun in my hand, I expected Spieler to fire. A Mexican standoff is no standoff at all when one side is insane. I could see he was struggling to keep erect. Watching him, I realized why I was still alive. Spieler knew I would get off at least one shot. He could not absorb more damage and still activate the transmitter.
“Move away from the panel,” I said.
Talking was a mistake. My voice, unexpectedly reedy, reflected my frightened state of mind. Instead of moving, Spieler seemed to gain confidence.
In the corner of my eye, something moved. I thought at first Spieler might have an accomplice, stepping through from the relay ship. I changed position to take in as much of the room as possible—Spieler, the shimmering air from the relay ship’s matter transmitter, Smith’s body. The body moved.
“Smith.”
Spieler looked at Smith. Smith, struggling to regain consciousness, rolled slowly onto his own blood.
“Smith!” I shouted. “What should I do?”
Smith lifted his head a few inches from the deck, his cheek smeared with blood, looking first at me, then at Spieler. His head dropped back to the deck, the face away from me.
Spieler started to fumble with the last safety cover, awkwardly trying to raise it and hold onto his gun.
“Smith! Please! What should I do?”
Groggily, Smith turned his face toward me, his voice weak and barely audible.
“Shoot the bastard.”
Spieler looked at me, hesitating.
I tried. I held the automatic with both hands, raising it to eye level. My arms shook. I could see Spieler’s face over the front sight and imagine it blown away. Spieler’s face, watching me with almost scientific detachment, and the front sight and what I was about to do seemed the only reality. Everything else seemed abstract and unreal. A pulsar, thousands of light-years from Earth, about to topple the Solar System like bowling pins, about to extinguish the human race—the enormity of it drained it of meaning. I only knew one thing. I was about to kill a man.
“Shoot, damn it,” groaned Smith.
A smile, twisted and contemptuous, appeared on Spieler’s face. He turned away from me to the control panel. I tried to fire. I couldn’t. I felt the gun drop from my hands and heard it clatter to the deck. I saw Smith reach out for it and lose consciousness. I saw Spieler lift the last safety cover and touch the plate. The “Activate” light came on, red beneath his fingers. Ignoring me, he lurched toward the focal point for the relay ship transmitter. Even then, I could have stopped him. If I had rushed him, he might have missed with his first shot. Somehow, it seemed futile.
Spieler stepped through the circle, disappearing.
Still dazed, I stooped over Smith. He was unconscious. I rolled him on his back and tried to examine his wounds. Amidst the blood and torn cloth, I could see a rib. I tried to stop the bleeding.
While I worked on Smith,
Dr. Higgins came in, asking what happened. I tried to explain. I started to indicate the place where Spieler stepped through to his ship. It was gone, shut down just after Spieler used it. Dr. Higgins listened, visibly more upset each minute.
“Can’t we do anything?” he asked.
“What?”
“Anything! Can’t we shut it off or something?”
“No. Once anything is in the field, safety circuits prevent anyone turning it off until the field’s cleared.”
“What kind of safety is that?” raged Dr. Higgins. “It’s going to kill us all!”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry! Is that all you can say? Who built this damn Frankenstein anyway?”
I told him. He looked at me, startled, incredulous.
“You!”
I nodded.
“Then unbuild it! Take it apart! Shut it off! Do something!”
I tried to think of something feasible. Even if we destroyed the reactor, enough residual energy would remain in the field to complete the transmission. All Gates are constructed that way.
“We could destroy the focusing ring,” I suggested.
“How?” asked Dr. Higgins, game.
“Good question.”
Even if we somehow moved the Merryweather Enterprize near the focusing ring and pulled all the stops on the reactor, the explosion would not damage the ring. The Merryweather Enterprize was a half mile across. The ring was a hundred and eighty kilometers across. Any explosion we could produce would only slap the giant’s face. I told Dr. Higgins. He cursed, thought a moment, running his tongue over his swollen lip, then got an idea. It excited him. He clapped his hands together, saying “yes, yes,” thinking about it, assembling the pieces.
“What is it?”
He waved me aside, thinking. “Just a minute.”
“Please, Dr. Higgins. We don’t have much time.”
He shook his head violently. “Got it. Got it.”
“What?”
“Can you maneuver this station?”
“No.”
“If we got someone on Earth to tell you how, could you?”
“Maybe.”
“OK, listen to this.”
“I’m listening.”
“We maneuver the station up to the Gate. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Then we put it in this end of the transmitter.”
“Then what?”
“We ram it!” He clapped his hands. “Like two trains in a tunnel!”
“Ram it!” In spite of the seriousness of the situation, I laughed. The idea was utterly ridiculous. Assuming the pulsar was not in transit but simply sitting in space, ramming it would be about as effective as ramming the Sun. Second, I reminded Dr. Higgins, since the long reach of the Big Gate is based on the idea, among others, that the beginning and end of the journey are the same event seen from different perspectives, the space station and the pulsar would never even touch. Starting at different spatial positions and different points in time, they would be different events. Dr. Higgins waved me into silence, his brow deeply furrowed, contrite.
“OK, OK, I remember now. It was just a suggestion.”
“A strange one for an astronomer.”
He glared at me. “We make mistakes, too, you know!”
“I know, but—”
“Let’s not pursue it further. I remember it all now. I even explained it to Mr. Spieler once, though why he wanted to know is beyond—”
“Spieler! You explained—” I broke off and ran to the observation wall. I could see nothing of the second spacecraft. I went back to the Big Gate control panel, touching a series of plates. A bank of screens lit up.
“What’s that?” asked Dr. Higgins.
“Remote cameras to watch the Big Gate.” I scrutinized them closely, pointing at the screen. “There.”
Dr. Higgins looked. “What is it?” “Spieler’s spacecraft, heading for the focusing ring.”
We watched the screen. Spieler’s ship approached the center of the focusing ring, perceptibly moving even at the distance of our camera: I should have thought of it. Spieler planned to trade places with the pulsar. Since it would be gone from the focal point of the Big Gate, he could safely enter that space, leaving the Solar System before the pulsar materialized. The “Power” readout was off the scale. The “Duration” readout showed slightly under ten minutes to materialization. Smith groaned behind us.
I left Dr. Higgins at the screens and went back to Smith. Blood had soaked through my makeshift bandages. Someplace, the station had first-aid equipment. I had never seen it. Under the circumstances, first-aid would probably be last-aid. I tried to make him comfortable. I had to lean close to his mouth to hear him.
“What happened?”
“I told him. He listened, eyes barely open. When I finished, he made a noise, indicating he had understood, then said something. I bent closer.
“Why didn’t you shoot?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Stupid bastard.”
He lost consciousness again.
I went to the phone and tried to contact the Merryweather ground Gate. Spieler’s ship was still jamming communications. Somewhere in the process, the situation became a reality. Spieler would keep jamming the equipment until his ship disappeared through the focusing ring. Then? There wouldn’t be any then. Why didn’t you shoot? I couldn’t. Civilized, Collins. Very civilized.
I walked back to Dr. Higgins. He pointed at the screen. Spieler approached the bull’s-eye. What Spieler hoped to do six thousand light-years from Earth, other than outlive humanity, I didn’t know. Perhaps he had one of his girlfriends aboard his ship. Adam and Eve. It was the funniest thing I had ever heard. Tears came to my eyes. Dr. Higgins looked at me.
“What’s so funny?”
I couldn’t stop laughing. I pointed at the screen.
“That’s not funny at all,” said Dr. Higgins, frowning.
“Adam,” I said and dissolved, laughing.
“Adam?”
“I always thought,” I said, starting to hiccup, “Adam was a little crazy.”
Dr. Higgins looked at the screen. “He wasn’t the only one.”
Spieler’s ship disappeared. Wiping the tears from my cheeks, I looked at the “Duration” readout. X minus thirty seconds. My hiccups subsided. Not even enough time to call the ground. I walked to the observation wall. Below me, the focusing ring looked small and harmless. How would it start? Would the pulsar materialize as the rock had materialized, then suck us slowly to it? Would it appear, then nothing—gone in a split second?
I started to ask Dr. Higgins. He stood intently watching the screens.
Why burden him with useless questions. I glanced at Smith, unconscious on the floor. At least Smith had known why he was going to die. On Earth, they would never know. I looked at my watch. X minus three seconds. What can you think in three seconds? I stared out into space, watching the focusing ring. Enjoy the ride, Collins.
I glanced at my watch again. X plus three seconds. My watch needed cleaning. The thought almost started me laughing again. X plus thirty seconds. I looked over my shoulder.
“Dr. Higgins.”
“What?” he snapped, irritated at having his attention taken from the screens.
“What does that readout by your hand say?”
He looked at it. “Zero.”
“Impossible.”
“Look for yourself.”
I walked over to the control panel. “Duration” zero. Plain as day. In fact, six zeros. I looked at the “Power” readout. Minimum load. I looked at the screens. The focusing ring hung in space. I examined the background of stars. Nothing. Or rather, something. Stars. Small stars. No big ones up close.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“You don’t understand what?”
“We’re supposed to be dead now.”
“Maybe we are,” suggested Dr. Higgins.
I looked around. I had heard of snowballs in
hell, but not space stations. “No, I don’t think so.”
Dr. Higgins pinched himself. “I feel like I’m here.”
“Take my word for it,” I said. “You’re here.” I mused, dumbfounded. “You’re here and I’m here and Smith’s here, but the pulsar isn’t.”
I heard clattering footsteps in the corridor. Corona del Mar had reestablished matter transmitter contact with the station. I reached over and touched the “Power” plate. The light remained on. Spieler was still in the field. The instruments, designed to register objects considerably larger than a spacecraft, barely noticed his presence.
Captain Wilkins and a half dozen men charged into the control-room. Captain Wilkins came to an abrupt halt, staring at me.
“You!”
What could I say to that? I grinned. “None other.”
XVIII
Dolores and I visited Smith in the hospital. Emerging from the elevator on Smith’s floor, I felt like turning around and leaving. As soon as the doors opened, I saw H. Winton Tuttle pacing the corridor outside Smith’s room, a deep frown on his face. I would have to pass him to see Smith.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Dolores.
“That’s Harold.”
Harold saw me. Retreat, as they say, became impossible. He stopped pacing. He glanced at a gray-haired woman on a bench next to the wall, pointing down the corridor at me. His pointing finger quivered.
“That’s him!”
“Who, dear?” asked the woman. In a softened, middle-aged way, she faintly resembled Smith.
“Collins! He’s responsible for this!”
I introduced Dolores to Harold and his wife. Meeting Smith’s daughter was an odd experience. I thought of her as belonging to the generation ahead of me. I thought of her father, Smith, as my peer.
Reluctantly, Harold shook hands with Dolores, grumbling. There would be litigation, he assured me, substantial litigation over this matter.
“What matter?” I asked, wanting Dolores to hear his complaints and evaluate them.
Harold put both palms to his forehead, as if losing patience with an obstinate child. He looked at his wife, shaking his head in disbelief.
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