The Black Hole

by Alan Dean Foster

  "And then we can offer you the means of returning to Earth, Doctor." Durant eyed him respectfully. "In something less than three hundred years. As to your reception, I wouldn't be overly concerned. In the years you've spent out here you must have learned much that is new. You'll be warmly greeted on your return, sir."

  "That is a matter of difference between you and your friend Mr. Booth," Reinhardt replied matter-of-factly. "What makes you think I want to return, Dr. Durant?"

  After a long moment of stunned silence, Durant spoke again, trying not to sound patronizing. "Sir, I understand your feelings about the Cygnus and the possibility of an, ah, ambivalent reception back on Earth. Believe me, I sympathize. You seem to have made your peace with the Universe out here." He indicated the dim silhouettes working steadily at the far consoles, then the hovering mass of the robot Maximillian.

  "You also seem to have forged a workable relationship with your companions, who all will outlive you. But surely you realize that no matter how comfortable you have managed to make yourself, the Cygnus is in constant danger of being swallowed up and destroyed by that." He pointed to the magnificent image of the black hole on the main viewscreen off to one side.

  Reinhardt seemed less than somber. In fact, he appeared amused by Durant's concern. "Ah, yes, your captain was worried about that, too. There is no cause for alarm.

  "As you have already discovered, the Cygnus and the section of space immediately surrounding it are immune to such danger. I developed, after many years of research and experimentation, a system-field which enables us to resist gravity even of the strength we are exposed to here.

  "There were three auxiliary survey ships attached to the Cygnus. The crew used two in their apparently ill-fated attempt to return to Earth. The third has served me as an experimental vessel with which to explore such ideas as the gravity-field nullifier."

  "You can negate gravity, then?" Durant was gaping at him.

  "No, Dr. Durant, not at all. That accomplishment involves aspects of field theory too esoteric even for me. Someday, perhaps . . . but not yet. For now, anti-gravity is an impossibility according to the laws of known physics. I cannot negate gravity, but I can nullify its effect by influencing the gravity waves." He paused for a moment to let the sense of what he had just said sink in.

  "They are 'bent'—that is an oversimplification, but will do for now—around the Cygnus and around any vessel or other solid object within the zone of field influence. Occasionally, outside forces and conditions may temporarily cause the field to narrow or expand. This field fluctuation is what nearly caused your destruction."

  Durant was rubbing his lower lip with a forefinger. "That explains the calm around your ship. How powerful a gravity well can you defy?"

  "That is the question, isn't it, Doctor?" Reinhardt replied cryptically. "So far, theory and experiment seem to indicate that the greater the gravity, the narrower the field collapses around the Cygnus. But as the field narrows, it intensifies. I do not fully understand the mechanics behind this wave compression. Only that it exists.

  "At some point it would seem that the gravity must overwhelm the field and destroy the ship hiding behind it. Calculations indicate that beyond a certain point the field can no longer be compressed. It becomes an invulnerable, inflexible barrier to the gravity surging around it.

  "At this point the field influences the very fabric of space tangential to it. Exactly how that influence manifests itself I am not yet certain, but I have reason and equations to believe that it results in an incredible increase in the velocity of anything inside the field. If you apply increasing pressure with two fingers to a bean, one of two things happens. The bean's protective skin—its 'field,' if you will—collapses under the pressure and the bean is smashed. But if the skin-field is strong enough . . ."

  "The bean squirts forward free of your fingers," Durant concluded.

  "Exactly." Reinhardt looked pleased with himself. "And that, my friends, is what I postulate will happen when the field is compressed to its maximum. It will cause whatever it envelops to burst forward to escape the immense gravitational pressure, providing that object with a remarkable and sudden increase in speed."

  "Interesting theory." Holland spoke pragmatically, his emphasis on the word "theory." "We were broadcasting to you from the time we identified this ship as the Cygnus. If you were monitoring us constantly, as you say, you must have received our signals. I'm not sure I accept your statement about caution in the face of unexpected visitors as sufficient reason for ignoring us. If you were monitoring us closely enough to learn our names, you must have also learned that our intentions were only friendly. Why didn't you at least respond to our calls?"

  "There was my aforementioned fear of deception, Captain." Reinhardt sounded irritated, possibly because Holland had not reacted as expected to the glory of the gravity-field nullifier. "Also, while my receiving instrumentation is mostly repaired, I have not yet been able to conclude final restoration of the Cygnus's broadcast facilities.

  "You will recall that I told you the particle storm destroyed all such on-board equipment. Yes, I was able to monitor your approach quite thoroughly. It was most frustrating being unable to reply."

  Pizer did not bother to conceal his suspicion of this explanation, and was upset that Holland appeared to swallow it.

  "I wish to prove my good faith. Particularly to you, Mr. Pizer." The first officer looked startled. Apparently Reinhardt could interpret particle counts and expressions with equal alacrity.

  "You've indicated you're in a hurry to depart and do not wish to impose on me. Very well. Though your presence is surely no imposition, I want to help you in whatever way I can. Maximillian will take you to ship's Stores. You may requisition whatever you need to repair your ship, Captain."

  Holland didn't try to conceal his delight "That's very generous of you."

  Reinhardt shrugged, sounded modest. "I do not own the Cygnus or her contents, Captain Holland. I am only her commander. The ship itself and its contents are the property of the ESRC. You have as much right to her store of material as anyone. I believe you mentioned that your difficulties lay with your regeneration system?"

  Holland nodded.

  "You should find everything you need, though I fear some of the modular instrumentation and smartparts are twenty years or so out of date."

  "Thanks. Well manage."

  "I'm certain you will." He looked over at Durant. "Meanwhile, I think I can assure you and Dr. McCrae of enough information to make your mission one of historic importance. When I said I did not plan to return to Earth, I had no intention of reserving what I have learned over the past two decades to myself. You shall have the honor of bearing news of my discoveries home and confronting the surviving critics of the Cygnus's mission with them. It will do my soul good to know that such knowledge will be transported by friendly hands."

  Durant was thirsting for revelations from the hand of the master. Though initially depressed by Reinhardt's confirmation of her father's death, McCrae, too, was growing interested. Although they had not located intelligent alien life, the new information they had gathered in eighteen months, if coupled with the twenty years of research the Cygnus had carried out, would be more than enough to make their journey a grand success. Furthermore, she could lay some of the credit at her father's feet. Surely Reinhardt would not refuse his old friend a share of the glory he himself seemed determined not to accept in person.

  Reinhardt, pleased with their reaction, began giving instructions to the giant mechanical. "Take them back to Maintenance, Maximillian. See that they are issued whatever they require from Stores. Except weapons." He smiled at Pizer. "Your own will be returned to you, or replaced, when you are ready to depart."

  They started for the elevator. There was a grinding noise and Holland turned sharply.

  Vincent had moved slowly to leave, and in doing so had inadvertently crossed Maximillian's path. The huge bulk had nudged the smaller machine off balance. Vincent
stopped, sent a stream of lights flickering in challenge. Maximillian leaned on him, and again Holland heard the abrasive sound of metal scraping metal.

  "Back off, Vincent," Pizer ordered the robot. "What's the point? We have to get to Maintenance. Back off, now."

  "Not until he does."

  "You're not programmed for adolescent behavior," the exasperated Pizer continued, eying Maximillian with concern. He wondered exactly how much control Reinhardt did exercise over the monolithic construction. "When you're nose to nose with a trash compactor, you cool it"

  Vincent didn't budge. Maximillian leaned, bringing his weight to bear. Vincent's servos began to whine in protest over the load.

  Holland didn't intend to permit the situation to go any farther. "Call him off, Reinhardt."

  The commander of the Cygnus appeared amused by, the confrontation. He seemed content to let the conflict play itself out. "A classic confrontation: David and Goliath. Except this time, David is overmatched."

  "I said, call him off." Holland did not find the situation amusing at all.

  "On my ship, you ask, Captain." Reinhardt said it without anger.

  Maximillian moved forward slightly, crowding the smaller machine toward the elevator wall. Reinhardt abruptly tired of the game.

  "That's enough, Maximillian. Remember, these are our guests, be they organic or otherwise."

  With apparent reluctance the giant moved slowly aside and turned toward the lift. Holland wondered what other bits of bellicose programming had been entered into the robot's memory.

  He whispered hurriedly to McCrae. "Communications problems aside, and allowing for reasonable suspicion on his part, I still think he waited a long time to show any lights." Then, louder, "Take care while we're gone."

  She smiled thinly, as if to say she took care all the time, then moved toward Durant and Reinhardt, deep in conversation. Holland heard her asking something about hypothetical curvatures of natural gravity waves versus artificial inducements as she joined the scientists.

  Pizer was waiting near the elevator door. It opened for them as Holland arrived. "Those other robots, the smaller ones that escorted me up here? They aren't any more friendly than Dr. Frankenstein's monster." He gestured at Maximillian.

  "Don't worry." Vincent had assumed a cocky air. "One or a hundred, I can handle them. They're badly outmoded. I'm a much more efficient model."

  Pizer's eyes appealed to heaven, which above the transparent dome of the elevator shaft seemed not so very distant. Lights flickered across Maximillian's chest in a sequence that hinted he had clearly understood Vincent's words—and had filed them for future reference.

  "Smile when you say that, Vincent." Holland was watching Maximillian.

  Vincent hesitated, but the look in Holland's eyes did not at all match his superficially benign expression. Reluctantly, the robot gave a polite twinkle of his own lights. If Maximillian accepted the gesture, or even understood it, he offered no sign in return.

  The elevator descended in silence.

  Reinhardt escorted his three guests slowly around the circumference of the command tower, explaining the function of each console and station, interpreting readouts that puzzled them, patiently answering every one of their questions, including those his expression indicated he thought foolish.

  To Durant the most impressive thing about the tower was not the plethora of instrumentation, with backups for backups, nor the steady flow of information being correlated and stored by the Cygnus's research banks. It was the speed and efficiency with which every function was being carried out. Nor did he espy a single unit, screen or gauge out of order. Everything operated smoothly after twenty years in space. To him that was far more impressive than what the instruments were actually functioning for.

  "This doesn't appear to be the crippled ship you described to us, Doctor. For one that supposedly suffered such extensive damage . . ."

  "We repaired it, and it became operable again," Reinhardt told him firmly. "Much of the work was accomplished before the decision was made by the rest of the crew to try to return to Earth in the survey craft. The final difficulties with the engines defeated them.

  "Subsequent repair and maintenance have been performed by my mechanical companions, under my supervision. A ship like the Cygnus must necessarily carry a large contingent of repair robots. My assistance is needed only on rare occasions now, to interpret highly unorthodox problems. I had time to do nothing but work on the problems with the engines, you must remember.

  "By now the Cygnus and her machines run themselves quite nicely, repairing one another, caring for one another, maintaining one another."

  "But always subject to your directives."

  Reinhardt executed a slight bow. "I sometimes feel that I am only another cog in the Cygnus machine, Dr. Durant. I am the repair unit of last recourse, the one who interprets what cannot be predicted. In that respect, the mechanicals flatter me. They are programmed to serve the crew. As I am the sole surviving member of that crew, they obey me. The fact that I am the ship's commander enhances that obedience. I do not command them. They serve me. There is a difference."

  Gallantly taking McCrae's arm, he turned and led the three of them toward another elevator.

  "So you repaired the destruction as best you could, including your receiving and monitoring equipment but not your broadcast facilities." Booth was speaking as much for the benefit of his recorder as for himself. "But you never acknowledged any of the subsequent orders to return to Earth."

  "The crew made that choice. As to myself . . . be fair now, Mr. Booth. It was the Cygnus the authorities wanted back. Not me. As I've said, the Cygnus was incapable of returning."

  "But she isn't any more? You spoke about your work on her engines."

  "It's hard to say. The machines have managed to repair much of the damage caused by the particle storm, thanks to new discoveries we've made subsequent to the departure of the crew. Frank McCrae was largely responsible for many of them." He smiled pleasantly at McCrae.

  "Assuming I could return the Cygnus to Earth in a reasonable time, Mr. Booth, there are considerations that prevent me from doing so. Other worlds are yet to be explored. There are life dreams unrealized."

  "If this ship is now able to make it back to Earth and you refuse to obey orders by not making every effort to comply"—Booth hesitated only an instant—"the authorities would consider that an act of piracy, Doctor."

  The reporter had a way of breaking through Reinhardt's Spartan exterior. One hand clenched convulsively, relaxing only slightly as the doctor spoke.

  "You do have a way with words, Mr. Booth. I had thought I was immune to such petty criticisms and response-active words. Years of solitude have apparently weakened my armor. You should be proud of your talents."

  "Thanks," Booth said dryly. "They usually enable me to dig out the truth."

  "One day you may dig too deep, Mr. Booth. You run the risk of cave-in."

  "I'll take my chances. What about my analysis?"

  "Certain shortsighted individuals have often interpreted the pursuit of great discoveries as piracy. I am about to prove to you that the ends of science justify the means of science. To be what we are, to become what we are capable of becoming, is the only end in life. I am risking only my own life to prove that. Without purpose this great craft is nothing, a free-floating junkyard, reworked metal ores and as purposeless as the ores still wasting away in the ground. With purpose it becomes an instrument of man. With purpose, I can call myself a man. Those men unwilling to commit themselves to a high purpose are only shadows of men, as the ores are but hints of the refined metals they may one day become."

  Durant nodded knowingly at this little speech, his attitude that of an acolyte preparatory to being ordained. McCrae acted noncommittal.

  This is a dangerous man, Harry Booth thought to himself. He knew well that throughout history any human being who had ever adhered publicly to the principle that "the end justified the means" had proved hi
mself dangerous. It was a law as immutable as the energy-mass equations, and about as explosive.

  The elevator had carried Holland, Pizer and Vincent below the level of the cross-ship air-car corridor that had brought them to the command tower. Now they were in the depths of the vast city-ship, traveling on foot down a much narrower passageway.

  Looking around, Holland saw transparent ports and cylinders, part of the superstructure of the great ship. He recalled many years ago the appellation some eager reporter had hung on the Cygnus: the bridge of glass. The bridge to the stars.

  Mankind had since learned that small bridges would serve its designs as well as great ones. Reinhardt had been right about one thing, though. They were not as pretty.

  Holland shrugged. People had starved themselves before in order to honor properly their gods, had gone without food to decorate their temples. The Cygnus was a monument to another god, a faster-than-light temple of another kind.

  With Reinhardt, he mused, as the High Priest. Reinhardt would be remembered as master of two disciplines: science and salesmanship. Holland was willing to regard him as a friend, assuming the commander of the Cygnus was telling the truth and would truly help them to repair the Palomino.

  Despite the fact that Reinhardt seemed to be the only human aboard, the ports they passed showed evidence of considerable activity. Intership air cars and other transports raced back and forth, carrying robots of varying size and shape to unknown destinations for unrevealed purposes.

  Ahead, a group of small maintenance robots appeared and sped by, clinging to a vehicle that itself possessed a simple mechanical brain.

  Holland watched them vanish down the corridor behind them. The whine of their transport receded into the distance, echoing in their wake like the last drops of a fading spring shower.

  Pizer noted all the activity, too. He glanced up at the alloyed mastodon convoying them. "Pretty busy around here, aren't you, Max? Awful lot of activity for a ship that doesn't seem to be going anywhere, and I know old Reinhardt doesn't require this much service. What are you gearing up for? Expecting some more company, maybe? Or afraid of it?"