The Boat of a Million Years

by Poul Anderson

  “They might not want to, for whatever reason,” Macan-dal pointed out. “We’re completely ignorant.”

  “You’re forgetting the nature of those robots at Pha-eatia,” Svoboda said. “They’re not like the ones bound for Pegasi in the wake of messages beamed beforehand—great, intelligent, flexible machine minds intended to attempt con-versation with other minds able to understand what they are. The Phaeacia robots were designed and programmed to go there and collect information on that specific planetary system. Almost monomaniacs. If they noticed these neu-trino bursts en route, they paid no attention.” She smiled sardonically. “Not their department.”

  Yukiko nodded. ‘”Nobody can foresee everything,” she said. “Nothing can.”

  “But when we’re surprised, we can Investigate and learn.” Hanno’s words rang. “We can.”

  Their looks shot to him and struck fast, all but Svoboda’s. The color mounted in her cheeks.

  “What do you mean?” Tu Shan rumbled after several breaths.

  “You know what,” Hanno replied. “We’ll change course and go to Star Three.”

  “No!” Aliyat screamed. She half sprang to her feet, sank back down, and shuddered.

  “Think,” Hanno urged. “The diagram. That line between our course, this very point of our course, and Three. What is it but an invitation? They must be lonely too, and hopeful of hearing marvelous things. Pytheas calculated it. If we change direction now, we can reach them in about a dozen years, ship’s time. It’s three light-years more than we planned, but we are still at close to light speed and— A dozen little years, to meet the farers of the galaxy.”

  “But we only had four to go!”

  “Four years longer to our home.” Tu Shan knotted his fists on the tabletop. “How far from it would you take us?”

  Hanno hesitated. Svoboda answered: “Between Three and Phaeacia Sun is about three hundred light-years. From a standing start, sixteen or seventeen ship years. We won’t abandon our original purpose, only postpone it.”

  “The hell you say,” Wanderer rapped. “Whichever star we go to, we’ll need more antimatter before we can take off for anywhere else. Building the production plant and then making the stuff, that’s probably ten years by itself.”

  “The aliens should have plenty on hand.”

  “Should they? And will they share it, freely, just like that? How do you know? How can you tell what they want of us, anyway?”

  “Wait, wait,” Macandal broke in. “Let’s not get paranoid. Whatever they are, it can’t be monsters or, or bandits or anything evil. At their stage of civilization, that wouldn’t make sense.”

  “Now who’s being cocksure?” Aliyat shrilled.

  “What do we know about Star Three?” Yukiko asked.

  Her quietness smoothed bristles down a little. Hanno shook his head. “Not much, beyond its type and inferred age,” he admitted. “Being normal, it’s bound to have planets, but we have no information on them. Never been visited. My God, a sphere eight or nine hundred light-years across holds something like a hundred thousand stars.”

  “But you say this one’s not so bright as ours,” Macandal reminded him. “Then the chances that it’s got a planet where we could breathe are poor. Even with much better candidates—”

  The table thudded beneath Tu Shan’s smiting. “That is what matters,” he said. “After fifteen weary years, we were promised, we shall walk free on living ground. You would keep us locked in this hull for ... eight years longer than that, and then at journey’s end we still would be, for decades or centuries or forever. No.”

  “But this chance, we cannot pass it by,” Svoboda protested.

  Wanderer spoke crisply. “We won’t. Once we get to Phaeacia, we’ll have the robots build us a proper transceiver and send a beam to Three, start conversation. Eventually we’ll go there in person, those of us who care to. Or maybe the aliens will come to us.”

  Hanno’s countenance was stark. “I told you, it’s about three hundred light-years between Phaeacia and Three,” he said.

  Wanderer shrugged. “We have time ahead of us.”

  “If Phaeacia doesn’t kill us first. We were never guaranteed safety there, you know.”

  “Earth should be getting in touch too, once we’ve informed them,” Macandal said.

  Svoboda’s tone lashed. “Yes, by beam, and by robots that beam back. Who but us will ever go in person, and get to know the Others as they are?”

  “It is true,” Yukiko said. “Words and pictures alone, with centuries between, are good, but they are not enough. I think we here should understand that better than our fellow humans. We knew the dead of long ago as living bodies, minds, souls. To everyone else, what are they but relics and words?”

  Svoboda regarded her. “Then you want to set for Star Three?”

  “Yes, oh, yes.”

  Tu Shan’s look upon her was stricken. “Do you say that, Small Snow—Morning Glory?” He straightened. “Well, it shall not be.”

  “Absolutely not,” Patulcius vowed. “We have our community to found.”

  Aliyat caught his arm and leaned close against him. Her eyes defied Hanno. “Our homes to make,” she said.

  Macandal nodded. “It’s a hard decision, but ... we should go to Phaeacia first.”

  “And last?” Hanno retorted. “I tell you, if we let this chance escape us, we can very well never get it back. Do you want to change your mind, Peregrino?” Wanderer sat expressionless for a while before he answered, “It is a hard decision after all. The greatest, most important adventure in history, which we risk losing, against—what may be New Earth, a fresh start for our race. Which is better, the forest or the stars?” Again he was mute, brooding. Abruptly: “Well, I said it before. The stars can wait.”

  “Four against three,” Tu Shan reckoned, triumphant. “We continue as we were.” Softening: “I am sorry, friends.”

  Hanno’s voice, face, bearing went altogether bleak. “I was afraid of this. Please think again.”

  “I have had centuries to think,” Tu Shan said.

  “To wish for the Earth of the past, you mean,” Yukiko told him, “an Earth that never really was. No, you wouldn’t deny humankind such a chance for knowledge, for coming closer to oneness with the universe. That would be nothing but selfish. You are not a selfish person, dear.”

  He shook his head, ox-stubborn.

  “Humankind has waited a long time for contact, and on the whole has not actually shown much interest,” Patulcius said. “It can wait a while longer. Our first duty is to the children we shall have, and can have only on Phaeacia.”

  “They can better wait than this can,” Svoboda argued. “What we learn from the aliens, the help they give us, should make us the more secure when we do take our new home.”

  “The opportunity may well be unique,” Hanno joined in. “I repeat, the aliens at Three are likely few, and pretty newly arrived. Else the Web at Sol would have picked up trace of them, or spacecraft of theirs would have arrived there. Unless— But we simply don’t know. Are they necessarily settled at Three? If we don’t accept their invitation— and they have no way of telling whether we’ve gotten it— will they stay, or will they move on? And will they necessarily move on toward Sol?”

  “Will they necessarily still be at Three when we come?” countered Macandal. “If they are, will they necessarily be anything we can communicate with? No, it’s a long, dangerous detour for the sake of something that may be grand but may just as well prove futile. Let’s get on with our real business first.”

  “As the computers and overlords on Earth planned for us,” Hanno gibed. He turned toward Wanderer. “Wouldn’t you, Peregrine, like for once to do something that wasn’t planned, that broke through the whole damned scheme of the world today?”

  The other man sighed. “A tough call. Yes, I want to go to Three so bad I can taste it. And someday I hope to. But first and foremost, free life in a free nature—“ Pleadingly: “And I couldn’t do it t
o Corinne and Aliyat. I just can’t.”

  “You’re a knight,” Aliyat breathed.

  Yukiko smiled sadly. “Well, Hanno, Svoboda, we three are no worse off than we were yesterday, are we? Better, in fact, with a new dream before us.”

  “For someday,” Svoboda mumbled. She lifted her head. “I am not angry with you, my friends. I too am weary of machines and hungry for land. So be it.”

  The tension began to ease. Smiles flickered.

  “No,” said Hanno.

  Attention stabbed at him. He rose. “I am more sorry than you’ll ever guess,” he stated. “But I believe our need and our duty have changed. They are to go to Three. Till now, this venture was desperate. We pretended otherwise, but it was. Our chances looked about equal for perishing as miserably as the Norse did in Greenland, or settling into a sameness like the Polynesians in the Pacific.”

  “You promoted it,” Patulcius virtually accused.

  “Because I was desperate too. We all were. At least we’d be trying. We might, againsUthe odds, eventually fill our planet with people who kept on looking and searching outward. What had we to lose? Well, this day we’ve discovered what. The universe.

  “I am the captain. I am taking us to the Others.”

  Tu Shan was first onto his own feet. “You can’t!” he bellowed.

  “I can,” Hanno said. “Pytheas obeys me. I will order the course change at once. The sooner it’s made, the sooner—”

  “No, not against our will,” Wanderer interrupted.

  “It would be wrong,” Yukiko pleaded.

  Svoboda regarded Hanno with something akin to horror. “You, you don’t mean what you said,” she stammered.

  “Don’t you want me to do this?” he cast back.

  Her jaw clenched. “Not like that.”

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Still, I am going to issue the order. You’ll thank me afterward.”

  “Bozhe moi—“ She raised her voice. “Pytheas, you won’t .heed a single man, will you?”

  “He is captain,” replied the ship. “I must.”

  “No matter what?” Patulcius shouted. “Impossible!”

  “Such is the programming.”

  “You never told us,” Macandal whispered.

  ‘T didn’t expect the occasion would ever arise,” Hanno said, not quite firmly. “I arranged it as a provision in case of emergency, best kept secret till then.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Aliyat yelled. “This is the emergency! You’re making it yourself!”

  “Yes,” Wanderer said. Sweat studded his skin. “We didn’t bargain for a dictator, and we’re not going to knuckle under to any. We can’t.” He looked upward, as if to find another face in the air. “Pytheas, it’s become seven against one.”

  “That is not a consideration,” the ship answered.

  “It never was, at sea or anywhere men voyaged,” Hanno said. “It couldn’t be, if they were to make shore alive.”

  “What if the captain is—is incapacitated?” Wanderer called. “Insane?”

  Did the ship take a few extra microseconds to scan its bio-psychologieal database and draw its conclusion? “Derangement is impossible for any of you without the severest trauma,” it declared. “That has not occurred.”

  Tu Shan snarled. He started around the table. “It can. A dead captain doesn’t give orders.”

  Svoboda moved to block him. “Now you’re the crazy one,” she groaned. He sought to push her aside. She resisted. “Help me! A fight, no, we can’t!”

  Wanderer joined her. They gripped Tu Shan by the arms. He halted. The wind sobbed hi and out of him.

  “See what you nearly caused, Hanno.” Macandal spoke softly, though tears coursed down her cheeks. “Your command would destroy us. You can’t issue it.”

  “Can and will.” The Phoenician stepped to the doorway, turned back toward them, stood alert but unmoving. His tone mildened. “Once the decision’s made, you won’t go tq pieces. I know you too well to believe you would. Nor will you try violence against me. You realize you can’t spare one-eighth of our strength, one-fourth of the forefathers to come. And I am the one of us who’s held command, not simply leadership but command, hi ships and wars, trades and ventures beyond what was known, over and over for thousands of years. Without me, your survival on Phaeacia or anywhere else is more than doubtful.”

  Gentler still: “Oh, I’m no superman. All of you have your own special gifts, and we need them all. I’m as open as ever >.’ to your thoughts, advice—yes, your wishes. But someone has to take the final responsibility. Someone always had to. The captain.

  “We’ve another dozen years ahead of us, with God knows what at the end. Don’t make them any harder on yourselves if than they must be.”

  He left. The seven stood mute, half stupefied. At last § Wanderer released Tu Shan, as Svoboda did, and said dully, “He’s right about that. We have no choice.” I’ “The course change process will commence in an hour,” i Pytheas announced. “In order to conserve fuel and minimize the undesired vector, it begins at that time with going free. Please make ready for a weightless period of approximately six hours.”

  “That ... is ... it,” Aliyat choked. Hanno returned. They knew he had sought the control room partly to look at its displays, as if that mattered, but mainly as a sign unto them. “We’d better get busy,” he said. “Here, I have printout copies of a checklist. Done is done. We’re on our p way.” He half smiled. “Not everybody hates this.”

  “Perhaps not,” Svoboda replied. Sobaka. You dog. You total son of a bitch.” She took Wanderer by the hand.

  22

  And Christ appeared before Aliyat where she knelt. His aadiance was not what she had imagined, brilliant as desert noonday; it filled the darkened hollowness of the church With a blue dusk and the last sunset gold. Almost, she Brought she heard bells from a caravan returning home. Warmth glowed into the stones beneath and around her. JNor was his visage gaunt and stern. In the West (she had Heard?) they showed him like this, a man who had tramped loads, shared wine and honeycomb, taken small children jjoto his lap. He smiled when he bent over her and with his shirt sleeve dried the tears off her face.

  Straightening again, he said—oh, tenderly, “Because you have kept your vigil, though the smoke of Hell blew about you, I have heard the prayer you dared not utter. For a time and a time, that which was lost shall be restored to you, and the latter end blessed more than the beginning.” He lifted both scarred hands on high. “Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.”

  He was gone. Young Barikai sprang down from the beraa and raised her into his arms. “Beloved!” he jubilated before she stopped his mouth with hers.

  Together they went out. Tadmor slumbered beneath a full moon, which frosted spires and dappled paving stones. A horse waited. Mane and tail were streams of moon-silver. Barikai swung into the saddle. He reached down. She answered his clasp by soaring up to settle against him.

  Briefly, hoofs rang, then the horse leaped aloft and galloped the ways of air. Wind lulled. Stars gleamed soft, everywhere around, in violet heaven. Aliyat’s loosened hair blew backward to make a tent for her and Barikai. She was drunk with the odor of him, the strength that held her, the seeking lips. “Where are we bound?” she asked.

  “Home.” His laugh pealed. “But not at once!”

  They hastened onward, around the curve of the world into morning. His castle gleamed on its mountaintop. The horse came to rest in a courtyard of mosaics and flowers where a fountain danced. Aliyat gave them scant heed. Later she noticed that she had been unaware whether the servants who met their lord and lady had bodies.

  They did provide feast, music, spectacle, when such was wanted. Otherwise Aliyat and Barikai kept to themselves, tireless until they fell embraced into a half-sleep from which they roused joyous.

  That happiness grew calmer, love lingered more and more, so that at last it was a new bliss when he said, “Now let us go home.”

  Their horse
brought them there at dawn. The household was just coming awake and nobody saw the arrival. Indeed, it was as if nothing had happened and they had never been away. Manu received her hug with some surprise, then much boyish dignity. Little Hairan took it for granted.

  She savored ordinariness for the rest of the day and evening, minute by minute, each presence and place, task and talk, question and decision, everything that she owned and that owned her. When the final lamp guided her and Barikai to bed, she was ready for his words: “I think best you sleep, truly sleep, this night and beyond.”

  “Hold me until I do,” she asked of him. He did, with kisses. “Come not back too soon,” he said once, against her cheek. “That would be unwise.”

  “I know—“ She drifted from him. j Opening her eyes after a time outside of time, she found she was crying. Maybe this had been a bad idea. Maybe she should not go back ever. Come on, old girl, she thought. Stop this. You promised Corinne you’d help her with that tapestry she wants to make. Uncoupling, she left the booth where she had lain but stood for a space more in the dream chamber, busy. Good habit, carrying a makeup kit in a purse. Sessions here did sometimes touch pretty near the bone. Well, she learned long ago how to cover the traces.

  Svoboda was passing by in the corridor. “Hello,” said Aliyat. She was about to move on when the other woman plucked her sleeve.

  “A moment, if you please,” Svoboda requested.

  “Uh, sure.” Aliyat glanced away.

  Svoboda didn’t take the hint. “Don’t resent this. I must try it. You should go in there less often.”

  Anger quivered. “Everybody else says it. Why not you? I know what I’m doing.”

  “Well, I can’t prescribe for you, but—”

  “But you’re afraid I’m curling up in a ball and someday I won’t be able to uncurl.” Aliyat inhaled. Suddenly she felt like speaking. “Listen, dear. You’ve been in situations in the past where you had to go away from yourself.”

  Svoboda paled a bit. “Yes.”

  “I have a lot more than you. I know them pretty thoroughly, believe me. The dream box is a better escape than booze or dope or—“ Aliyat grinned—“closing my eyes and flunking of England.”