"Shucks, I know that. I am an engineer, they tell me."
"But my point is," Goldspring said, "There would not have been any corresponding difficulty in assimilating the theory of the transistor. Any good physicist could have learned everything about solid-state phenomena in a few months. All he'd need would be the texts and a few instruments.
"Likewise, when the Monwaingi came, Terrestrial science leap-frogged a thousand years or more, almost overnight. Terrestrial technology was what lagged. And not by much, at that. Ramri often remarked to me how astonished he was at our rate of modernization."
"Okay, then, I concede," Donnan said. "I'll assume you brought a fresh viewpoint to this interference fringe subject and really have stumbled onto something that none of our neighbors ever thought of. But you can't make me believe that in the entire galaxy, throughout its history, you are unique."
"Oh, no, certainly not. My discovery (if, I repeat, it is a discovery and not a blind alley) must have been duplicated hundreds of times. It just didn't happen to have been duplicated locally. And the knowledge hasn't spread into our part of the galaxy. That's not surprising either. Who could keep up with a fraction of the intellectual activity on several million civilized planets? Why, I'll bet there are a billion professional journals—or equivalent thereof—published every day."
"Yeah." Donnan smiled rather sadly. "I know," he remarked, "when I was a kid in my teens, just before the Monwaingi came, I went on a science fiction kick. I must've read hundreds of stories where there were races traveling between the stars while humans had barely reached the nearer planets of their own system. But I can't recall one that ever guessed the truth—the bloody simple obvious truth of the case. Always, if the Galactics noticed us, they were benevolent secret guardians; or not-so-benevolent keepers; or kept strictly hands off. In some stories they did land openly, as the Monwaingi and the rest actually did. But as near as I remember, in the stories this was always a prelude to inviting Earth into the Galactic Federation.
"Hell, why should there be a Federation? Why should anyone give a hoot about us? Couldn't those writers see how big the universe is?"
—Big indeed. The diameter of this one galaxy is some hundred thousand light-years, the maximum width about ten thousand. It includes on the order of a hundred billion stars, at least half of which have at least one life-bearing planet. A goodly percentage of these latter also sustain intelligent life.
Sol lies approximately thirty thousand light-years from galactic center, where the stars begin to thin out toward emptiness; a frontier region, which the most rapidly expanding civilization of space travelers would still be slow to reach. And no such civilization could expand rapidly anyhow. There are too many stars.
At some unknown time in some unknown place, someone created the first superlight spaceship. Or perhaps it was created independently, many times and places. No one knows. Probably no one will ever know; there are too many archives in too many languages to search. But in any event, the explorers went forth. They visited, studied, mapped, traded. Most of the races they found were primitive—or, if civilized, were not interested in space travel for themselves. Some few had the proper degree of industrialization and the proper attitude of outwardness. They learned from the explorers. Why should they not? The explorers had nothing to fear from these strangers, who paid them well for instruction. There is plenty of room in space. Besides, a complete planet is self-sufficient, both economically and politically.
From these newly awakened worlds, then, a second generation of explorers went forth. They had to go further than the first; planets of interest to them lay far, far away, lost in a wilderness of suns whose worlds were barren, or savage, or too foreign for intercourse. But eventually someone, at an enormous distance from their home, learned space technology in turn from them.
Thus the knowledge radiated, through millennia: but not like a wave of light from a single candle. Rather it spread like dandelion seeds, blown at random, each seed which takes root begetting a cluster of offspring. A newly civilized planet (by that time, "civilization" was equated in the minds of spacefarers with the ability to travel through space) would occupy itself with its nearer neighbors. Occasionally there was contact with one of the other loose astro-politico-economic clumps. But the contact was sporadic. There was no economic force to maintain it; and culturally, these dusters soon diverged too much.
And once in a while, some daring armada—traders looking for a profit, explorers looking for knowledge, refugees looking for a home, or persons with motives less comprehensible to a human—would make the big jump and start yet another nucleus of civilization.
Within each such nucleus, a certain unity prevailed. There was trading; for, while no planet had to supply another with necessities, the materials of comfort, luxury, amusement, and research were in demand. There was tourism. There was a degree of interchange in science, art, religion, fashion. Sometimes there was war.
But beyond the nucleus, the cluster, there was little or nothing. No mind could possibly deal with all the planets in space. The number was so huge. A spacefaring people must needs confine serious attention to their own vicinity, with infrequent small ventures beyond. Anything more would have been impossible. The civilization-clusters were never hostile to each other. There was nothing to be hostile about. Conflicts occurred among neighbors, not among strangers who saw each other once a year, a decade, or a century.
Higgledy-piggledy, helter-skelter, civilization spread out among the stars. A million clusters, comprising one to a hundred planets each, furnished the only pattern there was. Between the clusters as wholes, no pattern whatsoever existed. A spaceship could cross the galaxy in months; but a news item, if sensational enough to make the journey at all, might take a hundred years.
There was little enough pattern within any given cluster. It was no more than a set of planets, not too widely separated, which maintained some degree of fairly regular contact with each other. These planets might have their own colonies, dependencies, or newly discovered spheres of influence, as Earth had been for Monwaing. But there was no question of a single culture for the whole cluster, or any sort of overall government. And never forget: any planet is a world, as complex and mysterious in its own right, as full of its own patterns and contradictions and histories, as ever Earth was.
No wonder the speculative writers had misunderstood their own assumptions. The universe was too big for them—
Donnan shook himself and forced his mind back to practicalities. "Think we might find some use for this prospective gadget of yours?" he asked.
"For a whole series of gadgets, you mean," Goldspring said. "Sure. That was why I tackled the math so hard after . . . after we came back and saw. If we aren't simply to become a bunch of hirelings, we'll need something special to sell." He paused. One hand went to his beard and tugged until the physical pain outweighed what was within. "Also," he said, "one day we'll know who killed five billion human beings. I don't think whoever that was should go unpunished."
"You'll vote, then, to stay in this local cluster? The guilty party must belong to it. Nobody from another cluster would mount a naval operation like that. Too far; no reason to."
"That's obvious." Goldspring nodded jerkily. "And out of the planets that even knew Earth existed, there are really only three possible suspects. Kandemir, Vorlak, and the Monwaing complex. The last two don't make sense either." He bit his lip. "But what does, in this universe?"
"I'll buck for sticking around myself," Donnan agreed, "though I got a kind of different reason. You see—Hullo, there's the end of our stroll."
They had mounted a high dune overlooking the sheltered valley in which the men had pitched camp. Even from this distance, the tents around the upright spears of the auxiliary boats looked slovenly. A dust cloud hung in the air above. A lot of movement, to raise that much. . . . Donnan broke out his field glasses. He stared for so long that Goldspring began to fidget. When he lowered them, the physicist snatched them while
Donnan's mouth formed a soundless whistle.
"I don't understand," Goldspring said. "Looks like an assembly. Everyone seems to be gathered near Boat One. But—"
"But they're boiling around like ants whose nest was just stove in," Donnan snapped. "Seems as if we got back barely in time. Come on!"
His stocky form broke into a jogtrot. Goldspring braced himself and followed. For the next few miles they made no sound but footfalls and harshening breath.
The camp was near riot when they arrived. Three hundred men surged and yelled around the lead boat. Its passenger lock, high in the bows, stood open. The gangladder had been partially extended to form a rostrum, where Lieutenant Howard, the second mate, jittered among a squad of marines. Now and then he fumbled at a microphone. But the P.A. only amplified his stutters and the growling and shouting on the ground soon overwhelmed him. The marines stood alert, rifles ready. Under the overshadowing battle helmets, their faces looked white and very young.
Men clamored. Men talked to their fellows, argued, shouted, stamped off in a rage or struck blows which drew blood. Here and there a man who happened to have a gun stood as a sullen shield for a few of the timid. Two corpses sprawled near a tent. One had been shot. The other was too badly trampled for Donnan to be sure what had happened. Occasionally, above the hubbub, a pistol cracked. Warning shots only, Donnan hoped.
"What's going on?" Goldspring groaned. "What's happened, Carl—in God's name—"
Donnan stopped before a clump of peaceful men. He recognized them as scientists and technicians, mostly, huddled together, eyes glassy with shock. Their guardian was the planetographer Easterling, who had found an automatic rifle somewhere. He poked the muzzle in Donnan's direction. "Move along," he rapped. "We don't want any trouble."
"Nor me, Sam." Donnan kept hands well away from his own pistol. "I just returned. Been away the better part of a week, me and Arnold here. What the hell broke loose?"
Easterling lowered his weapon. He was a big young Negro; an ancient fear had doubled his bitterness at this violence which seethed toward explosion. But Donnan's manner eased his hostility. He had to raise his voice as a fresh babble of shouts—"Kill the swine! Kill the swine!"—broke loose from a score of men gathered some yards off. But his tone became steadier:
"Huh! No wonder you look so bug-eyed. Hell's the right word, man. All hell let out for noon. Half of 'em want to hang Yule and half of 'em want to give him a medal . . . and they're split apart on the question of where to go and what to do anyway, so this has turned arguments into fights. We had one riot a few hours back. It sputtered out when the marines beat off an attack on the boat. But now another attack's building up. When they've got enough nerve together, they'll try again to lynch Yule. Then the pro-Yules'll hit the lynchers from behind, I s'pose. Those who want to go to Monwaing and those who want to hide in some other cluster are close to blows on that difference too. Me, I hope we here can stay out of harm's way till the rest have knocked some sense back into each other. Come join us, we need sober men."
"I never thought—" Goldspring covered his eyes. "The best men the whole United States could find . . . they said . . . men come to this!"
Donnan spat. "With Earth gone, and a commander whose nerve went to pieces, I'm not surprised. What touched this mob action off, Sam? Where is the captain, anyway?"
"Dead," Easterling answered flatly. "We did get the whole story this morning, before the situation went completely to pot. Seems Bowman, the exec, made a pass at Yule. Or so Yule claims. Yule tried to kill him, barehanded. Bowman had a gun, but Yule got it away from him. Captain Strathey came running to stop the fight. The gun went off. An accident, probably . . . only then Yule proceeded to shoot Bowman too, with no doubt about malice aforethought. A couple of marines jumped him—too late. He's confined in Boat One now for court-martial. Lieutenant Howard assumed command. But as the day wore on, most of the camp stopped listening to him."
"I was afraid of something like this," Donnan breathed. "Yule wasn't scared of Bowman, I'll bet; he could've said no and let the matter rest. He was scared of himself. So are a lot of those guys milling around there."
"I wish we'd all died with Earth," Goldspring choked.
"To hell with that noise," Donnan said. "Those are good men. Good, you hear? Nothing wrong with 'em except they've had the underpinnings, and props and keystones and kingposts, knocked out from their lives. Strathey was the one who failed. He should have provided something new, immediately, to take up the slack and give the wound a chance to heal. Howard's failing 'em still worse. Why the blue blazes does he stand there gibbering? Why don't he take charge?"
"How?" Easterling's teeth flashed in a wolf grin.
"By not quacking at everybody but addressing himself directly to the ones like you, that he can see have got more self-control than average," Donnan said. "Organize them into an anti-riot guard. Issue clubs and tear gas bombs. Break a few heads, maybe, if he has to; but restore order before this thing gets completely out of hand. And then, stop asking them what they think we ought to do. Tell them what we're going to do."
"I think," said a man behind Easterling, very softly, "that Howard planned to get married when he came home."
"That's no excuse," Donnan replied. "Or if it is, we need somebody who doesn't make excuses."
Goldspring watched him for a long moment; and bit by bit, all their eyes swung to him. No one spoke.
Me? Donnan thought wildly. Me?
But I'm nobody. Ranch kid, tramp, merchant seaman, then an engineering degree and a bunch of jobs around the world. A few investments got me a bit of money that's now gone in smoke, and I made friends with a Senator who's now ash in the lava. I wanted badly enough to get on the Franklin—as what man didn't who had any salt in his blood?—that I lobbied for myself for six months. So I got an assignment, to study any interesting outplanet mechanical techniques we might happen upon. I did, on a dozen planets in four separate civilization-clusters; but anyone in my profession could have done as well. It wasn't important anyway. The Franklin's real purpose was to get a sketch of a beginning of a ghost of an idea of the galaxy, its layout and characteristics, beyond what we'd learned from Monwaing. And to develop American spacefaring techniques. Both of which purposes became meaningless when America sank.
Me take over? I'd only get killed trying.
Donnan wet his lips. For a moment his heartbeat drowned the mob noise. He brought the pulse under control, but he must still husk a few times before he could say, "Okay, let's get started."
PIVP
O western wind, when wilt thou blow.
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
—Anon. (16th century)
As the Europa matched vectors, the missile became visible to unaided eyes. Sigrid Holmen looked from her pilot board and saw the shark form, still kilometers away but magnified by the screen, etched against blackness and thronged stars. Her finger poised on the emergency thrust button. Something would go wrong, she told herself wildly, it would, and no human muscles could close the engine circuit fast enough for the ship to escape. To travel so far and then return to be killed!
But did that matter? herself answered in uprushing anguish. When Earth was an ember, when hills and forests were vanished, when every trace of her folk from the time they entered the land to hunt elk as the glaciers melted to the hour when Father and Mother bade her good-bye in their old red-roofed house . . . when everything was gone? One senseless kick of some cosmic boot, and the whole long story came to an end and had all, all been for nothing.
Hatred of the murderers crowded out fear and grief alike. Hatred focused so sharply on the thing which pursued her ship that it seemed the steel must melt.
Steadily, then, her finger rested. She watched the missile drift across her view as it checked acceleration to change course. She watched it begin to overhaul again. Still the Europa plodded away from dead Earth at a sto
lid five gravities; and still Chief Gunnery Officer Vukovic crouched immobile over her instruments, adjusting her controls. Time stretched until Sigrid felt time must rip across.
"Bien," Alexandra Vukovic said, and punched a button of her own. The slugs that hosed from No. One turret were not visible, but she leaned back and reached into her shapeless uniform tunic. She even grinned a little. The pack of cigarets was not yet out of her pocket when the slugs struck. From end to end they smote the missile. Thermite plus oxidizer seamed it with white fire. Sigrid watched the thin plates torn open, curling as if in agony. Good! she exulted. The missile dropped from view. She cut paragrav thrust and asked the radar officer, Katrina Tenbroek, for a reading. The Dutch girl forced herself out of a white-faced daze and reported the missile had ceased acceleration.
To Outlive Eternity Page 44