Now it’s time for me to close. The course of events will one day reveal my identity, at which time we may meet and you will rely on me then the way I’m relying on you now.
Pirx reread parts of the letter, then carefully folded it, slipped it back into its envelope, and locked it in his desk drawer. Imagine, an electronically wired Genghis Khan! he thought. Promises me his blessing—when he gets to be ruler of the world. Mighty generous of him! Either Burns was feeding me a line or he was holding back; there were certain similarities… What delusions of grandeur! What a mean, coldhearted, soulless… But is it really his fault? More like a classic sorcerer’s apprentice. Woe to those cyberneticists on the day of judgment! Never mind the cyberneticists—he’s after all of mankind! Now that’s what you call paranoia. Damn, they really went all out this time. Greater versatility for the sake of greater market sales leads to an absolute sense of superiority, a feeling of being a chosen race. Those cyberneticists are insane! I wonder who wrote that letter. Or was it a fake? But, then, why would he flaunt… If he’s as far superior as he claims, I haven’t got a prayer. Then again, he wished me good luck. He can master the world but can’t tell me how to master the situation aboard this ship. What did he mean, “No more than use a microscope as a nutcracker”? Zilch. Another one of his decoys, I’ll bet.
Pirx took out the envelope and examined it up close for any embossment: nothing, not a trace. Why did Burns make no mention of a radioactive sense, accelerated brain processing, and other such things? Ask him point-blank? Hm. Unless each of them, Burns included, is really built to different specifications. The letter—it looks to be the work of either Burton or Calder—says much, but answers little. Take Brown. We have only his word that he’s human, and then there’s Thomson’s word to the contrary, although Thomson might have misjudged him. Is Burns the nonlinear he claims to be? Let’s assume he is. That would mean two out of five. Three would be more like it, judging by the number of companies involved. What were they figuring down there? That I’d do my damnedest to discredit their wares, blow it, then run the risk of an overload, say, or a meltdown? But if both pilots and the CO are put out of commission… No. Scuttling the ship wasn’t what they had in mind. So at least one of the pilots has to be a nonlinear. Add to that one nucleonics engineer—it takes two to get the ship down. So no fewer than two, more likely three: Burns, either Brown or Burton, and one other. To hell with it! You weren’t going to play that game, remember? You’d better think strategy. God, how you’d better.
He switched off the light, stretched out fully dressed on the bunk, and, thus disposed, contemplated one weird scheme after another.
Incite them, maybe? Pit one side against the other? But as a natural consequence of something else, without any interference from me. Split their ranks, in other words. Divide et impera. The method of differentiation. But first, something violent has to happen. A sudden disappearance? No, that smacks too much of a cheap whodunit. Besides, I can’t just kill someone. And a kidnapping would mean taking an accomplice. Could I trust any of them? Four of them say they’re on my side—Brown, Burns, Thomson, and our letter-writing friend. But they’re all iffy, all of dubious loyalty—and I can’t possibly run the risk of a double cross. There Thomson was right. Maybe the safest bet would be the letter-writer—he’s screwy, all right, but fanatical enough—but, one, I don’t know who he is, and, two, it’s better to steer clear of such a weirdo. A vicious circle. Maybe I should just aim for a crack-up on Titan. But they’re more shock-resistant, which means I’d be the first to… And intellectually, except for being short on intuition, on imagination—but, then, who among us isn’t? What does that leave? Battle with your emotions? With your so-called human nature? Fine, but how? What is this thing called human nature? Maybe that’s all it really means—being irrational and decent and, yes, morally primitive, blind to the final links in the chain. Nothing “decent” or “irrational” about computers, that’s for sure. Which would mean that we … our human nature is the sum of all our defects, flaws, imperfections, of what we want to be but can’t or don’t know how to be: the gap between our ideals and those same ideals as a reality. Our weakness, then, is it our competitive edge? That would mean I should choose a situation better handled by man’s fickle humanity than by a flawless inhumanity.
As I write, one year has passed since the Goliath case was closed. New material evidence has unexpectedly come my way. Although it corroborates my earlier suspicions, my reconstruction of events is still too hypothetical to be made public. A full-scale investigation must await future historians of outer space.
There have been a lot of rumors about the inquest. Some say that parties close to the electronics companies were out to smear me: my flight report, published in the Nautical Almanac, would have been worthless coming from a man censured by the Tribunal for incompetence. Meanwhile, I have it from a reliable source that the Tribunal was deliberately loaded—frankly, I too found it odd that the jury contained so many legal experts and scholars of cosmic law, but only one certified astronaut. That would explain the legal smoke screen of whether my laxity, my waiving of command, was in violation of the Astronavigational Charter. This same source intimated that, after reading the bill of indictment, I should have brought immediate action against the companies, since they were indirectly to blame for having assured both UNESCO and me that the nonlinears were completely trustworthy, whereas, in fact, Calder almost got us all killed.
Privately I told my source that I had lacked hard evidence. The companies’ attorneys would have argued that Calder had done everything in his power to avert a disaster, that the precessional spin had taken him by surprise as much as it had me, and that his only crime lay in having risked certain death—to the humans on board—instead of gambling on safe passage through the Cassini. Unpardonable, even criminal, yes; but nothing compared to the crime of which I’d begun to suspect him even earlier. Yet how could I charge him on what I knew to be the lesser of two evils? Unable to go public for lack of evidence, I decided to await the Tribunal’s verdict.
In the end I was cleared of all charges. The crucial question of what orders should have been given became immaterial, once the Tribunal ruled that I had acted properly in deferring to the pilot’s professional judgment. That suited me just fine, because if I’d been asked, my response would have sounded cockeyed; I was sure, and still am, that the probe malfunction was not an accident, but that Calder had planned it long before we approached Saturn, both to prove me right and to kill me, along with the rest of the Goliath’s human crew. Why he did it is another story. I can only speculate here.
First, the matter of the second probe. The malfunction was shown to be the work of freak chance, and a thorough shipyard investigation turned up no evidence of sabotage. But the truth was otherwise. If the first probe had malfunctioned, we would have had to abort right away—the other two were auxiliary, without any scientific payload. If the third probe had failed, we could have headed back, mission accomplished, because only one “guardian” was needed—in this case, the second. But it was precisely the second that stalled and left us stranded in the middle of a mission launched but not completed. The cause of the malfunction? A premature cable disconnect that prevented Calder from shutting off the servo-ignition. The post-mortem cited a possible kink in the cable as the cause, a fairly uncommon occurrence. But not four days before the breakdown, I happened to inspect the drum; a neater, smoother-reeling job I’d never seen.
The probe’s flattened nose had kept it from clearing the launch bay. When no explanation was found for the jamming, it was blamed on the booster; it must have fired at an angle and the oblique thrust rammed the probe into the housing, blunting the head. But the probe had jammed before—not after—the booster fired. Though the question was never posed, I was absolutely sure of it. Quine (or “Harry Brown”), obviously, wasn’t so sure, and those without direct access to the controls were not called upon to testify.
There was nothing to jamming the p
robe. A couple of buckets of water poured into the air-conditioning duct would have done the trick. The water would have worked its way down into the hatch, frozen in the subzero temperature, and cemented the probe to the housing with a ring of ice. So that at the time Calder hit the piston release, the probe hadn’t yet jammed, but he was at the controls and couldn’t be monitored. The probe’s nose cone, jammed by the ice ring, flattened like a rivet on impact. When the booster ignited, the temperature in the launcher immediately rose, the ice melted, and the water evaporated, leaving no trace of any sabotage.
At the time, I didn’t suspect a thing. True, I thought it strange that only the second probe had failed, that the cable could both fire the booster and prevent shutdown of the probe’s engine. But the malfunction caught me by surprise, distracted me. Still, I couldn’t help thinking of that anonymous letter with its promise to help—to prove the other nonlinears unfit for cosmic navigation. Again I have no proof, but I suspect the letter was written by Calder. He was on my side, yes … but he hadn’t counted on a sequence of events that might make him out to be unfit—in the sense of “inferior.” To return to Earth and risk being disqualified was unthinkable. We might have shared a common goal, but only up to a point.
The letter was to convince me of our common cause. Both from the remarks I’d made and from second-hand sources, he must have deduced that I was planning to test the crew by staging an on-board emergency. So he was dead certain I’d try to take advantage of one so conveniently at hand—which, had I done so, would have been suicidal.
What was his motive? A hatred for humans? The thrill of the contest, a contest in which I, officially as his CO but secretly his accomplice, would be acting exactly according to plan—both his and mine? Either way, he was sure I would try to exploit the situation, even if I had my suspicions and smelled sabotage.
What were my alternatives? I could simply have ordered about-ship—or risked another launching of the third back-up probe. But turning us about would have meant passing up a chance to test the crew under extreme conditions; it would have also meant scrubbing the mission. Calder knew I would never do that, and he was right. He was absolutely sure I would keep us on course for Saturn and try to complete the maneuver.
If anyone had asked me before what I would have done in such a situation, I would have said, in all honesty and without hesitation, execute the maneuver. But the unexpected happened: I kept silent. I still don’t know why. I was confused, the breakdown was too perfectly timed, too made-to-order to be authentic. Then there was the way Calder had sat there waiting for my command … so eagerly, so expectantly… To open my mouth would have been to ratify our pact, and I must have sensed that the cards were stacked. By rights, then, I should have ordered the pilot to reverse course, but my suspicions were too vague, too short on proof. Bluntly put—I was stuck.
Calder, meanwhile, couldn’t believe his plan was backfiring. The duel lasted only a few seconds, and there was I, his opponent, totally in the dark! Only in retrospect did certain details, seemingly harmless and unrelated at the time, begin to jell: how he used to sit alone at the ship’s navigational computer, the care he took to erase its memory afterward… I’m now convinced he was already computing different variants of the accident, programming it down to the last digit. Quine was wrong; he didn’t mentally compute our trajectory above the rings. He didn’t have to; he already had his data; all he had to do was to make sure that the gravimeter readings fell within the projected range of values.
By delaying orders, I had spoiled his infallible plan. Everything was riding on those orders. In the heat of the moment, it temporarily slipped my mind that right there in the control room, hermetically sealed but diligently transcribing our every word, was Earth’s ear in the form of a flight recorder—to be used as evidence in the event the Goliath landed with a dead crew. The tapes had to be in perfect condition, untouched. The only voice heard on them would be mine, commanding Calder to reverse course, to approach the rings, and—later—to boost thrust to pull us out of that dangerous precession.
I have yet to explain why his plan was so ingenious. The question is: could I have given orders assuring a safe and successful completion of the maneuver? Well, a few months after my acquittal, I sat down at the computer to estimate the probability of an injection that would jeopardize neither crew nor ship. The result? A zero probability! In other words, Calder, using the elements of mathematical equations, had constructed a flawless system—a kind of murder machine, minus any leeway for navigational jockeying, a safety margin, or an escape hatch. Nothing had taken him by surprise; all was carefully programmed, meticulously plotted in advance: the probe’s thrust, the violent precession, the suicidal run. All that was needed to put us on a direct course for that funnel of destruction was for me to order about-ship for Saturn! Calder could then have risked an act of insubordination by questioning any orders desperately aimed at breaking the ship’s spiral. The tapes would have recorded his final display of loyalty, his last-ditch effort to save us. By then, I would have been in no shape to command anyway—speechless, my eyes clamped shut by the g-force, flattened, like the other humans, by the gravitation, our blood vessels bursting… At which time Calder, the sole survivor, would have risen to his feet, flipped the safety interlocks, and, in a cockpit full of corpses, begun heading home.
But I spoiled his plans—quite unintentionally. He didn’t figure on my reaction; he may have been a master of celestial mechanics, but not the mechanics of human psychology. When I sat back and kept quiet instead of shooting for a repeat of the maneuver, he panicked. At first, he may have been just puzzled, chalking up the delay to human slowness. Then he got rattled, too intimidated by my silence to ask my advice. Incapable of passivity himself, he hadn’t expected it of others, least of all of his CO. If I was silent, I must have a reason. Maybe I suspected him, saw through his game. Maybe I even had the upper hand. The fact that no order had been given, that my voice, dooming the ship to disaster, wouldn’t be heard on the tapes, meant that I had outsmarted him! There’s no telling when he realized it, but his confusion was noticeable, even to the others—Quine mentioned it in his testimony. His erratic instructions to Quine, his sudden turning around—all proof of his consternation. He had to improvise, and that was his Achilles’ heel. He was terrified of my voice, that I might accuse him—in front of the recorder—of sabotage. That’s when he went to maximum revs. I yelled at him not to thread the gap, never dreaming he had no intention of going through with it! But my yell, now recorded, again foiled his plan—his newly improvised plan—and so he immediately throttled down. If my yell was all that was heard on the playback, he was in trouble. How was he to explain his CO’s prolonged silence, and then that sudden, last-minute yell? He needed the sound of my voice again, to prove that I was still alive … because my yell told him he’d miscalculated, that I didn’t know everything. So he denied having heard the order and started undoing his belt. It was his final gambit; he was going for broke.
What made him do it? Maybe it was wounded pride—at having given me more credit than I deserved. It certainly wasn’t fear; he wasn’t afraid of clearing the Division, no matter how suicidal the risk. Nor was he relying on luck. That Quine managed to squeak us through—now, that was luck!
If he’d suppressed his desire to get even for his having mistaken my ignorance for alertness, he wouldn’t have risked much. I’d have won, simply; Calder’s performance, his act of insubordination, would have vindicated me. But that’s exactly what he couldn’t stomach. Anything was better than that.
Oddly enough, even though his behavior is perfectly clear to me now, I’m still puzzled by my own. I can reconstruct his every move logically, but I still can’t explain my silence. To say I was merely undecided would be, well, fibbing. What really came to my rescue up there? Intuition? A hunch? No, the emergency was just too pat; more, it was dirty. I wanted no part of such a game or of such a partner, which is what Calder would have become the moment I upped t
he ante by issuing an order—the moment I acknowledged it, in other words. I couldn’t lower myself to do that, any more than I could order a retreat. Running might have been more expedient, but how could I justify it when all my countermoves had been dictated by some fuzzy notions of fair play—notions totally untranslatable into concrete astronautical terms. I could just picture myself before some Earthly review board: “The mission was technically feasible, but I suspected my chief pilot of wanting to commit sabotage to help me discredit certain members of the crew…” They’d have taken me for a raving idiot.
So I wavered—from confusion to desperation, and even to revulsion—and, at the same time, through my silence, I gave him what I thought was a chance. A chance to dispel any suspicion of sabotage, to prove his loyalty by turning to me for guidance. That’s what a human would have done, but Calder chose the cleaner, more elegant way: I was to be my own executioner, without any prompting from him. I was supposed to force his hand—against his better judgment, so to speak, against his will. But I kept silent. In other words, we were saved and he was doomed by my lack of resoluteness, by that same bumbling human decency he had held in such bitter contempt.
ANANKE
Translated by Louis Iribarne with the assistance of Magdalena Majcherczyk
Something jarred him out of his sleep, into the dark. Left behind—where?—was a reddish, smoky wreath—a city? a fire?—and an enemy, a chase, an outcropping—the other man? Though resigned to failure, he kept dogging the receding recollection, consoling himself with the customary explanation that a dream can be stronger, more compelling than reality itself, purged of words but, for all its whimsicality, governed by a law that only there, in the nightmare, takes on the force of the real. He didn’t know where he was, could recall nothing. One probe of the hand would tell him, but he rankled at his memory’s inertia, coaxed it, cajoled it to bear witness. He cheated; lying perfectly still, he tried to get his bearings from the consistency of the bedding. Not a bunk, that was for sure. Flash: a landing, sparks on a desert floor, the disk of a seemingly bogus, aggrandized Moon; craters, but caught in a dust storm, the currents of a dirty, rusty gale; the square of the cosmodrome’s towers.
More Tales of Pirx the Pilot Page 16