by Larry Niven
“Prejudiced, I’m afraid. I like him and envy him his hands. He is very alien to me. And yet, perhaps not.” Charley let himself sink to the bottom of the tank. Torrance took the opportunity to clear his throat, which felt like he’d been eating used razor blades.
Charley surfaced and blew steam. “He is not alien. Negative! He thinks a lot like me, because he took contact from me several times before we chanced it the other way around. He is a practical joker—no, that is very far from the true concept. Well, it will have to do. Larrry is a dolphin type of practical joker. Years ago he selected a few of our most famous jokes, old japes which we consider classics, translated them into something he could use as a walker, and then decided not to use them because he might go to prison for it. If he is no longer afraid of prison he might be tempted to play his jokes.”
“Uh huh.”
“Such as something I have not tried yet with a swimmer. I must use the English word: hypnotism.”
Torrance said, “I didn’t get that.”
“Defined as an induced state of monomania.”
“Oh, hypnotism.”
“Larrry has studied it thoroughly, and even tried it out, and for him it works. On a swimmer it might be ineffective.”
“He’s already tried it,” said Garner. “Anything else?”
“Garrnnrr, you must understand that the dolphin gurgle-buzz-SQUEEEE is not truly a practical joke. It is a way of looking at things. Putting a monkey wrench in machinery is often the only way to force somebody to repair, replace, or redesign the machinery. Especially legal or social machinery. Biting off somebody’s fin at exactly the right time can change his whole attitude toward life, often for the better. Larrry understands this.”
“I wish I did. Thanks for your time, Charley.”
“Negative! Negative! Thank you for yours!”
An hour to the long jump. Luke’s throat felt well used. He might still have time for a fifteen-minute cat nap, but he’d wake up feeling worse than ever.
He sat in the Struldbrugs’ reading room and thought about Greenberg.
Why had he become an alien? Well, that was easy. With two sets of memories to choose from, he’d naturally chosen the identity most used to sorting itself out from other identities. But why cling to it? He must know by now that he was not the Sea Statue. And he’d had a happy life as Larry Greenberg.
His wife was something to envy—and she loved him. According to Dr. Snyder, he was stable, well adjusted. He liked his work. He thought of himself as something special.
But the Sea Statue was all alone in the universe, the last of its race, marooned among hostiles. The Greenberg Sea Statue had also lost his ability of—well, telepathic hypnosis was close enough.
Any sane person would rather be Greenberg.
Garner thought, I’ll have to assume that Greenberg as Greenberg literally cannot think with the Sea Statue memories in his mind. He must remain the Sea Statue to function at all. Otherwise he’d have at least tried to change back.
But that peculiar arrogance he’d displayed under interrogation. Not—a slave. Not human.
A robot bonged softly next to his ear. Garner turned and read in flowing light on the waiter’s chest: “You are requested to call Mr. Charles Watson at once.”
Chick Watson was fat, with thick lips and a shapeless putty nose. He wore crew-cut, bristly black hair and, at the moment, a gray seventeen-hundred shadow over cheeks and jaw. He had a harmless look. Centered on his desk was a large screen viewer running film at abnormal speed. Not one in a thousand could read that fast.
A buzzer sounded. Chick snapped off the reader and turned on the phone. For a fat man he moved quickly and accurately.
“Here.”
“Lucas Garner calling, sir. Do you want to see him?”
“Desperately.” Chick Watson’s voice belied his appearance. It was a voice of command, a deep, ringing bass.
Luke looked tired. “You wanted me, Chick?”
“Yeah, Garner. I thought you could help me with some questions.”
“Fine, but I’m pressed for time.”
“I’ll make it quick. First, this message from Ceres to Titan Enterprises. The Golden Circle made a takeoff under radio silence yesterday, from Topeka Base, and the Belt intends to submit a bill for tracking. Titan sent the notice here. They say their ship must have been stolen.”
“That’s right. Kansas City has the details. It’s a very complicated story.”
“An hour later the Navy ship Iwo Jima—”
“Also stolen.”
“Any connection with the Sea Statue incident at UCLA?”
“Every connection. Look, Chick—”
“I know, get it from Kansas City. Finally…” Chick fumbled among the spools of film on his desk. His voice was suspiciously mild as he said, “Here it is. Your notification that you’ll be leaving Topeka on a commandeered Navy ship, the Heinlein; departure: Topeka Base at twenty-one hundred; destination: unknown, probably Neptune; purpose: official business. Garner, I always said it would happen, but I never really believed it.”
“I haven’t gone senile, Chick. This is urgent.”
“Fastest attack of senility I ever heard of. What could possibly be urgent enough to get you into space at your age?”
“It’s that urgent.”
“You can’t explain?”
“No time.”
“Suppose I order you not to go.”
“I think that would cost lives. Lots of lives. It could also end human civilization.”
“Melodramatic.”
“It’s the literal truth.”
“Garner, you’re asking me to assume my own ignorance and let you go ahead on your own because you’re the only expert on the situation. Right?”
Hesitation. “I guess that’s right.”
“Fine. I hate making my own decisions. That’s why they put me behind a desk. But, Garner, you must know things Kansas City doesn’t. Why don’t you call me after takeoff? I’ll be studying in the meantime.”
“In case I kick off? Good idea.”
“Don’t let it slip your mind, now.”
“Sure not.”
“And take your vitamins.”
Like a feathered arrow the Golden Circle fell away from the sun. The comparison was hackneyed but accurate, for the giant triangular wing was right at the rear of the ship, with the slender shaft of the fuselage projecting deep into the forward apex. The small forward wings had folded into the sides shortly after takeoff. The big fin was a maze of piping. Live steam, heated by the drive, circled through a generator and through the cooling pipes before returning to start the journey again. Most of the power was fed into the fusion shield of the drive tube. The rest fed the life-support system.
In one respect the “arrow” simile was inexact. The arrow flew sideways, riding the sun-hot torch which burned its belly.
Kzanol roared his displeasure. The cards had failed again! He swept the neat little array between his clublike hands, tapped them into deck formation, and ripped the deck across. Then, carefully, he got to his feet. The drive developed one terran gravity, and he hadn’t quite had time to get used to the extra weight. He sat down at the casino table and dug into the locker underneath. He came out with a new deck, opened it, let the automatic shuffler play with it for a while, then took it out and began to lay it out solitaire style. The floor around him was littered with little pieces of magnetized plastic card.
Perhaps he could think up some fitting punishment for the pilot, who had taught him this game.
The pilot and copilot sat motionless in the control room. From time to time the pilot used his hands to change course a trifle. Every fourteen hours or so the copilot would bring Kzanol a bowl of water and then return to her seat. Actinic gas streamed from the belly of the ship, pushing it to ever higher velocities.
It was a beautiful night. Years had passed since Garner last saw the stars; in the cities they couldn’t shine through the smog and the neon glare, and
even the American continents were mostly city. Soon he would see them more clearly than he had in half a century. The air was like the breath of Satan. Garner was damp with sweat, and so were Anderson and Neumuth.
“I still say we could do this by ourselves,” said Anderson.
“You wouldn’t know what to look for,” Garner countered. “I’ve trained myself for this. I’ve been reading science fiction for decades. Centuries! Neumuth, where are you going?”
Neumuth, the short dark one, had turned and was walking away. “Time to get strapped down,” he called back. “Bon voyage!”
“He’s going forward, to the cockpit of the booster,” said Anderson. “We go up that escalator to the ship itself.”
“Oh. I wish I could see it better. It’s just one big shadow.”
The shadow was a humped shadow, like a paper dart with a big lizard clinging to its back. The paper glider was a ramjet-rocketplane, hydrogen fueled in the ramjet and using the cold liquid hydrogen to make its own liquid oxygen in flight. The slim cylinder clinging to its upper surface was a fusion drive cruiser with some attachments for rescue work. It carried two men.
Using its fusion motor in Earth’s atmosphere would have been a capital offense. In taking off from ground eighteen hours earlier, Masney and Kzanol/Greenberg had broken twelve separate local laws, five supranational regulations and a treaty with the Belt.
Another ship roared a god’s anger as it took off. Garner blinked at the light. “That was our rendezvous ship,” Anderson said matter-of-factly.
Luke was tired of having to ask silly-seeming questions. He wasn’t going to like Anderson, he decided. If the kid wanted to tell him why they needed a rendezvous ship, he would.
They had reached the bottom of the escalator. “Meet you at the top,” said Garner, reaching into his ashtray. Anderson stared, jolted, as an invalid’s travel chair became a flying saucer. An Arm using an illegal flying machine? An Arm?
Anderson rode up the stairs, whistling. This trip might be fun after all.
“Just leave the chair on the escalator platform,” he said at the top. “We’ve made arrangements to have it delivered to the local Struldbrugs’ Club. They’ll take good care of it. I’ll carry you in, sir.”
“You get my medikit. I’ll walk,” said Garner. And he did, wobbling and using his arms freely. He barely reached his gee chair. Anderson found the medikit and followed. He checked Garner’s crash web before he used his own.
“Neumuth? Ready,” said Anderson, as if into empty air. He continued, “The other ramjet-rocket carried a bundle of solid fuel rockets as big as this ship. They’re strap-ons. We don’t have any more power than the Golden Circle, and we’re a day and a half behind them, so we use the strap-ons to give us an initial boost. Inefficient, but if it works—”
“—It’s good,” Garner finished for him. His voice was thickened by the pull of the linear accelerator. For five seconds the soundless pressure lasted, two gravities of pull. Then the rams fired and they were off.
It would take two days of uncomfortable two-gee acceleration to get there first, thought Garner, compressed in his chair. His old bones would take a beating. Already he was missing the gadgets in his own chair. This trip wasn’t going to be fun.
Lars was eating a very messy sardine-and-egg sandwich when the buzzer buzzed. He put it down gently, using both hands, so that it wouldn’t bounce in the nearly nonexistent gravity. He wiped his hands on his coverall, which he washed frequently, and went to the transceiver.
The maser beam had crossed the void in one instantaneous beep. The radio translated it into sound, then thoughtfully scaled it down against the minute Doppler shift. What came out was the colorless voice of Cutter, duty man at Ceres.
“Thank you, Eros, your message received in full. No more emergencies this time, Lam. Topeka Base called us eight hours ago, giving us the time of takeoff and predicted course. According to your report the takeoff was four minutes late, but that’s typical. Keep us posted.
“Thank you, Eros, your—”
Lars switched it off and went back to his sandwich. Briefly he wondered if Cutter had noticed that the Navy ship was following the two he had tracked eighteen hours ago. No doubt he had.
“You’re taking it too hard,” said Dale Snyder.
Judy shrugged.
Again Dale took in the puffy eyelids showing beneath the makeup, the unfamiliar lines in Judy’s pretty twenty-eight-year-old face, the death-grip on her coffee glass, her rigid position in what should have been an easy chair. “Look here,” he said. “You’ve got far too many things working on you. Have you considered—I mean, have you given any thought to invoking your agreement with Larry concerning adultery? At least you could eliminate one of your tensions. And you’re not helping him by worrying.”
“I know. I’ve thought about it. But—” she smiled, “not with a friend, Dale.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” Dale Snyder said hastily. And blushed. Fortunately the bandages covered most of it. “What about going to Vegas? The town’s full of divorcees of both sexes, most of them temporarily terrified of getting married again. Great for a short-term affair. You could cut it short when Larry comes back.”
He may have put too much assurance into the last sentence, because Judy’s grip tightened on her glass and relaxed immediately. “I don’t think so,” she said listlessly.
“Think about it some more. You could even do some gambling.”
Two gravities! Twelve hours ago he would have sneered at himself. Two gravities, lying on his back? Luke could have done it on his head. But that was twelve hours ago, twelve hours of double weight and throbbing metal and noise and no sleep. The strap-on fission/fusion motors roared in pairs outside the hull. Two had been dropped already. Ten remained, burning two at a time. It would be a day and a half before ship’s weight returned to normal.
The stars were hard, emphatic points. Never had the sky been so black; never had the stars been so bright. Luke felt that they would have burned tiny holes in his retinae if he could have held his eyes fixed on one point. Tiny multicolored blindnesses to add to his enviable collection of scars. The Milky Way was a foggy river of light, with sharp actinic laser points glaring through.
So here he was.
He’d been seventy-two the day they launched the first passenger ship: an orbital craft, clumsy and spavined and oversized by today’s standards, nothing more than a skip-glider. They’d told him he was too old to buy a ticket. What was he now? He wanted to laugh, but there was pressure on his chest.
With an effort he turned his head. Anderson was locking a sheet of transparent plastic over part of the complex wraparound control panel. Most of the panel was already under the plastic sheets. He saw Luke looking at him, and he said, “Nothing to do from now on but watch for rocks. I’ve put us above the plane of the Belt.”
“Can we afford the extra time?”
“Sure. If they’re going to Neptune.” Anderson’s voice came cheerful and energetic, though slurred by the extra weight on his cheeks. “Otherwise they’ll beat us anyway, to wherever they’re going. And we won’t know it until they make turnover.”
“We’ll have to risk that.”
The extra weight wasn’t bothering Anderson at all.
One gravity is standard for manned spacecraft. Some rescue ships; and a few expresses in the Belt, have attachments for clusters of fusion/fission strap-on engines to cut their transit time. Often it makes sense. More often it doesn’t. Given continuous acceleration, the decrease in trip time varies as the square root of the increase in power. Greenberg and the ET should have expected their pursuers, had they known of them, to stay a day and a half behind all the way to Neptune.
A strap-on can only be used once. The smooth cylindrical shell contains only hydrogen gas under pressure and a core of uranium alloy. The fusion shield generator is external; it stays with the ship when the strap-on falls away. The moment the shield forms on the inside of the shell, neutrons from the
core begin to reflect back into the uranium mass, and everything dissolves in the chain reaction. As time decreases the pressure inside the trapped star, the tiny exhaust aperture is designed to wear away, keeping the acceleration constant.
This time the strap-ons were vital. The Heinlein would beat the others to Neptune by six hours—
If they were headed for Neptune! But if Diller were wrong, or if Diller had lied—if Diller, like Greenberg, thought he was an alien—if the fleeing ships were en route to some asteroid—then the Heinlein would overshoot. When the others made turnover it would be too late. The Heinlein would be going too fast.
Of course, there were always the missiles. And the Belt would consider it a violation of treaty if the Golden Circle or the Iwo Jima landed in the Belt. They might be persuaded to attack.
But there was Lloyd Masney.
With a full minute’s delay in transmission, his discussion with Chick Watson had been both tiring and unproductive. Now Chick knew everything he knew, except for the exhaustive details he’d collected on Greenberg’s life. They’d reached some obvious decisions. They would not send any more ships from Earth, ships which would obviously arrive far too late to help. Earth would fire at sight if either of the target ships reached anywhere and started back. Chick would keep his communications open for Garner, ready to search out any information he might need. And one other decision—
“No, we can’t call on the Belt for help.” Chick’s expression dismissed the idea with the contempt he felt it deserved. “Not with Belt relations the way they are now. They know what they’d do to us with an embargo on uranium, and we know what we’d do to them by holding off their vitamins, and both sides are just itching to see who’d collapse first. You think they’d believe a story like ours? All the proof we can offer is second hand, from their point of view. They’d think we were setting up our own mining operation, or trying to claim a moon. They’d think anything at all, because all they can tell for sure is that three ships from Earth are on their way to Neptune.
“Worse yet, they might just assume that this telepathy amplifier won’t reach beyond Earth. In which case they could make a better deal with Greenberg, king of the world, than they can with us.”