Cities in Flight

by James Blish

  “Mark. The rhodium-palladium series should go next. Watch out for diagonal disintegration; it may cross with the iron series—” A star flared and burst.

  “There it goes!”

  “Mark,” Schloss said, squinting through a gamma-ray polariscope.

  “Got it. Cripes. It crossed at cesium; what does that mean?”

  “Never mind, mark it. Don’t stop to interpret, just record.”

  The ghost seemed to shiver and shrink a little. A pure piercing tone came from its heart, wavered, and died; but it died scooping upward toward the inaudible.

  “First hour,” Schloss said. “Twenty to go. How long did the pip take?”

  There was no answer for several minutes; then another voice said: “We don’t have it down to jiffies yet. But it was short by nearly forty micro-seconds, and it Dopplered the wrong way. It’s decaying in time, Dr. Schloss—it may not last as long as ten hours.”

  “Give me the decay-rate in jiffies on the next pip and don’t miss it. If it’s going that fast we’ll have to recalculate all emission records on the decay curve. Jake, are you getting anything on the RF band?”

  “Masses of stuff,” Jake said, preoccupied. “Can’t make anything of it yet. And it’s scooping—that’s your decay-rate again, I suspect. What a scramble!”

  In this wise the second hour flew by, and then the third. Shortly thereafter, Amalfi lost track of them. The tension, the disorder, the accumulating fatigue, the utter strangeness of the experiment itself and its object, the forebodings all took their toll. These were certainly the worst possible conditions under which to gather even routine data, let alone take readings on an experiment of this degree of criticality, but once again the Okies had to make do with what they had.

  “All right, everyone,” Schloss said at last. “Closing time.” His brow was deeply furrowed; that frown had been growing line by line during most of the final twelve hours. “Stand well back; the artifact will be the last to go.”

  The investigators and spectators alike—or those few spectators whose interest had been intent enough to keep them there throughout the entire proceedings—drew back to the walls of the gloomy chamber. The spindizzy whine beneath them rose slightly in both pitch and volume, and the ghost that was Object 4001-Alephnull disappeared behind a spindizzy screen polarized to complete opacity.

  At first the spherical screen was mirror-like, throwing back grotesquely distorted images of the silent onlookers. Then a pinprick of light appeared in its center, growing soundlessly to a painful blue-white intensity. It threw out long cobwebs and runners of glare, probing, anastomosing, flowing along the inner surface of the screen. Instinctively, Amalfi shielded his eyes and his genitals in an instinctive gesture of all mankind more than two millennia old. When he was able to look again, the light had died.

  The spindizzies stopped and the screen went down. Air rushed into it. Object 4001-Alephnull was gone, this time forever, destroyed by the death of a single crystal of salt.

  “Our precautions were insufficient; my fault,” Schloss said, his voice harsh. “We are all well over our maximum permissible dose of hard radiation; everyone report to the hospital on the double for treatment. Troops, fall in!”

  The radiation sickness was mild; bone-marrow transfusions brought the blood-forming system back into normal function before serious damage was done, and the nausea was reasonably well controlled by massive doses of meclizine, riboflavin, and pyridoxine. All the participants who had any hair to lose lost it, including both Dee and Estelle, but they all got it back in due course except for Amalfi and Jake.

  The second degree sunburn was not mild. It held up the interpretation of the results for nearly a month, while the scientists, coated in anesthetic ointment, sat about on the wards in hospital robes and played bad poker and worse bridge. In between post-mortems on the bridge hands, they speculated endlessly and covered square miles of paper with equations and ointment grease-spots. Web, who had not lasted long enough to be present at the destruction of the crystal of salt, visited daily with bouquets for Estelle—the star-gods alone knew where and how he unearthed so antique a custom—and fresh packs of cards for the men. He took away the spotted sheets of equations and fed them to the City Fathers, who invariably said: “NO COMMENT. THE DATA ARE INSUFFICIENT.” Everyone knew that already.

  At long last, however, Schloss and Jake and their crews were freed from their sticky pyjamas to tackle the mountains of raw information awaiting them. They worked long hours; Schloss in particular never remembered to eat, and had constantly to be reminded by his technicians that they had missed lunch and it was now past dinnertime. In Schloss’s defense, however, it had to be admitted that his crew was the hungriest in the history of physics, and the lunch they had missed usually was just the formal meal they were accustomed to consuming after they had emptied the fat packages they brought into the laboratories; in proof of which, they all gained five or ten pounds while they were complaining the loudest.

  A month after their discharge from the hospital, Schloss, Jake and Retma called a joint conference. Schloss had back the frown he had worn during the last twelve hours of the experiment, and even the traditionally impassive Hevian looked disturbed. Amalfi’s heart turned over in his chest at his first glimpse of their expressions; they seemed to confirm every foggy apprehension of his dream.

  “We have two pieces of bad news, and one piece of news which is wholly ambiguous,” Schloss said, without any preliminaries. “I don’t myself know in exactly what order I ought to present them; in that, I’m being guided by Retma and Dr. Bonner. It is their judgment that you all ought first to know that we have competition.”

  “Meaning what?” Amalfi said. The mere idea, empty of detail, made him prick up his ears; perhaps that was why Retma and Bonner had wanted it placed first.

  “Our missile recorded clear evidence of another body in the same complicated physical state,” Schloss said. “No such object could conceivably be natural in either universe; and this one was enough like ours to make us sure it came originally from our side.”

  “Another missile?”

  “Without any doubt—and about twice the size of ours. Somebody else in our universe had found out what the Hevians found out, and is investigating the problem further along the same lines that we are—except that they appear to have had a head start of three to five years.”

  Amalfi pursed his lips soundlessly. “Any way of guessing who they are?”

  “No. We guess that they must be relatively nearby, either in our own main galaxy or in Andromeda or one of its satellites. But we can’t document that; it’s below the five per cent level of probability, according to the City Fathers. All the other alternatives are way below five per cent, but where no solution is statistically significant, we aren’t entitled to choose between them.”

  “The Web of Hercules,” Amalfi said. “It can’t be anything else.”

  Schloss spread his hands helplessly. “It could well be anybody else, for all we know,” he said. “My intuition says just what yours says, John; but there’s no reliable evidence.”

  “All right. That’s the ambiguous news, I gather. What’s the first piece of bad news?”

  “You’ve already had it,” Schloss said. “It’s the second piece of news, which is ambiguous, that makes the first piece bad. We’ve argued a long time about this, but we’re now in at least tentative agreement. We think that it is possible—barely possible—to survive the catastrophe.”

  Quickly, Schloss held up one hand, before the stunned faces before him could even begin to lighten with hope. “Please,” he said. “Don’t overestimate what I say in the least. It’s only a possibility, a very dim one, and the kind of survival involved will be nothing like human life as we know it. After we’ve described it to you, you may all much prefer to die instead. I will tell you flatly that that would be my preference; so this is not a white hope by any means. It looks black as the ace of spades to me. But—it exists. And it is what makes t
he news about the competition bad news. If we decide to adopt this very ambiguous form of survival, we must go to work on it immediately. It’s possible only under a single very fleeting set of conditions which will hold true only for micro-seconds, in the very bowels of the catastrophe. If our unknown competitors get there first—and bear in mind that they have a good head start—they will capture it instead, and close us out. It will be a real race, and a killing one; and you may not think it worth the pace.”

  “Can’t you be more specific?” Estelle said.

  “Yes, Estelle, I can. But it will take quite a few hours to describe. Right now, what you need to know is this: if we choose this way out, we will lose our homes, our worlds, our very bodies, we will lose our children, our friends, our wives, and every vestige of companionship we have ever known; we will each of us be alone, with a thoroughness beyond the experience of the imagination of any human being in the past. And quite possibly this ultimate isolation will kill us anyhow—or if it does not, we will find ourselves wishing desperately that it had. We should all make very sure that we want to survive that badly—badly enough to be thrown into hell for eternity—not Jorn the Apostle’s hell, but a worse one. It’s not a thing we should decide here and now.”

  “Helleshin!” Amalfi said. “Retma, do you concur? Is it going to be as bad as that?”

  Retma turned upon Amalfi eyes which were silver and unblinking.

  “Worse,” he said.

  The room was very quiet for a while. At last, Hazleton said:

  “Which leaves us one piece of bad news left. That must be a dilly, Dr. Schloss; maybe we’d better have it right away.”

  “Very well. That is the date of the catastrophe. We got excellent readings on the energy level on the other side, and we are all agreed on the interpretation. The date will be on or around June second, year Four Thousand one hundred and Four.”

  “The end?” Dee whispered. “Only three years away?”

  “Yes. That will be the end. After that June second, there will be no June third, forever and ever.”

  “And so,” Hazleton said to the people in his living room. “It seemed to me that we ought to have a farewell dinner. Most of you are leaving, with He, tomorrow morning, for the metagalactic center. And those of you that are leaving are mostly my friends of hundreds of years, that I’ll never see again; for me, when June second comes, time will have to stop—whatever apotheosis you may go on to. That’s why I asked you all to eat and drink with me tonight.”

  “I wish you’d change your mind,” Amalfi said, his voice heavy with sorrow.

  “I wish I could. But I can’t.”

  “I think you’re making a mistake, Mark,” Jake said solemnly. “Nothing important remains to be done on New Earth now. The future, what little’s left of it, is on He. Why stay behind and wait to be snuffed out?”

  “Because,” Hazleton said, “I’m the mayor here. I know that doesn’t seem important to you, Jake. But it’s important to me. One thing that I’ve discovered in the last few months is that I’m not cut out to take the apocalyptic view of ordinary events. What counts with me is that I run normal human affairs pretty well—nothing more. That’s what I was made for. Besting Jorn the Apostle was something that gave me great pleasure, and no matter that Amalfi set it up for me; it was fun, the kind of operation that makes me feel alive and operating at the top of my form. I’m not interested in trying to avert the triumph of time. That’s not my kind of adversary. I leave that to the rest of you; I’d better stay here.”

  “Do you like to think,” Gifford Bonner said, “that no matter how well you administer the Cloud, it will all be snuffed out on June second three years from now?”

  “No; not exactly,” Mark said. “But I shan’t mind having the Cloud in the best shape I can manage when that time comes. What can I contribute to the triumph of time, Gif? Nothing. All I can do is put my world in order for that moment. That’s the thing that I do—and that’s why I don’t belong aboard He.”

  “You didn’t use to be so modest,” Amalfi said. “You would have bailed the universe out with the Big Dipper, once, on the first excuse.”

  “Yes, I would,” Hazleton said. “But I’m older and saner now; and so, good-bye to that nonsense. Go stop the triumph of time, John, if you can—but I know I can’t. I’ll stay where I am and stop Jorn the Apostle, which is as tough a problem as I care to tackle these days. The gods of all stars be with you all—but I stay here.”

  “So be it,” Amalfi said. “At least I know at last what the real difference is between us. Let’s drink to it, Mark, and ave atque vale— tomorrow we turn down an empty glass.”

  They all drank solemnly, and there was a brief silence.

  At last Dee said: “I’m staying too.”

  Amalfi turned and looked directly at her for the first time since they had last been together on He; they had been rather pointedly avoiding each other since their painful joint fiasco.

  “That hadn’t occurred to me,” he said. “But of course it makes sense.”

  “You’re not required, Dee,” Mark said. “As I’ve said before.”

  “If I were, I wouldn’t stay,” Dee said, smiling slightly. “But I’ve learned a few things on He—and on board the Warrior blockader, too. I feel a little out of date, just like New Earth; I think I belong here. And that’s not the only reason.”

  “Thanks,” Mark said huskily,

  “But,” Web Hazleton said, “where does that leave us?”

  Jake laughed. “That ought to be clear enough,” he said. “Since you and Estelle made the big decision by yourselves, you don’t need us to tell you how to make little ones. I’d like to have Estelle stay home with me—”

  “Jake, you’re not going either?” Amalfi said in astonishment.

  “No. I told you before, I hate this careering about the universe. I don’t see any reason why I ought to go rushing madly to the metagalactic center to meet a doom that will find me just as handily in my own living room. Schloss and Retma will tell you that they don’t need me any more, either; I’ve given my best to this project, and that’s an end to it; I think I’ll see how far I can get on cross-breeding roses in this villainous climate before the three years are up. As for my daughter, as I was trying to say, I’d like to have her here with me, but she’s already left home in the crucial sense—and this last Hevian flight is as natural to her as it’s unnatural to Dee and me. In your own words, Amalfi, so be it.”

  “Good. We can use you, Estelle, that’s for sure. Want to come?” Amalfi said.

  “Yes,” she said softly, “I do.”

  “I hadn’t thought of this,” Dee said in an uncertain voice. “Of course it means Web will go too. Do you think that’s wise? I mean—”

  “My parents don’t object,” Web said. “And I notice they weren’t invited here tonight, grandmother.”

  “We didn’t shut them out on your account, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Mark said quickly. “Your father’s our son, after all, Web. We were trying to confine the party to those of us who were in on the project—otherwise it would have been unmanageably large.”

  “Maybe so,” Web said. “That’s how it looks to you, I’m sure, grandfather. But I’ll bet grandmother didn’t think of her objections to my going on He just now.”

  “Web,” Dee said, “I won’t hear any more of that.”

  “All right. Then I’m going on He.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t have to say it. The decision is mine.”

  Most of the rest of the party had invented reasons for side conversation by this time; but both Amalfi and Hazleton were staring at Dee, Amalfi with suspicion, Hazleton with bafflement and a little hurt. “I don’t understand your objection, Dee,” Hazleton said. “Web’s his own man now. Naturally he’ll go where he thinks best—especially if Estelle’s going there.”

  “I don’t think he ought to go,” Dee said. “I don’t care whether you understand my reasons or
not. I suppose Ron did give him permission—whether he’s our son or a stranger, Mark, you know damn well that Ron’s always been short of firmness—but I’m absolutely opposed to committing children to a venture like this.”

  “What difference can it make?” Amalfi said. “The end will come all the same, on He and on New Earth, and at the self-same moment. With us, Web and Estelle might have a fractional chance of survival; do you want to deny them that?”

  “I don’t believe in this chance of survival,” Dee said.

  “Neither do I,” Jake cut in. “But I won’t deny it to my daughter on that account. I don’t believe her soul will be damned unless she becomes a convert of Jorn, either—but if she wants to become a convert of Jorn, I won’t forbid it to her because I think it’s nonsense. What the hell, Dee, I might be wrong.”

  “Nobody,” Web said between white lips, “can forbid me anything now on the grounds that I’m somebody’s relative. Mr. Amalfi, you’re the boss on this project. Am I welcome on board He, or not?”

  “You are as far as I’m concerned. I think Miramon will concur.”

  Dee glared at Amalfi; but as he stared steadily back, she turned her glance away.

  “Dee,” Amalfi said, “let’s call an intermission. I could be wrong about these kids too. I have a better suggestion than this squabbling: let’s put it up to the City Fathers. It’s a very pleasant night outside, and I think we’d all like a walk through our old city before we say good-bye to each other and go to face Armageddon in our various ways. I’d like Dee to come with me, since I won’t see her again; the kids would probably like to do without our picking their bones for an hour or so; and maybe Mark would like to talk to Ron and his wife—but you can all sort yourselves out to your own tastes, I don’t mean to make matches. What does everyone think of the idea?”

  Oddly, it was Jake who spoke first. “I hate that damned town,” he said. “I was a prisoner on board it far too long. But by God I would like to take one more look at it. I used to walk through it trying to find some place to kick it where it would hurt; I never did. Since then I’ve been sneering at it because it’s dead and I’m alive—but the day of levelment is coming. Maybe I ought to make my peace with it.”