Cauldron

by Jack McDevitt

  “I guess I don’t blame her.”

  A bot arrived to take their orders. Cap studied the menu, decided he wasn’t very hungry, and settled for a salad. “Rudy,” he said, “she’s never been happy with this job.”

  Rudy ordered a bottle of German wine. “I know.” He was surprised she’d put up with it at all. The Foundation didn’t pay that much, and her husband was away six and seven months at a time. He’d offered to arrange things so she could go along. But they had kids, and there was no way to manage it.

  “She’d just like a normal life. Now she’s wondering how dangerous it is.”

  “You’re not going to leave us, are you, Cap?”

  Two of his passengers were seated on the other side of the dining area. They looked over, saw Cap, and waved. He waved back. “She refused even to come up to meet me. She’s never done that before.”

  “I’m sorry. I wish there were something we could do.”

  “I do, too, Rudy.” He turned his attention to Jon: “Is it going to work?”

  Jon’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Oh, yes,” he said.

  “How fast is it?”

  “We aren’t sure yet. Have to conduct some tests first.”

  “Well,” he said, “it would be a godsend to have something that would move a bit faster than what we have now.”

  Rudy held his gaze. “Cap, this is a bad time to ask, but after we finish the testing, and we’re sure it’ll do what we want it to, would you be open to piloting the first mission?”

  “Rudy,” he said, “I don’t think so. If I were to do something like that, Carrie would file for separation. I think I’ve reached a point where I should pull the plug.”

  “We just lost François,” said Jon.

  “I’m sorry to hear it. What happened?”

  Rudy sighed. “He decided we didn’t have a future. So he got another job.”

  “Piloting?”

  “Shuttling.”

  “That’s a comedown.”

  “Money’s probably a good bit better,” said Rudy.

  “Yeah. I guess.” The wine arrived. They uncorked the bottle, poured three glasses, and drank to the Foundation. To each other. And to the Locarno.

  RUDY TOOK ADVANTAGE of the opportunity to inspect the Happy Times. The engineers were not entirely pleased to see him, and especially not Jon, but they brought them on board, and their supervisor explained that they were conducting the first set of calibration tests for the QDU. The Quantum Disruption Unit. Rudy had no idea what it was or what it would do. Neither, he suspected, did the supervisor.

  “It’s what will give us access,” said Jon. He explained its function, which had something to do with spatial manipulation. While they talked, results were coming in. Jon parked in front of one of the displays, followed the operation, looked up periodically to give Rudy an encouraging nod, and, after a half hour or so, broke into a wide smile. “It’s going to work, Rudy,” he said.

  JON SILVESTRI’S NOTEBOOK

  …Happiest day of my life…

  —Sunday, April 29

  PART TWO

  locarno

  chapter 8

  HAD HE BEEN able, Rudy would have kept the media away from the test run. But there was no way to do that. Interest was high, and journalists crowded into the launch area and spilled out into the passageway. The networks, always hungry for news and ready to expand any sort of event into a major story, had begun broadcasting live two hours before Rudy arrived on the scene.

  Also present were a few politicians who had championed the cause, and who had been actively trying for years to get the government to support an interstellar program. And, of course, Rudy had saved room for the Foundation’s five board members. Hutch and a few other supporters were also on hand.

  The first question had come when reporters had spotted him in the main concourse. “Dr. Golombeck, why did you remove Doris?” Doris was the test vehicle’s AI. He’d known that issue would surface. The action had already turned him into a cartoon figure, depicted rescuing toasters and reading lamps from trash collectors.

  He was tempted to point out that several religious groups had raised the possibility that AIs had souls. But hardheaded scientific types were supposed to be tougher than that. Reasonable. The Voice of Truth had commented that the next thing anybody knew, “These weak-kneed do-gooders would be representing us in the greater galaxy, and giving whatever might be out there the impression we’re ripe for plucking.” So he simply explained that they’d made test modifications on Doris, that they did not want to have to repeat the process, and that she was not necessary to run the test. So he’d pulled her clear. Just in case. It didn’t satisfy everyone, but it would do.

  THE HAPPY TIMES waited serenely in its bay.

  When they were a few minutes from launch time, Rudy asked for quiet, thanked everyone for their support, called Jon to his side, and introduced him as “the man everybody here already knows.” He gazed contentedly out across his audience. He loved moments like this. Whatever concerns about failure he’d entertained had drifted away. What the hell. If you tried to climb Everest, there was no disgrace in not making the top. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he continued, “we’ll be operating the Happy Times from here. Since Dr. Silvestri’s drive has never been tested, there’ll be no one on board the ship when it goes into transit.

  “It will launch from Bay 4”—he checked his watch, tapped his earpiece for effect—“in approximately eleven minutes. Forty-two minutes later, after the system has charged, we’ll trigger the Locarno, and the Happy Times will enter a set of dimensions we haven’t previously penetrated.” His smile grew larger. “We think.” Jon, still beside him, grinned and said he hoped so. It got a round of laughter.

  “If all goes well, it will reappear 3.7 billion miles from here before you can count to six. A standard vehicle, using the Hazeltine, would complete the jump in just under a minute.”

  Somebody wanted to know how far 3.7 billion miles was? Saturn? Uranus?

  “Think Pluto,” he said.

  “Rudy.” George Eifen, of Science News, stood near the door. He’d grown a beard since the last time Rudy had seen him. “Is that really correct? Six seconds?”

  Rudy smiled contentedly. “George, we’ve been doing one minute to Pluto for the better part of a century. Nobody notices because nobody ever goes to Pluto. We make these runs out to Rigel or wherever, and it takes a few hours, or a few days, so the rate of passage is lost. People don’t see what Ginny Hazeltine accomplished. Well, with the Locarno, we hope to do even better.”

  He smiled again, but he tried to appear uncertain. Hopeful. Don’t want to look smug. Make sure the thing works first. “When it arrives, it’ll send a radio signal back here. It’s now”—he checked the time—“almost noon.” Greenwich Mean Time, of course. “If all goes well, it’ll be on the edge of the solar system at about 12:45. The radio signal will need six hours to get back here.” He glanced around the room. “By seven or so this evening, we’ll know whether it’s been a success.”

  A small man off to one side waved a hand. “There’s no chance it would hit Pluto, is there?”

  Rudy chuckled. “Pluto isn’t there at the moment,” he said. “So there’s no danger of a collision. In any case, there’s a matter detector on board. It would prevent the Happy Times from trying to materialize in the same space as a solid object.”

  They directed a few questions at Jon. How did he feel? How confident was he? In an era when the urge to travel in deep space seemed to have gone away, did he foresee a practical use for this kind of drive?

  Jon explained that he didn’t believe the current malaise was permanent. When he finished, Rudy pointed at the clock. They were down to four minutes. “Dr. Silvestri,” he said, “will launch for us.”

  Jon took his seat at the controls. Someone handed him a cup of coffee, and the room quieted. Rudy moved back out of the way. The displays activated, and they had views of the Bay 4 launch doors from several angles. Orbiting
telescopes had also been included in the mix. If everything went as planned, they’d have visual coverage until the moment the Happy Times made its jump. That part had been easier to arrange than he’d expected. The Locarno experiment commanded a fair amount of interest.

  The station director wandered in, saw Rudy, came over, and shook his hand. “Good luck,” she said.

  Across the room, Hutch caught his eyes. Here we go.

  The media people were speaking into their microphones, watching the countdown, trying to convey the tension of the moment. A few technicians stood out in the passageway. Margo Dee, who looked gorgeous, gave him a thumbs-up. Big moment for the Foundation.

  Two minutes.

  The room fell silent, save for a few whispers.

  Once Jon hit the button, everything would be automatic.

  Rudy couldn’t remember the last time he’d tried prayer. His parents had been staunch Presbyterians, but it had never really taken with him. Nevertheless, he found himself speaking to Someone, delivering one of those if-you-are-there pleas. If he’d ever wanted anything in his life to succeed, this was it.

  Fifty seconds.

  The Happy Times was considerably larger than the Preston, and much bulkier. Designed to accommodate lots of cargo. It wasn’t the vehicle he would have chosen for something like this. Its main engines were outsize, the hull still carried the faded logo of Orbital Transport (which they hadn’t gotten around to removing), and external latches provided additional hauling capability.

  He’d have liked something a bit more photogenic.

  The final moments went to zero. Jon leaned forward and pushed the button.

  NOTHING HAPPENED.

  The Happy Times stayed firmly attached to its dock. Rudy glanced over at Hutch. She smiled. Be patient.

  He turned back to the ship. Still nothing.

  The launch doors began to open, and the umbilicals floated away. The ship edged away from the dock. Its maneuvering thrusters activated, and it started to turn on its axis. Big lumbering thing that it was, it moved with surprising grace. He watched with a sense of pride.

  The picture on the displays changed. They were looking down on Union from God knew where. The ship moved deliberately out through the launch doors. Its tubes lit up, and it began to accelerate. A few people applauded. Premature. Way too early.

  It dwindled quickly to a star. Then it was gone.

  “Okay, folks,” said Rudy. “Nothing more will happen for the next forty minutes or so. Break time.”

  Journalists closed in on him and on Jon. Mostly they wanted him to speculate, to talk about the implications of a ship that could travel to Pluto in six seconds. He tried to explain that wasn’t really what happened, that the device folded space, that the ship passed through the folds. But, of course, nobody could visualize that, so the reporters made faces and asked whether he couldn’t explain it in plain English, and he had to say he couldn’t because the words don’t exist, and anyhow he couldn’t really visualize it himself. Nobody could.

  “If it works, will we be going to the Cauldron?”

  It was the popular term for the Mordecai Zone, the cloud cluster RVP66119.

  Thought to be the source of the omegas.

  If there had ever been a question whether the lethal clouds were a natural phenomenon, it had surely been answered, at least in Rudy’s mind, when the courses of hundreds of the objects had been traced back to that single narrow place near the galactic core. The Cauldron. The Devil’s Cookpot. The site from which countless omegas were dispatched to attack civilizations wherever found.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly right. They attacked geometric structures, artificial designs that incorporated right angles. But the effect was the same. There were some who thought civilizations were not deliberately targeted. That they just happened to get in the way. Hutch was among those who subscribed to that notion. But if indeed it was sheer indifference, that somehow suggested even a deeper level of evil at work.

  The Cauldron was symbolic of an ultimate malice, a demonic manufacturing plant, a factory that poured forth unimaginable destruction down the ages. And across the light-years. Those who maintained it was a conscious diabolical force, and they were many, seemed even to Rudy to have at least half of the truth.

  The project had been led by Edmund Mordecai, and the area had been named for him. The Mordecai Zone. But most people knew it only as the Cauldron.

  We knew precisely where it was, fifty-seven light-years out from the core, a pinpoint in orbit around the massive black hole at the center of the galaxy. But it was shrouded by vast clouds of dust and hydrogen, so no one had ever seen it.

  Rudy had known the question was coming. “We’re taking this one step at a time,” he said. “Let’s confirm that the system works first. Then we can talk about mission profiles.” He liked the sound of that. Mission profiles.

  Hutch was surrounded, too. She’d been out of the business a long time now, a former pilot herself during the glory days, but they hadn’t forgotten her.

  “Rudy.” Jani Kloefmann from Norway at Night. “Tell us about the AI. Are you really worried about hurting the hardware?”

  “Just a precaution,” he said. “In case the test goes wrong, it would be one less thing we’d lose.”

  “AIs aren’t expensive,” Jani said.

  “This one is. She’s had special training.” The question was inevitable, and he’d come prepared. He opened a briefcase and removed a black box. “We asked Doris what she wanted, and she said she’d prefer to stay here and talk with the people from the media.” He raised his voice a notch. “Say hello, Doris.”

  “Good morning, Jani.” She had a cool, professional voice. “And be assured, I’m quite happy to stay here and keep my feet on the ground.”

  “‘Your feet?’” said Jani.

  “Sorry about that, Jani. But people tend to get the point when I use metaphors.”

  Rudy wasn’t worried about the Voice of Truth and its allies. He was enough of a politician to know that virtually the entire planet agreed that AIs were people.

  A HALF DOZEN telescopes, four in orbit and two mounted on the station, had picked up the big cargo ship and were tracking it. Rudy wandered through the room, talking with reporters, shaking hands with the politicians, thanking the board members for their support. Through it all, it was impossible not to watch the clock.

  He was surprised at how effectively Jon handled the media. He moved easily among them, telling jokes on himself, obviously enjoying being the center of attention. There was none of the exaggeration or self-importance or condescension that was so common with inexperienced people thrust into the spotlight.

  He relaxed, and watched the Happy Times, barely visible now, a dull star off to one side of the moon. The minutes slipped easily away. A countdown clock ticked off the time remaining as the Locarno charged. Then, precisely on schedule, the ready lamp lit up. All systems were go.

  Moments later, the star blinked out, the ship vanished from the screens. Rudy walked over and shook Jon’s hand.

  If you watched a vessel making its jump with the Hazeltine system, you saw it gradually turn transparent and fade from view. The process took only a few seconds, but the transition was visible. It had not been like that on this occasion. The Happy Times had simply disappeared from sight.

  Rudy inhaled twice, held his left wrist out so he could see his watch, and counted off six seconds. Then he allowed himself to look hopeful. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “if everything has gone as intended, the test vehicle has just jumped back into normal space, but it is out in Pluto’s neighborhood. It should now be starting a transmission to us. That transmission doesn’t have the benefit of Jon’s drive, so it will need about six hours to get here. It should arrive this evening at approximately 7:04. That could go a few minutes either way. There’s some imprecision in our ability to gauge exactly how far a jump will take a Locarno-equipped vessel. In any case, we’ll be back here tonight listening to the radio. I hope
you’ll all join us.”

  And, on cue, Doris delivered her line: “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. Refreshments will be served in the dining area.”

  SOME OF THE politicians and Foundation people retired to a meeting room that Rudy had arranged. Others, who wanted something more substantial than finger sandwiches and oatmeal cookies, fanned out among bars and restaurants to wait out the interval. Jon appeared confident. “It’ll be okay,” he told Rudy. “We’re through the most dangerous part of the process. The one I was worried about.”

  “Which one was that?”

  “Entry. It’s where the math was most uncertain.”

  “I see.”

  “If we were going to have a problem, that’s where it would have occurred.”

  “You’re sure it didn’t?”

  “I’m sure.” They were sitting in armchairs with a potted palm between them. “It would have exploded.”

  “At the moment of transition?”

  “Yes, indeed,” he said. “Right there in River City. For everybody to see.” He was drinking something. Looked like brandy. “Have no fear, Rudy. It’s over. We’re in business.”

  Hutch, who wasn’t personally invested quite the way Rudy was, had taken a wait-and-see attitude. She had a vague sense of how far Pluto was, at least much more so than anyone else present, and her instincts warned her that nobody could get out there in six seconds. Of course, her instincts also told her that getting there inside a minute was just as absurd. It was odd that she’d never thought of it in those terms. All those years, she’d sat down on the bridge, activated the system, and they’d drifted through an interdimensional haze for a few days, or a few weeks, and she would arrive in another star system.

  She stopped to think how far Alpha Centauri was. A mere four light-years down the road. It didn’t sound far. Yet, had we been limited to the velocity of the first moon flights, a mission to that dull neighbor would have required more than fifty thousand years. One way.

  When asked in Rudy’s presence about her reaction to the experiment, she said she was confident. Everything was going to be fine. It might have been the moment that brought her doubts to the forefront. “I’m never going to get used to this,” she told one reporter. “An armload of dimensions, space-bending drives. Sometimes I think I’d rather have been around when they flew the first planes.”