The Compleat McAndrew

by Charles Sheffield

  Wicklund was awake. He winced and held his hands up to his ears. There might be a burst eardrum there, something else we would have to take care of when we got to the Hoatzin.

  “How did I get here?” he said wonderingly.

  “Across the vacuum. Sorry we had to put you out like that, but I didn’t think you could have faced a vacuum passage when you were conscious.”

  His gaze turned slowly to McAndrew. “Is he all right?”

  “I hope so. There may be some lung damage that we’ll have to take care of. Want to do something to help?”

  He nodded, then turned back to look at the ball of the Ark, dwindling behind us. “They can’t catch us now, can they?”

  “They might try, but I don’t think so. Kleeman probably considers anybody who wants to leave the Ark is not worth having. Here, take the blue tube out of the kit behind you and smear it on your face and hands. Do the same for McAndrew. It will speed up the repair of the ruptured blood vessels in your skin.”

  Wicklund took the blue salve and began to apply it tenderly to McAndrew’s face.

  After a couple of seconds Mac opened his eyes and smiled. “Thank you, lad,” he said softly. “I’d talk more physics with you, but somehow I don’t quite feel that I’m up to it.”

  “Just lie there quiet.” There was hero worship in Wicklund’s voice. I had a sudden premonition of what the return trip was going to be like. McAndrew and Sven Wicklund in a mutual admiration society, and all the talk of physics.

  After we had the capsule back on board the Hoatzin I felt secure for the first time. We installed McAndrew comfortably on one of the bunks while I went to the drive unit and set a maximum-acceleration course back to the Solar System. Wicklund’s attention was torn between his need to talk to McAndrew and his fascination with the drive and the ship. How would Einstein have felt in 1905, if someone could have shown him a working nuclear reactor just a few months after he had developed the mass-energy relation? It must have been like that for Wicklund.

  “Want to take a last look?” I said, my hand on the drive keyboard.

  He came across and gazed at the Ark, still set on its long journey to Tau Ceti. He looked sad, and I felt guilty.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’m afraid there’s no going back now.”

  “I know.” He hesitated. “You found Home a bad place, I could tell from what McAndrew said. But it’s not so bad. To me, it was home for my whole life.”

  “We’ll talk to the Ark again. There may be a chance to come here later, when we’ve had more time to study the life that you lived. I hope you’ll find a new life in the System.”

  I meant it, but I was having a sudden vision of the Earth we were heading back to. Crowded, noisy, short of all resources. Wicklund might find it as hellish as we had found life on the Ark of Massingham. It was too late to do anything about it now. Fortunately, this sort of problem probably meant less to Wicklund than it would to most people. Like McAndrew, his real life was lived inside his own head, and all else was secondary to that private vision.

  I pressed the key sequence and the drive went on. Within seconds, the Ark had vanished from sight.

  I turned back and was surprised to see that McAndrew was sitting up in his bunk. He looked terrible, but he must be feeling better. His hands were yellow paws of surrogate flesh, his face and neck a bright blue coating of the ointment that Wicklund had applied to them. The dribble of blood that had come from his mouth had spread its bright stain down his chin and over the front of his tunic, mixing in with the blue fabric to produce a horrible purple splash.

  “How are you, Mac?” I said.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all.” He forced a smile.

  “You know, it’s not good enough. You promised me ages ago that you’d schedule a repair for that lung—and you didn’t do it. If you think I’m prepared to keep dragging you around bleeding and bubbling, you’re wrong. When we get back, you have that lung fixed properly—if I have to drag you to the medics myself.”

  “Och, Jeanie.” He gave a feeble shrug. “We’ll see. It takes so much time away from work. Let’s get on home, though, and we’ll see. I’ve learned a lot on this trip, more than I ever expected. It’s all been well worth it.”

  He caught my skeptical look. “Honest, now, this is more important than you realize. We’ll make the next trip out together, the way I promised you. Maybe next time we’ll get to the stars. I’m sorry that you got nothing out of this one.”

  I stared at him. He looked like a circus clown, all smears and streaks of different clashing colors. I shook my head. “You’re wrong. I got something out of it.”

  He looked puzzled. “How’s that?”

  “I listen to you and the other physicists all the time, and usually I don’t understand a word of it. This time I know just what you mean. Lie still, and you can see for yourself. I’ll be back in a second.”

  All the colors of the vacuum? That was McAndrew. If a picture is worth a thousand words, there are times when a mirror is worth more than that. I wanted to watch Mac’s face when he saw his own reflection.

  FOURTH CHRONICLE:

  The Manna Hunt

  We had been working hard for two months, preparing for the first long trip. Neither McAndrew nor I would admit to feeling excited, but every day I could see the pleasure and anticipation just bubbling up in him. I doubt that I was any harder to read.

  It meant sixteen-hour work spells, day after day, checking every detail of the ship and mission. On an exploration that would take us away for four months of shipboard time and almost nine years of Earth-time, all the thinking had to be finished before we left the Institute.

  Finally the launch date was only four days away.

  That made the news of cancellation—when they plucked up the courage to tell us about it—hard to take.

  I had been over on the Hoatzin, checking the condition of the big massplate at the front of the ship. It took longer than I expected. By the time I flew my inspection pinnace on its ten thousand kilometer hop back to the Penrose Institute we were well into the sleep period. I hadn’t expected anyone in the dining hall when I slipped in to dial a late meal—and certainly I didn’t expect to find Professor Limperis in close conversation with McAndrew.

  “Working late—” I said. Then I saw their faces. Even Limperis, black as he was, looked drawn and a shade paler.

  I sat down opposite them. “What’s happened?”

  McAndrew shrugged without speaking and jerked his head towards Limperis.

  “We’ve had a directive from USF Headquarters,” said the older man. He seemed to be picking his words carefully. “Signed by Korata—right from the top. There was a meeting last week between the Food and Energy Council of Earth and the United Space Federation. They called me two hours ago. The Penrose Institute is instructed to support certain high priority Council activities. This requires that we—”

  “They’ve cancelled us, Jeanie,” cut in McAndrew harshly. “The bastards. Without one word of discussion with anybody here. Our Alpha Centauri mission is dead—finito.”

  I gawped at Limperis. He nodded in an embarrassed way. “Postponed, at least. With no new date set.”

  “They can’t do that.” I was beginning to feel my own anger rising. “The Institute doesn’t answer to the Food and Energy Council, how the hell can they claim to order you around? This is an independent organization. Tell them to go away and play with themselves. You have the authority to do that, don’t you?”

  “Well…” Limperis looked even more embarrassed. “In principle, Captain Roker, it is as you say. I have the authority. But you know that’s an oversimplification of the real world. We need political support as much as any other group—we rely partly on public funding. I like to pretend that we’re pure research, answering to no one. In practice, we have our own political constituency in the Councils. I tried to explain this just now”—McAndrew grunted and glowered down at the table—“to point out why I can’t really fight it wit
hout losing an awful lot. Three of our big supporters, Councilors who’ve done us big favors in the past, called me ten minutes after we got the first word. They want to use their credit on this one. The Alpha Centauri mission is off. The Council needs the use of the Hoatzin for other purposes.”

  “No way.” I leaned forward until our faces were only six inches apart. “That’s our ship—we’ve slaved over it. If they think they can call in and take it away from me and Mac without even asking, and leave us—”

  “They want you, too, Jeanie.” Limperis leaned back a bit. In my excitement I was spitting all over him. “Both of you. The orders are very clear. They want you and McAndrew and the ship.”

  “And what the hell for?”

  “For a mission of their own.” He looked more baffled than irritated now. “For a mission so secret they wouldn’t tell me anything about it.”

  That was the first shock. The others dribbled in one by one as McAndrew and I made our way from the Penrose Institute to the headquarters of the Food and Energy Council.

  The Institute had been parked out near Mars orbit. With the Hoatzin, and its hundred gee drive, or even with one of the prototypes like Merganser at fifty gee, we could have been to Earth in half a day. But Professor Limperis still insisted that the McAndrew Drive should never be employed in the Inner System, and McAndrew himself backed that decision completely. We were stuck with a slow boat and a ten day journey.

  Surprise Number One came soon after we powered away from the Institute. I had assumed that we would be running a confidential mission for the Energy Department of the full Food and Energy Council. We had worked together on high-energy projects in the past, and I knew McAndrew was a real expert on the subject. But our travel documents instructed us to report to the Food Department. What did food programs need with a theoretical physicist, a spacecraft captain, and a high-acceleration ship?

  Three days from Earth we were hit with another surprise. The information came in as a brief, impersonal directive that could be neither amplified nor questioned. I would not be the captain of the new mission. Despite the fact that I had more experience with the McAndrew Drive than anyone else in the System, a Food Department official would give me my orders. I became even angrier when, two days from Earth, we learned the rest of it. McAndrew and I would serve as “special advisors” reporting to a crew from the Food and Energy Council. We would have about as much decision-making authority on the mission as the robochef. I had descended from captain to cabin boy.

  For me, maybe they could persuade themselves that it was a reasonable decision; some people have more deep space experience than I do (but not much more) and you could say that my talent is nothing more than tricks for staying alive and out of trouble. But McAndrew was another matter. To assign him a role as a simple information source suggested an ignorance or an arrogance beyond my belief.

  All right, so I’m a McAndrew fan; I won’t deny it. When I got to Earth I would have words with the bureaucrats of the Food Department.

  I needed to talk it out with somebody, but Mac was no use. He wasn’t interested in arguments on nontechnical subjects. Instead, he retreated as usual into his private world of tensors and twistors, and despite my own respectable scientific background I couldn’t follow him there. For most of the journey he sat slack-jawed on his bunk, perfectly content, gazing at the blank wall and performing the invisible mental gymnastics that had earned him his reputation.

  That sort of thinking is beyond me. I spent the long hours brooding, and by the time we were led into the Council’s offices I was loaded for bear.

  The Food Department enjoys a bigger staff and budget than anything else in System Government, and the opulence of its fittings was quite a contrast to the spartan furnishings of the Institute. We were conducted through four luxurious outer offices, each with its own secretaries and screening procedure. Ample working space spoke of prestige and power. The room we finally came to held a conference table big enough for forty people.

  A woman was seated alone at the massive desk. I looked at her elegant dress, beautifully made-up eyes and carefully coiffured hair, and I suddenly felt scruffy and out of place. Mac and I were dressed for space work, in one-piece beige coveralls and loafers. My hair had been cropped to a few centimeters long. His thin, straggly mop as usual dipped untidily over his high forehead. Neither of us was wearing a touch of make-up.

  “Professor McAndrew?” She stood up and smiled at us. I glowered back at her. “And Captain Roker, I assume. I must apologize for treating you in such cavalier fashion. You have had a long trip here, and no adequate explanation.”

  Good disarming waffle, the sort you get from an experienced politician or the highest level of bureaucrat, but her smile was broad and friendly. She came forward and held out a pudgy hand. As I took it I made a closer inspection of her appearance: thirty-five years old, maybe, and a bit overweight. Perhaps this messy situation wasn’t her fault. I restrained my scowl and muttered conventional words of greeting.

  She gestured us to sit down.

  “I am Anna Lisa Griss,” she went on. “Head of Programs for the Food Department. Welcome to Headquarters. Other staff members will join us in a few minutes, but first I want to point out the need for secrecy. What you will learn here cannot be mentioned to anyone outside this room without my permission. I will come to the point at once. Look at this.”

  She exuded an air of complete control. As she was speaking the lights dimmed and an image became visible on the screen at the far end of the room. It showed a column of calendar years, and alongside it two other columns of figures.

  “Total System food reserves, present and projected,” said Griss. “Look at the trend—it’s a log scale—then look particularly at the behavior thirty years from now.”

  I was still trying to assimilate the first few numbers when McAndrew grunted and put his hand up to his face.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “You’re showing a factor of two drop in less than three decades. What’s the basis for that projection?”

  If she felt surprise at his speed of response, she didn’t show it. “We included population patterns, available acreages, plant yields, and capacity to manufacture synthetics. Would you like to see the details on any one of them?”

  McAndrew shook his head. “Never mind the details. That’s disaster and starvation flashing on your screen.”

  “It is. It’s the reason that you are here.” She brought the lights back up to what I regarded as a dim, conspiratorial level and dropped her voice to match. “You can imagine the effect when that projection becomes public knowledge, especially if no one can see any way out. Even though we’re talking about many years in the future, we’d see stockpiling—probably food wars.”

  I was feeling a growing anger. There had been rumors of a major future food shortage flying around the System for a long time. The Administration had denied every one, dismissing all gloomy forecasts as alarmist.

  “If you’re correct in your projections, you can’t keep this a secret,” I said. “People have a right to know so they can work on solutions.”

  McAndrew frowned at me, while Anna Lisa Griss gave me a quick probing glance (no smile now) and raised her dark eyebrows. The man’s easy, her look said, but this one needs persuading.

  “The problem is clear enough,” she agreed. “It has been known to my group for almost a decade. Fairly soon it may be obvious to everybody. But it’s the possible solution I want to talk about now. And involving the general public wouldn’t help a bit—there’s no chance that they could provide new insights.”

  I didn’t like her superior manner, but in spite of my irritation I was becoming interested. “It has to be a supply-side answer,” I said. “The population growth won’t budge.”

  “Obviously.” She smiled again, a bit too broadly, and sneaked a look at her watch. “But think about that supply side. We’d like to increase the planted acreage, of course. But how? We’re using every spare inch, unless we can
move the lunar agricultural experiments to massive production—and nobody feels optimistic about that. Plant yields are as high as they will go—we’re seeing bad effects of plant overbreeding already. No hope there. So what’s left?”

  Before we could chance an answer or she could provide one, the door behind us opened. A skinny man with plastered-down grey hair entered and stood deferentially at the threshold.

  “Come in, Bayes.” Anna Lisa Griss looked again at her watch. “You’re late.”

  “Sorry.” He remained at the door, hesitating.

  “I began without you. Come in and sit down.” She turned to face us without offering introductions. “There was one area still to be examined: alternative supplies of organic materials that might easily be converted to food. Six years ago, everyone thought that was a hopeless avenue. Now, with the Griss-Lanhoff Theory”—I could hear the capital letters in her voice as she proclaimed the name—“we have new hope.”

  I was watching Bayes’ face as she spoke. His lips tightened when Anna Lisa Griss pronounced the name of the theory, but he remained silent.

  McAndrew cleared his throat.

  “I’m afraid that I’m not as well up on the literature of food production as I ought to be,” he said. “Lanhoff’s a familiar name. If it’s the same person, I knew him fairly well ten years ago, when he was working on porphyrin syntheses. What’s he doing now?”

  “We don’t know. Maybe you can help us to find out.” She leaned forward and looked at us intently. “Lanhoff has disappeared—out in the Halo, testing our theory. Two weeks ago I learned that you have available a high-acceleration ship with an inertia-less drive.” (I saw McAndrew wince and mutter “not inertia-less” to himself.) “We need the use of that, for a mission of the highest priority. We have to find out what happened to Lanhoff’s project. Three days from now we must be on our way to the Halo.”