By the time Abigail could drop the spanner and draw in the gaspack, her good arm was blue with fatigue. Sweat running down her face, she juggled the gaspack to read its nozzle markings.
It was liquid oxygen—useless. She could hook it to her suit and feed in the contents, but the first breath would freeze her lungs. She released the gaspack and lay back, staring vacantly at the sky.
Up there was civilization: tens of thousands of human stations strung together by webs of communication and transportation. Messages flowed endlessly on laser cables. Translators borrowed and lent momentum, moving streams of travelers and cargo at almost (but not quite) the speed of light. A starship was being readied to carry a third load of colonists to Proxima. Up there, free from gravity’s relentless clutch, people lived in luxury and ease. Here, however . . .
“I’m going to die.” She said it softly and was filled with wondering awe. Because it was true. She was going to die.
Death was a black wall. It lay before her, extending to infinity in all directions, smooth and featureless and mysterious. She could almost reach out an arm and touch it. Soon she would come up against it and, if anything lay beyond, pass through. Soon, very soon, she would know.
She touched the seal to her helmet. It felt gray— smooth and inviting. Her fingers moved absently, tracing the seal about her neck. With sudden horror, Abigail realized that she was thinking about undoing it, releasing her air, throwing away the little time she had left. . . .
She shuddered. With sudden resolve, she reached out and unsealed the shoulder seam of her captive arm.
The seal clamped down, automatically cutting off air loss. The flesh of her damaged arm was exposed to the raw Martian atmosphere. Abigail took up the gaspack and cradled it in the pit of her good arm. Awkwardly, she opened the nozzle with the spanner.
She sprayed the exposed arm with liquid oxygen for over a minute before she was certain it had frozen solid. Then she dropped the gaspack, picked up the spanner, and swung.
Her arm shattered into a thousand fragments.
She stood up.
~ * ~
Abigail awoke, tense and sweaty. She blue-shifted the walls up to normal light, and sat up. After a few minutes of clearing her head, she set the walls to cycle from red to blue in a rhythm matching her normal pulse. Eventually the womb-cycle lulled her back to sleep.
~ * ~
“Not even close,” Paul said. He ran the tape backward, froze it on a still shot of the spider twisting two legs about each other. “That’s the morpheme for ‘extreme disgust,’ remember. It’s easy to pick out, and the language kids say that any statement with this gesture should be reversed in meaning. Irony, see? So when the spider says that the strong should protect the weak, it means—”
“How long have we been doing this?”
“Practically forever,” Paul said cheerfully. “You want to call it a day?”
“Only if it won’t hurt my standing.”
“Hah! Very good.” He switched off the keyout. “Nicely thought out. You’re absolutely right; it would have. However, as reward for realizing this, you can take off early without it being noted on your record.”
“Thank you,” Abigail said sourly.
Like most large installations, the Clarke had a dozen or so smaller structures tagging along after it in minimum maintenance orbits. When Abigail discovered that these included a small wheel gymnasium, she had taken to putting in an hour’s exercise after each training shift. Today she put in two.
The first hour she spent shadowboxing and practicing savate in heavy-gee to work up a sweat. The second hour she spent in the axis room, performing free-fall gymnastics. After the first workout, it made her feel light and nimble and good about her body.
She returned from the wheel gym sweaty and cheerful to find Cheyney in her hammock again. “Cheyney,” she said, “this is not the first time I’ve had to kick you out of there. Or even the third, for that matter.”
Cheyney held his palms up in mock protest. “Hey, no,” he said. “Nothing like that today. I just came by to watch the raft debate with you.”
Abigail felt pleasantly weary, decidedly uncerebral. “Paul said something about it, but. ..”
“Turn it on, then. You don’t want to miss it.” Cheyney touched her wall, and a cluster of images sprang to life at the far end of the room.
“Just what is a raft debate anyway?” Abigail asked, giving in gracefully. She hoisted herself onto the hammock, sat beside him. They rocked gently for a moment.
“There’s this raft, see? It’s adrift and powerless and there’s only enough oxygen on board to keep one person alive until rescue. Only there are three on board— two humans and a spider.”
“Do spiders breathe oxygen?”
“It doesn’t matter. This is a hypothetical situation.” Two thirds of the image area was taken up by Dominguez and Paul, quietly waiting for the debate to begin. The remainder showed a flat spider image.
“Okay, what then?”
“They argue over who gets to survive. Dominguez argues that he should, since he’s human and human culture is superior to spider culture. The spider argues for itself and its culture.” He put an arm around her waist. “You smell nice.”
“Thank you.” She ignored the arm. “What does Paul argue?”
“He’s the devil’s advocate. He argues that no one deserves to live and they should dump the oxygen.”
“Paul would enjoy that role,” Abigail said. Then, “What’s the point to this debate?”
“It’s an entertainment. There isn’t supposed to be a point.”
Abigail doubted it was that simple. The debate could reveal a good deal about the spiders and how they thought, once the language types were done with it. Conversely, the spiders would doubtless be studying the human responses. This could be interesting, she thought. Cheyney was stroking her side now, lightly but with great authority. She postponed reaction, not sure whether she liked it or not.
Louise Chang, a vaguely high-placed administrator, blossomed in the center of the image cluster. “Welcome,” she said, and explained the rules of the debate. “The winner will be decided by acclaim,” she said, “with half the vote being human and half alien. Please remember not to base your vote on racial chauvinism, but on the strengths of the arguments and how well they are presented.” Cheyney’s hand brushed casually across her nipples; they stiffened. The hand lingered. “The debate will begin with the gentleman representing the aliens presenting his thesis.”
The image flickered as the spider waved several legs. “Thank you, Ms. Chairman. I argue that I should survive. My culture is superior because of our technological advancement. Three examples. Humans have used translation travel only briefly, yet we have used it for sixteens of garble. Our black hole technology is superior. And our garble has garble for the duration of our society.”
“Thank you. The gentleman representing humanity?”
“Thank you, Ms. Chairman.” Dominguez adjusted an armlet. Cheyney leaned back and let Abigail rest against him. Her head fit comfortably against his shoulder. “My argument is that technology is neither the sole nor the most important measure of a culture. By these standards dolphins would be considered brute animals. The aesthetic considerations—the arts, theology, and the tradition of philosophy—are of greater import. As I shall endeavor to prove.”
“He’s chosen the wrong tactic,” Cheyney whispered in Abigail’s ear. “That must have come across as pure garble to the spiders.”
“Thank you. Mr. Girard?”
Paul’s image expanded. He theatrically swigged from a small flask and hoisted it high in the air. “Alcohol! There’s the greatest achievement of the human race!” Abigail snorted. Cheyney laughed out loud. “But I hold that neither Mr. Dominguez nor the distinguished spider deserves to live, because of the disregard both cultures have for sentient life.” Abigail looked at Cheyney, who shrugged. “As I shall endeavor to prove.” His image dwindled.
Chan
g said, “The arguments will now proceed, beginning with the distinguished alien.”
The spider and then Dominguez ran through their arguments, and to Abigail they seemed markedly lackluster. She didn’t give them her full attention, because Cheyney’s hands were moving most interestingly across unexpected parts of her body. He might not be too bright, but he was certainly good at some things. She nuzzled her face into his neck, gave him a small peck, returned her attention to the debate.
Paul blossomed again. He juggled something in his palm, held his hand open to reveal three ball bearings. “When I was a kid I used to short out the school module and sneak up to the axis room to play marbles.” Abigail smiled, remembering similar stunts she had played. “For the sake of those of us who are spiders, I’ll explain that marbles is a game played in free-fall for the purpose of developing coordination and spatial perception. You make a six-armed star of marbles in the center . . .”
One of the bearings fell from his hand, bounced noisily, and disappeared as it rolled out of camera range. “Well, obviously it can’t be played here. But the point is that when you shoot the marble just right, it hits the end of one arm and its kinetic energy is transferred from marble to marble along that arm. So that the shooter stops and the marble at the far end of the arm flies away.” Cheyney was stroking her absently now, engrossed in the argument.
“Now, we plan to send a courier into Ginungagap and out the spiders’ black hole. At least, that’s what we say we’re going to do.
“But what exits from a black hole is not necessarily the same as what went into its partner hole. We throw an electron into Ginungagap and another one pops out elsewhere. It’s identical. It’s a direct causal relationship. But it’s like the marbles—they’re identical to each other and have the same kinetic force. It’s simply not the same electron.”
Cheyney’s hand was still, motionless. Abigail prodded him gently, touching his inner thigh. “Anyone who’s interested can see the equations. Now, when we send messages, this doesn’t matter. The message is important, not the medium. However, when we send a human being in ... what emerges from the other hole will be cell for cell, gene for gene, atom for atom identical. But it will not be the same person.” He paused a beat, smiled.
“I submit, then, that this is murder. And further, that by conspiring to commit murder, both the spider and human races display absolute disregard for intelligent life. In short, no one on the raft deserves to live. And I rest my case.”
“Mr. Girard!” Dominguez objected, even before his image was restored to full size. “The simplest mathematical proof is an identity: that A equals A. Are you trying to deny this?”
Paul held up the two ball bearings he had left. “These marbles are identical too. But they are not the same marble.”
“We know the phenomenon you speak of,” the spider said. “It is as if garble the black hole bulges out simultaneously. There is no violation of continuity. The two entities are the same. There is no death.”
Abigail pulled Cheyney down, so that they were both lying on their sides, still able to watch the images. “So long as you happen to be the second marble and not the first,” Paul said. Abigail tentatively licked Cheyney’s ear.
“He’s right,” Cheyney murmured.
“No he’s not,” Abigail retorted. She bit his earlobe.
“You mean that?”
“Of course I mean that. He’s confusing semantics with reality.” She engrossed herself in a study of the back of his neck.
“Okay.”
Abigail suddenly sensed that she was missing something. “Why do you ask?” She struggled into a sitting position. Cheyney followed.
“No particular reason.” Cheyney’s hands began touching her again. But Abigail was sure something had been slipped past her.
They caressed each other lightly while the debate dragged to an end. Not paying much attention, Abigail voted for Dominguez, and Cheyney voted for Paul. As a result of a nearly undivided spider vote, the spider won. “I told you Dominguez was taking the wrong approach,” Cheyney said. He hopped off the hammock. “Look, I’ve got to see somebody about something. I’ll be right back.” “You’re not leaving now?” Abigail protested, dumbfounded. The door irised shut.
Angry and hurt, she leaped down, determined to follow him. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so insulted. Cheyney didn’t try to be evasive; it apparently did not occur to him that she might follow. Abigail stalked him down a corridor, up an in-ramp, and to a door that irised open for him. She recognized that door.
Thoughtfully she squatted on her heels behind an un-trimmed boxwood and waited. A minute later, Garble wandered by, saw her, and demanded attention. “Scat!” she hissed. He butted his head against her knee. “Then be quiet, at least.” She scooped him up. His expression was smug.
The door irised open and Cheyney exited, whistling. Abigail waited until he was gone, stood, went to the door, and entered. Fish darted between long fronds under a transparent floor. It was an austere room, almost featureless. Abigail looked, but did not see a hammock.
“So Cheyney’s working for you now,” she said coldly. Paul looked up from a corner keyout.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve just signed him to permanent contract in the crew room. He’s bright enough. A bit green. Ought to do well.”
“Then you admit that you put him up to grilling me about your puerile argument in the debate?” Garble struggled in her arms. She juggled him into a more comfortable position. “And that you staged the argument for my benefit in the first place?”
“Ah,” Paul said. “I knew the training was going somewhere. You’ve become very wary in an extremely short time.”
“Don’t evade the question.”
“I needed your honest reaction,” Paul said. “Not the answer you would have given me, knowing your chances of crossing Ginungagap rode on it.”
Garble made an angry noise. “You tell him, Garble!” she said. “That goes double for me.” She stepped out the door. “You lost the debate,” she snapped.
Long after the door had irised shut, she could feel Paul’s amused smile burning into her back.
~ * ~
Two days after she returned to kick Cheyney out of her hammock for the final time, Abigail was called to the crew room. “Dry run,” Paul said. “Attendance is mandatory.” And cut off.
The crew room was crowded with technicians, triple the number of keyouts. Small knots of them clustered before the screens, watching. Paul waved her to him.
“There,” he motioned to one screen. “That’s Clotho —the platform we built for the transmission device. It’s a hundred kilometers off. I wanted more, but Dominguez overruled me. The device that’ll unravel you and dump you down Ginungagap is that doohickey in the center.” He tapped a keyout and the platform zoomed up to fill the screen. It was covered by a clear, transparent bubble. Inside, a space-suited figure was placing something into a machine that looked like nothing so much as a giant armor-clad clamshell. Abigail looked, blinked, looked again.
“That’s Garble,” she said indignantly.
“Complain to Dominguez. I wanted a baboon.” The clamshell device closed. The space-suited tech left in his tug, and alphanumerics flickered, indicating the device was in operation. As they watched, the spider-designed machinery immobilized Garble, transformed his molecules into one long continuous polymer chain, and spun it out an invisible opening at near light speed. The water in his body was separated out, piped away, and preserved. The electrolyte balances were recorded and simultaneously transmitted in a parallel stream of electrons. It would reach the spider receiver along with the lead end of the cat-polymer, to be used in the reconstruction.
Thirty seconds passed. Now Garble was only partially in Clotho. The polymer chain, invisible and incredibly long, was passing into Ginungagap. On the far side the spiders were beginning to knit it up. If all was going well. . .
Ninety-two seconds after they flashed on, the alphanumerics stopped twink
ling on the screen. Garble was gone from Clotho. The clamshell opened and the remote cameras showed it to be empty. A cheer arose.
Somebody boosted Dominguez atop a keyout. Intercom cameras swiveled to follow. He wavered fractionally, said “My friends,” and launched into a speech. Abigail didn’t listen.
Paul’s hand fell on her shoulder. It was the first time he had touched her since their initial meeting. “He’s only a scientist,” he said. “He had no idea how close you are to that cat.”
“Look, I asked to go. I knew the risks. But Garble’s just an animal; he wasn’t given the choice.”
Paul groped for words. “In a way, this is what your training has been about—the reason you’re going across instead of someone like Dominguez. He projects his own reactions onto other people. If—”
Then, seeing that she wasn’t listening, he said, “Anyway, you’ll have a cat to play with in a few hours. They’re only keeping him long enough to test out the life systems.”
Before They Were Giants Page 29