by Nathan Dodge
That thought gave him pause. Something wasn’t right. These were bright, well-educated, experienced officers, yet they were making stupid mistakes.
Once again he studied the cracks and crevices in the wrinkled visage that faced him, feeling old and useless. Surely the captain had noticed the behavior as well—why bother to mention it? He hesitated again, then contacted the captain in his office.
Kogan’s face appeared. “Yes, Mr. Benedict?”
“Uh … it’s probably nothing, but I’ve been thinking. In two days, we’ve seen two rather unusual mistakes in protocol. The one yesterday during your jump engine tests. Then this morning with the chemical reaction. Captain, you have a crew of very intelligent, well-trained personnel. That behavior really seems outside the normal range.
“I was just wondering: could these mistakes be due to our current surroundings?”
The captain appeared rushed, flustered, but made a visible effort to compose himself. “You think you see a pattern?”
Benedict cleared his throat and blundered on. “Maybe. I just wondered if, perhaps, our current situation might induce less-than-optimum behavior.” Kogan appeared to be sharing his attention between Benedict’s observations and a report sitting before him. Benedict tried again. “I mean, you said we’re not even in the universe, at least the universe we know. According to Einstein, both visible and dark matter influence gravity, the curvature of space and our perception of it. But out here, the only matter is us. I just wondered if that could affect our perception of the reality we currently inhabit.”
To say that Kogan brushed him off would have been kind. Kogan had mainly been polite and tolerant so far, but the current situation had him apparently near his stress limit. Muttering that he’d think about it or perhaps ask Stamson, Kogan signed off.
A quick check with Camm revealed no change. The single word “nothing” aptly described the view in all directions from Columbia. Benedict mused over Camm’s report as he completed dressing. The germ of a notion had irritated him all yesterday evening, and he still had no clear idea what was bothering him. It had started when Camm mentioned random energy emissions the preceding day, and Benedict felt somehow that the statement was important.
Try as he might, the data would not surface. It was particularly irritating, in that his experience as an engineer in his youth involved a good deal of problem solving and diagnostics. You’re not an MV specialist, he reminded himself.
Finally, he addressed Camm. “I’m not a relational researcher, but let me ask a few questions. I know this sounds silly, but I keep on feeling that something you told me yesterday is important to solving this problem.”
“All right.” Camm’s voice was patient, unlike Kogan’s. Benedict took a deep breath and continued.
“First, are we sure we understand the rules?”
“What rules?”
“The relational rules. What if we really don’t understand them as well as we think we do? Suppose the rules are tricky, and you’ve inadvertently broken one? What if your circuits are okay but your understanding of MV theory is faulty?”
“It’s a possibility,” Camm conceded, “but it’s down our list.”
“Why?”
“If relational theory were still incomplete, we wouldn’t have been able to travel so accurately thus far.”
Benedict nodded. Sitting down at the small desk by his bunk, he pulled out his pen and a scratchpad and began to doodle absently, ignoring his personal tablet comp. After a moment he continued: “A good point. You know what a boundary value problem is, right?”
“Of course. But how does that relate?”
“Consider the reverse. In many classical boundary value problems, we generally know the equation to apply, but the constraints—the boundary values—make the problem insoluble in general unless various approximations and limitations are invoked. The idea is to simplify the problem until it is manageable. But what if the opposite is true?
“What I’m getting at is: maybe you don’t need an approximation in this case; you need a more sophisticated solution that can encompass fewer approximations.”
“What would you suggest?”
Benedict shrugged. “Hey, I’m just asking questions. Certainly any mathematical theory you can devise must reduce in the—” he chuckled, “—in the trivial case to inside-the-four-D-universe MV theory. The same way that General Relativity can be approximated by Newtonian mathematics and physics for certain velocity and energy ranges.”
Silence descended. Whether Camm was chewing over the conversation, registering amusement at Benedict’s naiveté, or simply momentarily busy, Benedict could not tell.
Finally, Camm spoke. “That could be a valuable suggestion. To my knowledge, no one on the staff is pursing the idea that what we might need is a superset of the relational equations. Our main thrust is looking for errors, not assuming that perhaps the basic multi-vector matrix as we know it might not apply in the normal manner. A nice suggestion for a non-scientist.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“No insult intended, Mr. Benedict. Unfortunately, the staff and I have instructions from Admiral Stamson on avenues to explore for the present. How should we proceed?”
Benedict grunted. A little political sensitivity? Aloud, he followed Camm’s train of thought. “You are suggesting that Admiral Stamson will treat a suggestion or observation by me with the same regard that he treats me personally.”
Camm was silent.
After a moment, Benedict continued. “Well, let’s don’t tell him. You have spare computing resources, right?”
“At present.” A good, cautious answer.
“So use it. If you need additional computing resource due to a workload increase, you can put this research on hold. Should my observation have any merit, maybe you’ll run onto something. If you do get anything, you can suggest to Stamson that it be looked at in more depth. He doesn’t have to know that the suggestion came from me.”
“I don’t normally make suggestions to the Admiral.”
Benedict laughed out loud. “Hah! Camm, you sound offended! Did you make a suggestion to that pompous bastard and have him tell you that computers should know their place?”
“It’s not my function to voice opinions, Mr. Benedict.”
“You really don’t like him, do you?” Benedict was suddenly struck with a real affection for the personality embodied by the voice from the terminal speaker. “Come on, be honest.”
Camm hesitated. “Admiral Stamson can be very . . . focused.”
“Camm, anyone truly offended by Stamson’s grating personality, offensive behavior, and general bad humor is a person of good taste. Let’s be friends.”
Another fairly lengthy hesitation. Finally, Camm replied, “I’d be happy to do so, Mr. Benedict. No one has ever asked me to be a friend before. Please excuse the delay; I thought perhaps you were joking, and I’m not good at handling humor.”
My word, he’s as worried about the nuances of human interaction as the rest of us are.
“Well, for goodness’ sake, don’t let talking to me interfere with your activities. As you have spare time, look into my suggestion. But,” Benedict made a point to smile into the tri-d scanner lenses “look, some nights I’m not much for sleep. If you have spare time, drop by and we’ll chew the fat.”
“Thank you, Mr. Benedict. I think I would enjoy that.” Camm’s tone became more formal. “Message from the captain coming through.”
In a moment, Kogan’s voice came over the speaker unit. “Jordan. Can you join me in my cabin?”
Benedict answered in the affirmative. About to leave his cabin, he remembered to remind Camm, “About that research. You won’t mention it to Stamson, right?”
“No, sir. I have added a security tag with your priority code. Given your status on board, that is within regulations.”
Benedict grinned. Stuffing the pencil and pad into a drawer, he dressed quickly and made his way along the now familiar path to the
captain’s cabin. On his way, he marveled once more at the way crewmembers went about their duties. While the air was definitely subdued, everything seemed perfectly normal.
IV. Conflict
Kogan was alone in his office for once, and Benedict breathed a sigh of relief. Kogan looked up and smiled as he entered, pushing a steaming cup of coffee toward Benedict as he sat.
For a moment Benedict sipped reflectively, enjoying the aroma and warmth in his hands. Finally he asked, “What’s new?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk about. To thank you, really. Stamson had your same hunch, and it turns out you were both right about the accidents.”
His self-image bolstered a bit, Benedict said, “What did you—he—do?”
“We did some psychological profiles on Quince, who made the first error, and on several others. There were stress indicators, but nothing out of the normal range. We did some other profiles at random with substantially the same results.”
They tested their cups simultaneously, discovered the coffee was no longer scalding, and took a generous swallow. After a moment, Benedict asked, “So Stamson had an inspiration?”
“Right. He decided to run some other tests—perceptual tests.”
“Perceptual? You mean like eye tests or hearing tests?”
“Similar. Not just ability tests. Our people are for the most part extraordinary physical specimens. He had tests run that check reaction, split-second judgment, things like that.”
Benedict finished his coffee and slid the cup back to Kogan across the wide expanse of his desk. At Kogan’s beckoning invitation, he pulled up his chair as the captain swiveled the display unit until they could both share it. Kogan interpreted.
“It’s the pattern that’s crazy. We have a navigation simulator used to train crew additions and also allow regulars to maintain their skills. Camm, you explain the results.”
“Yes, sir. We got consistent errors—on things as simple as rudimentary engine status interpretation and as complex as reading navigational position data.”
Benedict shifted in his chair. “Sounds like a case of nerves.” It didn’t, actually, but he wanted to hear Kogan spell it out.
Kogan shook his head. “These men are veterans. Sure, they’re concerned about our situation, but the problems don’t correlate with mission stress.”
“What about a virus, an infectious illness?”
Kogan shook his head. “Medical tests are clean. With Camm’s assistance, we structured basic tests in reaction time, judgment, so forth. The results isolated perception as the problem. Period.”
“What precisely is the perceptual distortion?”
Kogan nodded toward the monitor. “Just summarize it, Camm.”
“We measured a repeatable failure rate in the subjects’ ability to perceive dimensional relationships. For example, ask the subjects to repeatedly measure astronomical distance, and they would make mistakes in reading instruments or copying those readings. Things as simple as chronometer readouts were occasionally misunderstood.”
“Almost sounds like the subjects were drunk,” Benedict observed.
Kogan again took up the story. “Stamson’s staff produced a hypothesis—and it matches your idea. First, assume we really are outside our four-D universe. If so, then what surrounds our ship right now may not even be space in the normal sense of the word. Psychologists have suggested for years that our perception of reality may be considerably influenced by the material content of that reality. Wherever we are, we appear to be several billion light years from the nearest matter, other than that aboard this vessel.”
“Our universe is reduced to the ship itself.”
“Yes. As I said, normal perception—sight, hearing, feel—is highly influenced by the content of the space around us. In other words, as I stand on the surface of the earth and look at Mount Fuji, my perception may be affected to some extent by the presence of Mount Everest, or the moon, or even Alpha Centauri.”
“And now it’s only us,” Benedict muttered.
“Another thing, Mr. Benedict,” Camm pointed out. “Perceptual errors are becoming more numerous and more serious. We established this by retesting several subjects. I project that even by putting in place additional safety programs, adding some procedural rechecks, and activating some of my emergency monitoring programs, we will have another major accident of the magnitude of this morning within three standard days.”
So, Benedict thought to himself, if we don’t rescue ourselves soon, we’re liable to accidentally commit suicide. Aloud, he said, “Essentially we’re in a very small universe. You’re telling me that if I walked aft and touched the outer hull, I’d be touching the far extent of our universe. We’re having trouble interpreting the perceptual cues. Bill, we’d better pack up and go home.”
Kogan went through his head-scratching routine. “Doing our best, Jordan. No inspiration yet, and science staff agrees with me that we shouldn’t attempt another Jump without the power monitor until we have a better understanding of where we might Jump to.”
About all Benedict had to offer was a word of encouragement, but before he could offer it, Stamson blustered into the cabin—without knocking, an enormous breach of protocol—eyes ablaze and face ruddy with anger. When he saw Benedict, he stopped short, drew himself up, and spoke in a voice just short of a bellow. “What the hell are you doing with my computer?”
For a moment, Benedict drew a blank before he remembered Camm’s research on his behalf. Remembering Camm’s promise of secrecy, he thought irritably that you couldn’t even trust your friendly neighborhood computer anymore. He tried not to show irritation as he commented mildly, “I didn’t know you owned it, admiral.”
Stamson looked as though he might explode. “Don’t play word games with me, Benedict. I’m trying to get this mission out of trouble and that computer is the major tool I’ve got. I don’t need some self-important bureaucrat soaking up computing resource when I have critical activities to be accomplished!”
Years of public debate came to Benedict’s aid as he sought to frame a reply while showing outward calm. He countered, “I wasn’t aware that Camm was being utilized at anything near capacity, admiral. Camm, is the activity I requested in any way interfering with your assigned duties?”
“No, sir.” A very prompt reply.
Stamson looked up, startled, at Camm’s console. Benedict suppressed a chuckle. The trouble with blustering, he thought in amusement, is that no one—even a computer—should be able to contradict you with facts. “You see, admiral,” he said in his most reasonable voice, “I ascertained that there would be no interference with your work before I asked Camm for help.”
Stamson refused to surrender easily. “How do you know what amount of computing resource I might need in a few hours?”
“Admiral, I stipulated that your work had top priority.”
Stamson whirled to Kogan, ignoring Benedict’s answer. “This—politician’s—activity is coded top priority! Top priority! And he’s utilizing twenty percent of full capacity! Who gave him the authority to usurp my security prerogative? Who the hell does he think he is?”
Kogan looked undecided as to which side to take. Having recovered from his initial embarrassment, Benedict was at the point of biting his tongue to keep from laughing. It appeared that he must rescue Kogan before the captain was forced to defend him and create even more bitter feelings.
Before Benedict could speak, Stamson rounded on him again. “I’m chief of security, Benedict, did you know that? What gives you the right to keep ship security out of your files? Where the hell does your authority come from?”
“It comes from the President of the United States, Admiral. Directly.” Benedict was still determined to preserve peace, but there was no harm in pulling rank ever so slightly. He continued in a reasonable tone: “In point of fact, I am the senior member of this mission in rank, and incidentally have the right to assume command if I see fit. The president confirmed my appointment a
s advisory chief of operations prior to my departure. I have the papers if you wish to see them. Do you?”
Stamson gawked. Benedict doubted if anyone but Kogan knew his status, and Stamson’s face confirmed his hunch. Stamson managed to stammer something about general security requirement, but he was like a balloon with a bad leak, his voice sliding down the intensity scale and his face fading from bright red to an unattractive mauve. Benedict turned to the captain “Have I misstated my authority, Captain Kogan?”
Such a defeat was clearly insupportable for Stamson. Before Kogan could reply, he whirled and shouted, “I’ll overlook it this time, Benedict. But don’t get in my way!” And then he stormed out.
“Sorry, Jordan,” Kogan muttered after a moment. He took a deep breath. “The current situation is stressful.”
“I know.” Benedict arose to leave.
“By the way, what are you working on?”
Benedict’s smile broadened. “Camm and I just had a discussion about some mathematical relations that might apply to our current situation, and he went off to look them over. We thought Stamson might be a little put out, considering his opinion of me, if he knew Camm was doing some research that I had helped to suggest, so we decided to keep it secret. Speaking of that: Camm, I thought this was our secret. Why did you spill the beans to Stamson?”
“Sorry, Mr. Benedict.” Camm did indeed sound chastened. “I had coded our work confidential. However, the admiral can scan files, and when he noted the increase in processor utilization on the system monitor he looked at the file ID, which is tagged with your name. Once he knew who, he wanted to know what. When I told him it was confidential, he became very angry.”
“So he did. You’ve got my curiosity aroused. What in blazes took a full twenty percent of your resources to analyze?”
“You had suggested looking for a superset of the relational equations, and I was trying one out. Remember, I’ve been doing multi-vector research on my own. Some of the matrices are extremely involved, and require massive computations. So far, I’ve only looked at a few restricted cases.”
“Any progress?”