To the Dark Star: The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume Two

by Robert Silverberg

  Tomrik Horiman gripped the rail and stood poised for his return to his own world. For an instant his eyes met the shadowed ones of the Earthman.

  “Tell me,” Tomrik Horiman said. “This job you have, deciding who goes forward, who goes back. Such a terrible burden! How did this job come to you?”

  “I was condemned to it,” said Franco Alfieri in all the anguish of his Godhead. “The price for my life was my life. I never knew such suffering when I was only a dying man.”

  He scowled. And then he threw the switch that sent Tomrik Horiman away.

  TO THE DARK STAR

  The spring of 1966 was a busy time for me, even as it went in that very busy decade. I had just finished the “Hopper” expansion for Doubleday; I was getting started on a vast non-fiction account of the quest for El Dorado for Bobbs-Merrill; I was sketching out the novella of distant prehistoric times that would become “Hawksbill Station” for Galaxy and then be expanded into a novel. In the middle of all this I somehow found time to write a story for Joseph Elder—who had been my agent for a while, but was about to begin his brief but distinguished editorial career. Joe was planning a book called The Farthest Reaches, original stories of galactic exploration, and in April, 1966 I gave him “To the Dark Star”—one of the first explorations in science-fictional terms of the black hole concept.

  ~

  We came to the dark star, the microcephalon and the adapted girl and I, and our struggle began. A poorly assorted lot we were, to begin with. The microcephalon hailed from Quendar IV, where they grow people with greasy gray skins, looming shoulders, and virtually no heads at all. He—it—was wholly alien, at least. The girl was not, and so I hated her.

  She came from a world in the Procyon system, where the air was more or less Earth-type, but the gravity was double ours. There were other differences, too. She was thick through the shoulders, thick through the waist, a block of flesh. The genetic surgeons had begun with human raw material, but they had transformed it into something nearly as alien as the microcephalon. Nearly.

  We were a scientific team, so they said. Sent out to observe the last moments of a dying star. A great interstellar effort. Pick three specialists at random, put them in a ship, hurl them halfway across the universe to observe what man had never observed before. A fine idea. Noble. Inspiring. We knew our subject well. We were ideal.

  But we felt no urge to cooperate, because we hated one another.

  The adapted girl—Miranda—was at the controls the day that the dark star actually came into sight. She spent hours studying it before she deigned to let us know that we were at our destination. Then she buzzed us out of our quarters.

  I entered the scanning room. Miranda’s muscular bulk overflowed the glossy chair before the main screen. The microcephalon stood beside her, a squat figure on a tripodlike arrangement of bony legs, the great shoulders hunched and virtually concealing the tiny cupola of the head. There was no real reason why any organism’s brain had to be in its skull, and not safely tucked away in the thorax; but I had never grown accustomed to the sight of the creature. I fear I have little tolerance for aliens.

  “Look,” Miranda said, and the screen glowed.

  The dark star hung in dead center, at a distance of perhaps eight light-days—as close as we dared to come. It was not quite dead, and not quite dark. I stared in awe. It was a huge thing, some four solar masses, the imposing remnant of a gigantic star. On the screen there glowed what looked like an enormous lava field. Islands of ash and slag the size of worlds drifted in a sea of molten and glowing magma. A dull red illumination burnished the screen. Black against crimson, the ruined star still throbbed with ancient power. In the depths of that monstrous slagheap compressed nuclei groaned and gasped. Once the radiance of this star had lit a solar system; but I did not dare think of the billions of years that had passed since then, nor of the possible civilizations that had hailed the source of light and warmth before the catastrophe.

  Miranda said, “I’ve picked up the thermals already. The surface temperature averages about nine hundred degrees. There’s no chance of landing.”

  I scowled at her. “What good is the average temperature? Get a specific. One of those islands—”

  “The ash masses are radiating at two hundred and fifty degrees. The interstices go from one thousand degrees on up. Everything works out to a mean of nine hundred degrees, and you’d melt in an instant if you went down there. You’re welcome to go, brother. With my blessing.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “You implied that there’d be a safe place to land on that fireball,” Miranda snapped. Her voice was a basso boom; there was plenty of resonance space in that vast chest of hers. “You snidely cast doubt on my ability to—”

  “We will use the crawler to make our inspection,” said the microcephalon in its reasonable way. “There never was any plan to make a physical landing on the star.”

  Miranda subsided. I stared in awe at the sight that filled our screen.

  A star takes a long time to die, and the relict I viewed impressed me with its colossal age. It had blazed for billions of years, until the hydrogen that was its fuel had at last been exhausted, and its thermonuclear furnace started to splutter and go out. A star has defenses against growing cold; as its fuel supply dwindles, it begins to contract, raising its density and converting gravitational potential energy into thermal energy. It takes on new life; now a white dwarf, with a density of tons per cubic inch, it burns in a stable way until at last it grows dark.

  We have studied white dwarfs for centuries, and we know their secrets—so we think. A cup of matter from a white dwarf now orbits the observatory on Pluto for our further illumination.

  But the star on our screen was different.

  It had once been a large star—greater than the Chandrasekhar limit, 1.2 solar masses. Thus it was not content to shrink step by step to the status of a white dwarf. The stellar core grew so dense that catastrophe came before stability; when it had converted all its hydrogen to iron-56, it fell into catastrophic collapse and went supernova. A shock wave ran through the core, converting the kinetic energy of collapse into heat. Neutrinos spewed outward; the envelope of the star reached temperatures upwards of 200 billion degrees; thermal energy became intense radiation, streaming away from the agonized star and shedding the luminosity of a galaxy for a brief, fitful moment.

  What we beheld now was the core left behind by the supernova explosion. Even after that awesome fury, what was intact was of great mass. The shattered hulk had been cooling for eons, cooling toward the final death. For a small star, that death would be the simple death of coldness: the ultimate burnout, the black dwarf drifting through the void like a hideous mound of ash, lightless, without warmth. But this, our stellar core, was still beyond the Chandrasekhar limit. A special death was reserved for it, a weird and improbable death.

  And that was why we had come to watch it perish, the microcephalon and the adapted girl and I.

  I parked our small vessel in an orbit that gave the dark star plenty of room. Miranda busied herself with her measurements and computations. The microcephalon had more abstruse things to do. The work was well divided; we each had our chore. The expense of sending a ship so great a distance had necessarily limited the size of the expedition. Three of us: a representative of the basic human stock, a representative of the adapted colonists, a representative of the race of microcephalons, the Quendar people, the only other intelligent beings in the known universe.

  Three dedicated scientists. And therefore three who would live in serene harmony during the course of the work, since as everyone knows scientists have no emotions and think only of their professional mysteries. As everyone knows.

  I said to Miranda, “Where are the figures for radial oscillation?”

  She replied, “See my report. It’ll be published early next year in—”

  “Damn you, are you doing that deliberately? I need those figures now!”

  “Give me
your totals on the mass-density curve, then.”

  “They aren’t ready. All I’ve got is raw data.”

  “That’s a lie! The computer’s been running for days! I’ve seen it,” she boomed at me.

  I was ready to leap at her throat. It would have been a mighty battle; her 300-pound body was not trained for personal combat as mine was, but she had all the advantages of strength and size. Could I club her in some vital place before she broke me in half? I weighed my options.

  Then the microcephalon appeared and made peace once more with a few feather-soft words.

  Only the alien among us seemed to conform at all to the stereotype of that emotionless abstraction, “the scientist.” It was not true, of course; for all we could tell, the microcephalon seethed with jealousies and lusts and angers, but we had no clue to their outward manifestation. Its voice was flat as a vocoder transmission. The creature moved peacefully among us, the mediator between Miranda and me. I despised it for its mask of tranquility. I suspected, too, that the microcephalon loathed the two of us for our willingness to vent our emotions, and took a sadistic pleasure from asserting superiority by calming us.

  We returned to our research. We still had some time before the last collapse of the dark star.

  It had cooled nearly to death. Now there was still some thermonuclear activity within that bizarre core, enough to keep the star too warm for an actual landing. It was radiating primarily in the optical band of the spectrum, and by stellar standards its temperature was nil, but for us it would be like prowling the heart of a live volcano.

  Finding the star had been a chore. Its luminosity was so low that it could not be detected optically at a greater distance than a light-month or so; it had been spotted by a satellite-borne X-ray telescope that had detected the emanations of the degenerate neutron gas of the core. Now we gathered round and performed our functions of measurement. We recorded things like neutron drip and electron capture. We computed the time remaining before the final collapse. Where necessary, we collaborated; most of the time we went our separate ways. The tension aboard ship was nasty. Miranda went out of her way to provoke me. And, though I like to think I was beyond and above her beastliness, I have to confess that I matched her, obstruction for obstruction. Our alien companion never made any overt attempt to annoy us; but indirect aggression can be maddening in close quarters, and the microcephalon’s benign indifference to us was as potent a force for dissonance as Miranda’s outright shrewishness or my own deliberately mulish responses.

  The star hung in our viewscreen, bubbling with vitality that belied its dying state. The islands of slag, thousands of miles in diameter, broke free and drifted at random on the sea of inner flame. Now and then spouting eruptions of stripped particles came heaving up out of the core. Our figures showed that the final collapse was drawing near, and that meant that an awkward choice was upon us. Someone was going to have to monitor the last moments of the dark star. The risks were high. It could be fatal.

  None of us mentioned the ultimate responsibility.

  We moved toward the climax of our work. Miranda continued to annoy me in every way, sheerly for the devilishness of it. How I hated her! We had begun this voyage coolly, with nothing dividing us but professional jealousy. But the months of proximity had turned our quarrel into a personal feud. The mere sight of her maddened me, and I’m sure she reacted the same way. She devoted her energies to an immature attempt to trouble me. Lately she took to walking around the ship in the nude, I suspect trying to stir some spark of sexual feeling in me that she could douse with a blunt, mocking refusal. The trouble was that I could feel no desire whatever for a grotesque adapted creature like Miranda, a mound of muscle and bone twice my size. The sight of her massive udders and monumental buttocks stirred nothing in me but disgust.

  The witch! Was it desire she was trying to kindle by exposing herself that way, or loathing? Either way, she had me. She must have known that.

  In our third month in orbit around the dark star, the microcephalon announced, “The coordinates show an approach to the Schwarzschild radius. It is time to send our vehicle to the surface of the star.”

  “Which one of us rides monitor?” I asked.

  Miranda’s beefy hand shot out at me. “You do.”

  “I think you’re better equipped to make the observations,” I told her sweetly.

  “Thank you, no.”

  “We must draw lots,” said the microcephalon.

  “Unfair,” said Miranda. She glared at me. “He’ll do something to rig the odds. I couldn’t trust him.”

  “How else can we choose?” the alien asked.

  “We can vote,” I suggested. “I nominate Miranda.”

  “I nominate him,” she snapped.

  The microcephalon put his ropy tentacles across the tiny nodule of skull between his shoulders. “Since I do not choose to nominate myself,” he said mildly, “it falls to me to make a deciding choice between the two of you. I refuse the responsibility. Another method must be found.”

  We let the matter drop for the moment. We still had a few more days before the critical time was at hand.

  With all my heart I wished Miranda into the monitor capsule. It would mean at best her death, at worst a sober muting of her abrasive personality, if she were the one who sat in vicariously on the throes of the dark star. I was willing to stop at nothing to give her that remarkable and demolishing experience.

  What was going to happen to our star may sound strange to a layman; but the theory had been outlined by Einstein and Schwarzschild a thousand years ago, and had been confirmed many times, though never until our expedition had it been observed at close range. When matter reaches a sufficiently high density, it can force the local curvature of space to close around itself, forming a pocket isolated from the rest of the universe. A collapsing supernova core creates just such a Schwarzschild singularity. After it has cooled to near-zero temperature, a core of the proper Chandrasekhar mass undergoes a violent collapse to zero volume, simultaneously attaining an infinite density.

  In a way, it swallows itself and vanishes from this universe— for how would the fabric of the continuum tolerate a point of infinite density and zero volume?

  Such collapses are rare. Most stars come to a state of cold equilibrium and remain there. We were on the threshold of a singularity, and we were in a position to put an observer vehicle right on the surface of the cold star, sending back an exact description of the events up until the final moment when the collapsing core broke through the walls of the universe and disappeared.

  Someone had to ride gain on the equipment, though. Which meant, in effect, vicariously participating in the death of the star. We had learned in other cases that it becomes difficult for the monitor to distinguish between reality and effect; he accepts the sensory percepts from the distant pickup as his own experience. A kind of psychic backlash results; often an unwary brain is burned out entirely.

  What impact would the direct experience of being crushed out of existence in a singularity have on a monitoring observer?

  I was eager to find out. But not with myself as the sacrificial victim.

  I cast about for some way to get Miranda into that capsule. She, of course, was doing the same for me. It was she who made her move first, by attempting to drug me into compliance.

  What drug she used, I have no idea. Her people are fond of the nonaddictive hallucinogens, which help them break the monotony of their stark, oversized world. Somehow Miranda interfered with the programming of my food supply and introduced one of her pet alkaloids. I began to feel the effects an hour after I had eaten. I walked to the screen to study the surging mass of the dark star—much changed from its appearance of only a few months before—and as I looked, the image in the screen began to swirl and melt, and tongues of flame did an eerie dance along the horizons of the star.

  I clung to the rail. Sweat broke from my pores. Was the ship liquefying? The floor heaved and buckled beneath me. I looked at
the back of my hand and saw continents of ash set in a grouting of fiery magma.

  Miranda stood behind me. “Come with me to the capsule,” she murmured. “The monitor’s ready for launching now. You’ll find it wonderful to see the last moments.”

  Lurching after her, I padded through the strangely altered ship. Miranda’s adapted form was even more alien than usual; her musculature rippled and flowed, her golden hair held all the colors of the spectrum, her flesh was oddly puckered and cratered, with wiry filaments emerging from the skin. I felt quite calm about entering the capsule. She slid back the hatch, revealing the gleaming console of the panel within and I began to enter, and then suddenly the hallucination deepened and I saw in the darkness of the capsule a devil beyond all imagination.

  I dropped to the floor and lay there twitching.

  Miranda seized me. To her I was no more than a doll. She lifted me, began to thrust me into the capsule. Perspiration soaked me. Reality returned. I slipped from her grasp and wriggled away, rolling toward the bulkhead. Like a beast of primordial forests she came ponderously after me.

  “No,” I said. “I won’t go.”

  She halted. Her face twisted in anger, and she turned away from me in defeat. I lay panting and quivering until my mind was purged of phantoms. It had been close.

  It was my turn a short while later. Fight force with force, I told myself. I could not risk more of Miranda’s treachery. Time was running short.

  From our surgical kit I took a hypnoprobe used for anesthesia, and rigged it in a series with one of Miranda’s telescope antennae. Programming it for induction of docility, I left it to go to work on her. When she made her observations, the hypnoprobe would purr its siren song of sinister coaxing, and—perhaps—Miranda would bend to my wishes.

  It did not work.

  I watched her going to her telescopes. I saw her broad-beamed form settling in place. In my mind I heard the hypnoprobe’s gentle whisper, as I knew it must sound to Miranda. It was telling her to relax, to obey. “The capsule…get into the capsule…you will monitor the crawler… you…you…you will do it.”