"Eight point eight one," the pilot's voice counted off over the intercom. Thirty seconds passed. "Eight point eight two."
Captain Shetland's eye passed to the hunched man seated across the cabin, then went on to the port. Already the red shift, or something analogous, was distorting the view of space.
What an anachronism, he thought. A direct-vision port on a Faster-Than-Light ship. The Meg II was fresh from the construction dock and theoretically designed throughout for FTL travel....
"Light speed," the intercom announced, and the port was void. "Eight point eight three."
"Thank you, Johns," the captain said.
His voice did not reflect the tension he felt.
Shetland had passed the speed of light many times, but never with comfort. FTL was not simply a high velocity. The restrictions of conventional physics could not be set aside with impunity. In the captain's mind were four great dreads, and as he closed his eyes a notebook appeared, with an old-fashioned wire-coil binding. On its cover was a picture of a small and shaggy pony and a single word: PRIVATE. The booklet opened, exposing a lightly ruled sheet, and from offstage appeared an animated pencil, freshly sharpened, tooth marks on the latter end. The pencil twirled and wrote:
THE FOUR DEADLY DREADS OF CAPTAIN SHETLAND.
1. Beacon, failure of.
2. Drive, malfunction of.
3. Personality, distortion of.
4. Unknown, the.
It pleased him to note, as always, the alphabetical arrangement of the terms, and the entire mental process of itemizing them reassured him. Fears that could be outlined in a notebook lost some of their power. This was good, for their power was great. One of them had taken, after thirty hours, the Meg I.
Stop that! he commanded himself. Even his carelessly wandering thoughts were exceedingly dangerous in FTL.
Shetland's gaze returned to the seated man. This was Somnanda, operator of the beacon.
Somnanda sat without motion or expression. His forehead was high, the hair above it dark but sparse. His long ears seemed to be listening intently for something beyond the confines of the cabin, of the ship itself. His eyes, half closed, were a curious, faded gray, their color suggesting a nictitating membrane. The lips and mouth were more delicate than one would expect in so large a man. Somnanda gave the impression of nobility, almost of sainthood.
On the table before him was a small box with a facsimile of a burning candle above it. Somnanda's unwavering gaze centered upon this light. His two mighty hands rested above the table, blue-ridged veins curling over the raised tendons in back. The fingers touched the surface lightly on either side of the candle.
Somnanda moved. His head swiveled gradually, turret-like, to cover Shetland. "It is well, Captain," he said, his voice so deep and strong that there almost seemed to be a staccato echo from the walls surrounding them.
Shetland relaxed at last. Behind his eyes the notebook reappeared, reopened. The pencil drew a neat line through Dread No. 1.
The beacon was functioning properly—so far.
When a ship entered FTL, the normal universe existed only tenuously. Relative to that ship, to its crew and many of its instruments, planets and even stars became ghostlike, present but insubstantial. External light and gravity registered only as an indication on a meter. Internally, the laws of physics applied as always; Meg II required power for illumination, temperature control, the operation of its instruments and the rapid rotation that provided artificial gravity. But physical communication with Earth—and any electronic or laser-based signal had to be regarded as such—was impossible, because the ship no longer occupied the same specific universe as Earth.
There was complex circuitry embedded in the table beneath Somnanda's tapering fingers. But it was psionic circuitry, incomprehensible to normal science. The actual mechanism of communication was largely in the operator's mind and subject to no tangible verification—aside from the fact that it worked.
The light, a flickering mock candle, was the evidence that the beacon was functioning. It lit the way to Earth. No instrument could retrace the course of the Meg II with sufficient accuracy to bring the ship home. Not when the distance traveled was to be measured in megaparsecs. Not when the universe itself was indistinct. Only this steady beacon, this metaphysical elastic connection, could guide them back even to the correct galactic cluster. Only Somnanda.
"Captain."
Shetland recovered with a start. "I'm sorry, Somnanda. Was I worrying again?"
The man smiled slowly. "No, Captain. You were not disturbing the beacon. I wished simply to remind you that your move was due."
Shetland had forgotten their game of chess. The lonely hours of space made some sort of diversion essential. "Of course." He closed his eyes, seeing the checkered board. His king was in check. "White, 23. King to King two. No pun intended."
Somnanda nodded. It would be another hour before he replied with his own move, for he, like the captain, was a deliberate man. There was time, and each development was to be savored, never rushed.
"Somnanda," he said. The somber head rose. "Do you know the purpose of this expedition?"
"The Milky-Way Galaxy is only thirty thousand parsecs in diameter," Somnanda replied seriously. "Far too small to test the beacon properly. We are traveling far."
That should be added to the notebook, Shetland thought. The understatement of the space age. The Meg II's itinerary was to take her, literally, to the edge of the universe. As had that of the first Meg...
"Captain."
Why did their conversation lapse so readily? "Again, Somnanda?"
"There is an... imbalance... in the beacon."
Shetland felt the cold clutch of fear at his stomach. Immediately the candle flickered higher, a yellowish flash.
Fear was the nemesis of the beacon—no error there! What irony if his own alarm at news of danger to the beacon should extinguish it! He exerted control over his emotions, watched the little flame subside and become even.
This was a temporary measure. Somnanda, a man of polite conservatism, had given clear warning. Something was interfering with the function of the beacon. It was not serious at the moment—but in FTL such things seldom resolved themselves. As the Meg's speed increased, so would the disturbance, until firm action became mandatory.
But what was the source? It had to be a man who either knew or suspected their true mission and was frightened by it. The great majority of the crewmen had not been informed of the special nature of this mission and had no way to learn that the Meg was establishing records in FTL.
The notebook reappeared. The pencil turned about, erased the first Dread, wrote it in again without the line through the words. It sketched an arrow leading from it down to No. 3: Personality, distortion of. Linked dangers.
The pencil hesitated, then made subheadings under No. 3, leaving a space after each: A. Somnanda; B. Shetland; C. Johns; D. Beeton. The captain noted the inversely alphabetized listing and frowned, but let it stand. The pencil returned to the first, paused again, wrote:
A. Somnanda—Most experienced & reliable communicator in space. Steady temper. Personal friend.
Was he allowing friendship to influence him? This could not be afforded. The pencil backtracked, crossed out the last two words.
Still, Somnanda was the least likely of suspects. If he lost control, there would be no appeal. No one else could maintain the beacon.