B. Shetland—Captain, experienced. Knowledge of danger. Can control emotion.
How can a man judge himself? In the act of writing he had crossed out a word, made a correction: he only suspected the various dangers, could not claim full knowledge. Yet his position was unique. He alone had sufficient information to accomplish their mission. He had to exonerate himself or admit failure at the outset. Rationalization?
C. Johns—Pilot (drive mechanic).
The pencil stopped. The record said that Johns was competent, but Shetland had not voyaged with him before. How could he be sure of this man? Or was he allowing himself to be prejudiced because Johns had replaced another friend?
Objectivity was essential. He would have to have a talk with Johns—but not immediately. The man, his schedule informed him, was about to go off duty and would not return until the eighteenth hour. That was convenient for another reason... and it was also important not to upset the sleeping schedule. Lack of sleep was one of the surest routes to emotional imbalance.
D. Beeton—Cartographer, apprentice.
The pencil stalled once more. Apprentice. That meant he had never had an assignment in FTL before. Shetland had not even met him. Young, inexperienced and in a position to comprehend both mission and danger. A very likely suspect. But again, the time was not now. Special factors had relevance, and a proper interview was quite possibly essential to the success of the mission.
Shetland turned about and set course for his own cabin. He was not tired, but he intended to sleep.
Ship's clock said 19. Shetland entered the pilot's compartment and stood behind the man. "Johns," he said.
The pilot jumped to attention. "Sir." He was a small, somewhat stout man, whose thin blond hair made his scalp seem prematurely bald. His features were regular except for a slightly receding chin. Shetland knew from the records, which were comprehensive, that Johns was an excellent craftsman, well suited to his job. Shetland knew—and tried to suppress his irrational dislike of the man.
"I see we stand at 19," he said, sounding inane in his own ears. "That, of course, is our velocity, in spite of the fact that we schedule the affairs of the ship by that clock. Would you care to translate our speed into something, ah, more specific?"
Johns tried to restrain a patronizing smile. "As you know, sir, the drive is designed to reflect speed in miles per hour, varying exponentially with the passage of time. Our velocity is indicated by the logarithmic dial of the ship's clock. Thus our present speed, relative to galactic stasis at—"
"Assume that I'm an idiot," Shetland said.
"Yes, sir!" Johns tried again. "When the clock indicates 1, it means that the ship is traveling at ten raised to the first power, or ten miles per hour. At 2, this is equivalent to ten squared, or a hundred miles per hour. 3 on the clock is a thousand mph, 4 is 10,000 mph, and so on. 9 is already beyond the speed of light."
"Very good. Why, then, do we call it a 'clock'?"
"Because that's what it is, sir. The figure on the dial also represents the time in hours since the drive was cut in. That's the way they engineered it. We have been under way for"—he glanced again at the clock—"19.12 hours, and our present velocity therefore is"—a second pause to manipulate his slide rule, while Shetland smiled inwardly at the conditioning this exposed—"approximately twenty billion times the speed of light."
Johns looked up, startled at his own words. "Twenty bil—!"
"We travel fast," Shetland said. "Hardly surprising in view of the purpose of this voyage."
Johns nodded, dazed. "Yes. Testing the performance of the drive and shield at the big MPH is a tall order. Takes us right out of the galaxy. And we've just about done it already. 19.283 is one full megaparsec per hour. One MPH. Over three million light-years in a thin sixty minutes...."
Shetland frowned, his fingers beating little cadences on the panel below the clock. Somnanda saw the voyage as a test of the beacon; Johns saw it as a test of the drive. What would Beeton see?
The pilot, misunderstanding, launched into another explanation. "We have to check it out before turning it over to private enterprise. We know so little about the drive and the part of it that we call the shield. Yet it would be impossible to travel in FTL without some kind of protection. Part of the energy of the drive is diverted to form the shield that isolates us from normal space. It's actually an adaptation of the available Cherenkov radiation—"
It was time for the shock. "Were you assuming that the Meg II was going to stop at one MPH?"
Johns' eyes widened. "We're not stopping, sir?"
The intercom came to life. It was Somnanda. "Captain to the beacon as convenient."
Shetland nodded to himself. The beacon had flared. Yet it was not conclusive. He himself had made the beacon react when caught offguard. Every man had his moments.
"Does speed frighten you, Johns?"
Johns licked his lips. "How—how much?"
"Thirty."
Johns stared at the clock. "Thirty? Sir, have you any idea how fast that is?" He took refuge in his slide rule. "We're doing twenty billion times the speed of light now—and that will just about square it, Captain." He shook his head negatively. "To answer your question, sir—no, I can't be frightened by that. I'm used to big figures, but this doesn't mean anything to me. I can't visualize it. So how can I be frightened? Meanwhile, I know the drive can do it, and I'm game to try."
Shetland did not agree with the pilot's reasoning: most men did fear what they could not visualize. But it seemed that Johns had survived his crisis and come to terms with it. He could not be considered a prime suspect.
Beeton had to be the one. He would go and pick up Somnanda's chess move, then gird himself for the most difficult interview.
"Why thirty?" Johns inquired. "...Sir."
Because that's where Death awaits us, Shetland thought. "Orders, Pilot."
Death orders?
Beeton's cabin was typical of what was expected of a young spaceman: the neat military bunk, the foot locker, the shapely pinups on the wall.
Shetland dismissed the pictures immediately. He knew that every man under thirty put them up as a matter of protocol. But after one discounted the window-dressing, a man's room was often a pretty fair indication of his personality.
Nothing. Everything was in order, allowing no personal signs. Beeton was almost too careful to conform. Only one thing showed personality: a chess set on the corner desk, with a game in progress. Even this was no giveaway. Tedium came to everyone in space.
He examined the game with a clinical interest, noting the advantageous position held by Black. This game would soon be over.
Realization struck him. This was no ordinary game. This was a replica of his match with Somnanda, complete to the last move. A game that he had thought existed only in the minds of the two of them. And Somnanda was Black.
"What can I do for you, Captain?" The cartographer had come upon him by surprise.
Beeton was a tall, blond lad. His face had that fresh-out-of-school look: sanguine and unlined, eyes startlingly blue and innocent. But the records placed his age at 24.
"I was admiring your game," Shetland said.
Beeton had the grace to flush. "You might call that a spectator sport, sir."
"As spectator, who would you say had the better position?"