Johns also seemed to be ill at ease. "Look, if you want me to go—"
Shetland took command. "Mr. Beeton believes that our course leads to danger. He is about to explain his reason for his request that the Meg be reversed prematurely."
There was silence. Was the beacon flickering more violently than before? Whose tension was responsible? "Go on, Beeton," Shetland said firmly.
The cartographer swallowed, a nervous young man now that it had come to the point. The flame was brighter. "You are familiar with the 'steady state' cosmos," he said, jumping, as the record advised, to an accurate conclusion. "I had expected this theory to be eliminated by our findings. I had—hoped."
He looked at the increasing flame, then averted his gaze. "To most people, there is small difference between one concept of the universe and another. After all, it has no discernible effect on our daily lives. But to those of us who voyage into the extraordinary reaches, it becomes a matter of life and death."
"Say what you mean," Shetland growled.
"At the center, where the galaxies are young, we are safe. But at the rim they are old. Beyond the rim—" He paused in the yellow light. "Beyond the rim they are dead."
He looked at each of the others in turn and met only bafflement. "Don't you see? They have passed on. There is nothing beyond the rim but ghosts, the malignant spirits of once living galaxies."
Shetland looked at Somnanda, who shook his head negatively. He looked at Johns, whose mouth was hanging open.
"You're crazy!" Johns said.
Beeton jumped up, and the flame leaped with him. "No, no," he cried. "You have to understand. You have to stop the ship before it's too late."
"The supernatural is no threat to us," Shetland snapped.
"Captain!" Somnanda's voice was urgent. Shetland whipped around. The beacon had burst into an inferno, destroying itself.
"Stop the ship!" Beeton screamed. "The ghost is out there—"
Suddenly Shetland's sidearm was in his hand. The tableau seemed to freeze at the moment: Somnanda in the corner, half standing, agony on his face, sweat shining in the orange glow. Johns, staring at the young cartographer, confusion and incredulity distorting his own features, scalp red under the thin hair. Beeton, standing with one fist in the air, mouth insanely wide, lips pulled back from teeth.
One word from the captain would ease this threat. He had only to agree to stop the ship. To set aside his orders.
Then Beeton was falling, engulfed in a sparkling cloud. The gas from the capsule Shetland had fired was dissipating already: but Beeton would be in a deep coma for at least twelve hours. Far past the crisis point.
"Captain." Somnanda's voice cut through his reverie, as it always did. "There is little doubt that the young man's terror was the cause of the disturbance. But it should have abated, had you agreed to reverse the drive."
The flame was normal. "I could not do that."
Johns made a sound. "You knew how simple it was to stop the trouble—and you cooled him anyway?"
"Yes."
Johns stared at him with the same expression he had turned on Beeton before. "Captain—now I'm not so sure Beeton was the crazy one. Maybe he was right. You never let him make his point."
Shetland looked at the unconscious form, so peaceful now. "If I had verified his suspicion, Pilot, his terror would certainly have extinguished the beacon."
"Verified his—" Johns was shocked. "You admit it! There is a ghost out there!"
"Not a ghost. A ship. A ship that ceased contact suddenly. My orders are to investigate. I shall investigate."
"By heading straight into the same trap?"
"Those are my orders."
"Orders!" The flame was rising again. "Captain, I can't agree to that."
Shetland studied him sourly. "You can't agree, Pilot?"
"No, I can't. That ghost will eat us too. We've got to turn back."
Beside the growing flame, Somnanda's head turned to bear on Johns.
"I see it now," the pilot said. "Beeton was right. After the galaxies die, they are ghosts. And they hate the living." He looked around, saw the flame. "Don't you understand? We must reverse the ship!"
The flash, the sparkle, the dissipation—and the pilot joined the cartographer.
The flame subsided. Somnanda and Shetland looked at each other.
"Your move, Captain."
The chess game: Somnanda could think of that at this juncture! "I only hope my personal situation is better than that of my pieces," he said. "I will have to consider my move."
"Your situation is good," Somnanda said cryptically.
Shetland hauled the two unconscious men to the side of the cabin. "I think it best to keep these out of sight of the other crewmen, for the time being," he said. Then, sensing Somnanda's curiosity: "It may seem unreasonable to sacrifice two human beings in this fashion, rather than accede to their rather simple request. But I can delegate their functions if necessary, while I could neither humor their fancies nor allow their emotional stress to destroy the beacon." Yes, he felt the need to justify himself to Somnanda and cursed his own frailty.
"You seem unreasonable." From this man, this was an observation, not an insult.
"I am unreasonable. Sometimes that is the only course—just as an apparently illogical sacrifice is at times required in order to win at chess." The chess analogy kept running through his mind. Was it valid?
Somnanda waited.
"Extended trips into FTL have been rare, so far," Shetland continued. "Evidence is therefore inconclusive. But there appears to be a certain... distortion in many personalities as velocity increased. Perhaps it is a side effect of the drive, or simply an emotional reaction to isolation from the normal universe. But it is one of my dreads, and I always watch for it. That's why I'm careful about revealing my orders prematurely. Individual judgment can not be trusted in FTL. Normal people are apt to become aware of it. It is futile to point out such aberrations to the victims. They are, in effect, mental patients. I think you have seen some of this, now."
"Yes."
"The captain is not excluded," Shetland said, smiling wearily. "I have preoccupations and I entertain doubts. I question the wisdom of this voyage, its apparent expendability, the attitude of certain crewmen, the evidence of the supernatural. I do not believe, at this moment, in the beacon—that is, that it represents any valid connection with Earth. But if it is real, why not the ghost of a galaxy? I do anticipate extinction at the thirtieth hour—but I will not reverse the drive."
"I understand."
"Because my own judgment is suspect. I can rely on only one thing to be objective: my orders. These were presented to me before the voyage began and were reasonable then; they must be reasonable now. If I desire to modify them, it is because my present insight is biased, not my earlier one. I must therefore uphold what seems unreasonable to me—and I shall."
The clock read 28.8 hours. One teraparsec per second. Soon the voyage would really be over—one way or another.
Shetland found himself in Beeton's room, looking at the chess set. Why had he come? Because there was a lingering uncertainty as the thirtieth hour approached? Or simple guilt for overriding that uncertainty?
He saw a picture of Alice, smiling for a man she might never see again. Would she be widowed before her marriage, all because a certain captain's orders meant more to him than his common sense?
It was uncanny, the way in which the young man had divined the moves and kept up with a game the captain had never advertised. But this was a private game. He swept the pieces into the box, folded the board. Beneath it was a paper, previously hidden. Shetland picked it up and saw a series of notations. They seemed to represent the strategy of a game in progress. His game?