“Occasionally something goes wrong with the tiny bodies balancing the perceptual pressures on the human brain.
“Often the governmental and diplomatic matrix cannot handle the pressures of the worlds they govern.
“And when something goes wrong with the balancing mechanism inside a sun, the dispersal of incredible stellar power dephases into the titanic forces that make a sun go nova—“
“Katin?”
He switched off his recorder and looked at the Mouse.
“What you doing?”
“Making notes on my novel.”
“Your what?”
“Archaic art form superseded by the psychorama. Alas, it was capable of vanished subtleties, both spiritual and artistic, that the more immediate form has not yet equaled. I’m an anachronism, Mouse.” Katin grinned. “Thanks for my job.”
The Mouse shrugged. “What are you talking about?”
“Psychology.” Katin put the recorder back in his pocket. “Politics, and Physics. The three P’s.”
“Psychology?” the Mouse asked. “Politics?”
“Can you read and write?” Katin asked.
“Turkish, Greek, and Arabic. But not too good in English. The letters don’t have nothing to do with the sounds you make.”
Katin nodded. He was a little drunk too. “Profound. That’s why English was such a fine language for novels. But I oversimplify.”
“What about psychology and politics? I know the physics.”
“Particularly,” Katin said to the flowing, glowing strip of wet rock that wound two hundred meters below, “the psychology and politics of our captain. They intrigue me.”
“What about them?”
“His psychology is, at this point, merely curious because it is unknown. I shall have a chance to observe that as we progress. But the politics are gravid with possibilities.”
“Yeah? What’s that mean?”
Katin locked his fingers and balanced his chin on a knuckle. “I attended an institution of higher learning in the ruins of a once great country. A bit across the quad was a building called the Von Ray Psycho-science Laboratory. It was a rather recent addition, from, I would guess, a hundred and forty years ago.”
“Captain Von Ray?”
“Grandpa, I suspect. It was donated to the school in honor of the thirtieth anniversary of the grant of sovereignty to the Pleiades Federation by the Draco Courts.”
“Von Ray is from out in the Pleiades? He don’t talk like he is. Sebastian and Tyy, I could guess from them. Are you sure?”
“His family holdings are there, certainly. He’s probably spent time all over the universe, traveling in the style we would like to be accustomed to. How much would you bet he owns his own cargo ship?”
“He’s not working for some company combine?”
“Not unless his family owns it. The Von Rays are probably the most powerful family in the Pleiades Federation. I don’t know if Captain there is a kissing cousin lucky enough to have the same name, or whether he’s the direct heir and scion. But I do know that name is connected up with the control and organization of the whole Pleiades Federation; they’re the sort of family with a summer home in the Outer Colonies and a town house or two on Earth.”
“Then he’s a big man.” The Mouse spoke hoarsely.
“He is.”
“What about this Prince and Ruby Red he was talking about?”
“Are you dense, or are you merely a product of thirty-first-century over-specialization?” Katin asked. “Sometimes I dream about a return of the great renaissance figures of the twentieth century: Bertrand Russell, Susanne Langer, Pejt Davlin.” He looked at the Mouse. “Who makes every drive system you can think of, interplanetary or interstellar?”
“Red-shift Limited—“ The Mouse stopped. “That Red?”
“Were he not a Von Ray, I would assume he spoke of some other family. Since he is, it is very probable that he speaks of just those Reds.”
“Damn,” the Mouse said. Red-shift was a label that appeared so frequently you didn’t even notice it. Red-shift made the components for all conceivable space drives, the tools for dismantling them, the machines for servicing them, replacement parts.
“Red is an industrial family with its roots in the dawn of space travel; it is very firmly fixed on Earth specifically, and throughout the Draco system in general. The Von Rays are a not so old, but powerful family of the Pleiades Federation. And they are now in a race for seven tons of Illyrion. Doesn’t that make your political sensitivities quiver for the outcome?”
“Why should it?”
“To be sure,” Katin said, “the artist concerned with self-expression and a projection of his inner world should, above all things, be apolitical. But really, Mouse.”
“What are you talking about, Katin?”
“Mouse, what does Illyrion mean to you?”
He considered. “An Illyrion battery makes my syrynx play. I know they use it to keep this moon’s core hot. Doesn’t it have something to do with the faster-than-light drive?”
Katin closed his eyes. “You are a registered, tested, competent cyborg stud, like me, right?” On “right,” his eyes opened.
The Mouse nodded.
“Oh, for the rebirth of an educational system where understanding was an essential part of knowledge,” Katin intoned to the flickering dark. “Where did you get your cyborg training, anyway, Australia?”
“Um-hm.”
“Figures. Mouse, there is noticeably less Illyrion in your syrynx battery, by a factor of twenty or twenty-five, than there is, let’s say, radium in the fluorescent paint on the numerals of a radium dial watch. How long does a battery last?”
“They’re supposed to go to fifty years. Expensive as hell.”
“The Illyrion needed to keep this moon’s core molten is measured in grams. The amount needed to propel a starship is on the same order. To quantify the amount mined and free in the Universe, eight or nine thousand kilograms will suffice. And Captain Von Ray is going to bring back seven tons!”
“I guess Red-shift would be pretty interested in that.”
Katin nodded deeply. “They might.”
“Katin, what is Illyrion? I used to ask, at Cooper, but they told me it was too complicated for me to understand.”
“Told me the same thing at Harvard,” Katin said. “Psychophysics 74 and 75. I went to the library. The best definition is the one given by Professor Plovnievsky in his paper presented at Oxford in 2238 before the theoretical physics society. I quote: ‘Basically, gentlemen, Illyrion is something else.’ One wonders if it was a happy accident from lack of facility with the language, or a profound understanding of English subtlety. The dictionary definition, I believe, reads something like, ‘ …general name for the group of trans three-hundred elements with psychomorphic properties, heterotropic with many of the common elements as well as the imaginary series that exist between 107 and 255 on the periodic chart.’ How’s your subatomic physics?”
“I am but a poor cyborg stud.”
Katin raised a flickering brow. “You know that as you mount the chart of atomic numbers past 98, the elements become less and less stable, till we get to jokes like Einsteinum, Californium, Fermium with half lives of hundredths of a second—and mounting further, hundredths of thousandths of a second. The higher we go, the unstable. For this reason, the whole series between 100 and 298 were labeled—mislabeled—the imaginary elements. They’re quite real. They just don’t stay around very long. At 296 or thereabouts, however, the stability begins to go up again. At three hundred we’re back to a half-life measurable in tenths of a second, and five or six above that and we’ve started a whole new series of elements with respectable half-lives back in the millions of years. These elements have immense nuclei, and are very rare. But as far back as 1950, hyperons had been discovered, elementary particles bigger than protons and neutrons. These are the particles that carry the binding energies holding together these super nuclei, as ordinary mesons hold together the nucleus in more familiar elements. This group of super-heavy, super-stable elements go under the general heading of Illyrion. And to quote again the eminent Plovnievsky, ‘Basically, gentlemen, Illyrion is something else.’ As Webster informs us, it is both psychomorphic and heterotropic. I suppose that’s a fancy way of saying Illyrion is many things to many men.” Katin turned his back to the railing and folded his arms. “I wonder what it is to our captain?”