“For your information, Billy,” Surgenor said evenly, “you didn’t see any galaxies, and you can’t see any stars now. All this is just a projection that Aesop lays on for our benefit. None of the views that we get in this room have to correspond with what’s actually outside the ship.”
“They usually do, don’t they?”
“Usually.” Surgenor paused, seeking inspiration. “But if the new equipment we just got in has some bugs in it we might be seeing part of Aesop’s astrogation memory.”
Narvik gave a derisive snort. “A blind man could see you being tactful, Dave—Aesop has no memory of intergalactic space.”
“How do we know that? All ship computers take their normal-space bearings from the twenty or so galaxies of the Local Group, and Aesop could simulate their…’
“You’re gassing us again! What do you take me for?” Narvik left his seat and came running, wide-eyed, towards Surgenor. “What sort of a bloody moron do you think I am?” He began struggling with Sig Carlen and Al Gillespie as they sandwiched him and gripped his arms. A visible wave of unrest swept through the watching company.
“Calm down, everybody,” Surgenor ordered, raising his voice. “The point is that if there was any kind of a snarl-up in our normal-space or beta-space astrogation systems Aesop would let us know about it, and…’
“This is Sarafand control making an announcement for the attention of all crew members,” came the omnidirectional voice of Aesop. “Due to a major malfunction in the ship’s astrogation and location control complex, Survey Mission 837/LM/4002a has been aborted.”
“We’re lost!” somebody shouted. “Billy was right—we’re lost!”
“Don’t be so damn childish,” Surgenor bellowed, making himself heard above the uproar. “Spaceships don’t get lost. Listen, everybody—I want you all to calm down and keep quiet while we sort this thing out with Aesop. Now, I’m going to talk to him, and I’m going to do it right here so that everybody will know exactly what’s going on. Okay?”
There was a gradual return to silence. Surgenor, now beginning to feel selfconscious, looked up at the ceiling, in the direction of the ship’s control levels, then became uncomfortably aware that he had adopted the stance of a man addressing his deity. He lowered his gaze and, resolutely staring straight ahead, began his dialogue with the artificial intelligence upon whose proper functioning all their lives depended.
“Hear these words,” he said slowly. “Aesop, we saw that the beta-space transition was not completed in a…normal manner, and there is some confusion in our minds as to exactly what has happened. For a start—for the benefit of the newer members of the crew—I would like you to reassure us about any possibility of the Sarafand being lost.”
“If you are applying the word ‘lost’ to a condition of not knowing our position in relation to the standard galactic co-ordinate system, then I can assure you that the Sarafand is not lost,” Aesop replied immediately.
Surgenor felt both vindicated and relieved for only an instant before noticing the unusually pedantic nature of Aesop’s reply. Struggling to ignore a premonition of disaster, he said, “Aesop, is there another sense in which the word ‘lost’ would apply to our situation?”
There was a brief, but noticeable, hesitation before Aesop said, “If you define it as meaning ‘in a condition of irretrievableness’ or ‘not to be recovered’…then I regret to say that, for all practical purposes, the Sarafand is lost.”
“I don’t understand that,” Surgenor blurted, breaking a throbbing silence. “What are you saying to us?”
“The malfunction I have already referred to in the ship’s astrogation and location control complex has resulted in a normal-space emergence at a point which is extremely remote from our intended destination.” Aesop spoke in measured, neutral tones, as though announcing a change in the week’s breakfast menu.
“We are positioned close to the centre of the galaxy designated as N.5893-278(S) in the Revised Standard Catalogue. Our mean distance from the Local Group—which, of course, includes the Milky Way system and Earth—is approximately thirty million light-years. “This fact means that we are unable to return to Earth.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The conference was held in the semi-circular mess room, at a table which was plentifully scattered with glasses, cups and ashtrays.
Surgenor had noticed two main types of reaction to Aesop’s announcement—some crew members had become intensely animated, alert-eyed and talkative; others had withdrawn to varying degrees, tending to remain silent and to show a broody interest in their own fingernails or in the design of personal artifacts such as cigarette lighters. Christine Holmes was in the latter group, looking ill and tragic. Billy Narvik, having accepted tranquillization, was smiling bemusedly as he stroked his beard. The two other new men—pale, reticent youngsters called John Rizno and Wilbur Desanko—stared about them in mute accusation as though trying to find a human culprit for their misfortune.
Surgenor, who had been tacitly assigned the role of chairman, tapped the long table with his empty whisky glass. “It occurs to me,” he said slowly, feeling his way, “that we ought to make sure we’re all on the same wavelength. Is there anybody here who thinks Aesop could be wrong? Is there anybody who thinks there is a way of getting back home?”
Several men made restless movements.
“Aesop isn’t infallible,” Burt Schilling said, glancing at those nearest him. “I mean, the fact that we’re here proves it.”
Surgenor nodded. “Valid point.”
“I’d like to put it a little more strongly than that,” Theo Mossbake added. “It seems to me that our so-called Captain Aesop can be downright dumb, and I just don’t think we have to accept everything he says like it’s the word of God or something.” His voice grew louder. “All right, so one of his new memory units was faulty and he made a jump into unknown space, outside our galaxy. Why in hell didn’t he stop there? Why didn’t he just look around, spot our own galaxy, and jump back into it?”
“That’s what he tried to do,” Al Gillespie said irritably. “Aesop has already explained that the beta-space gravitation flux was too high. It was like a strong current carrying us out to sea. From what he said, we could have travelled a lot farther than…whatever it was…thirty million light-years.”
“At least we can still see the Local Group,” Surgenor said without thinking, and was immediately sorry he had spoken.
“That’s great. That’s a big consolation to all of us,” Schilling said. “When we start getting hungry we can take turns around the telescope admiring the Local Group. Waving to our friends.”
“This is a conference,” Surgenor told him. “Save the sarcasm and self-pity for your own room. Okay?”
“No, it isn’t okay.” Schilling stared resentfully at Surgenor, a vein pulsing in his throat. “Who do you think you are, anyway?” He began to rise to his feet, and Surgenor felt a pang of shameful joy at the prospect of discharging his own tensions so simply and so naturally, merely by clubbing another human being with his fist.
Mossbake caught Schilling’s upper arm and pulled him down into his seat. “My training was mostly in the hotel business…I was doing the minimum two-year stint with the CS to raise some capital…so I don’t know much about beta-space physics,” Mossbank said. “But I understand the analogy that Al used, the one about a current taking us out to sea. What I’d like to know is—can’t we tack against the current? Is there no way of zigzagging back the way we came?”