“Be more precise, Aesop,” Voysey called.
“As you will know, if you have studied your CS indoctrination books, a beta-space jump is completed in stages. In the first stage a sensor unit is rotated through five-space into beta-space, then is brought back after it has surveyed and recorded the graviton flux. As soon as its readings have been correlated with normal-space astrogation data—in other words, as soon as the target star has been identified and located—the entire ship is rotated into beta-space, the correct impulsion is applied, and the ship is then rotated back into normal-space in the vicinity of the target star.”
“I know all that stuff,” Voysey said peevishly. “Get to the point, Aesop.”
“I have already made my point, Victor, but for your benefit I will explain the situation again.” The hint of reproof in Aesop’s voice caused Voysey to glance sideways at the men nearest him and pull a face.
“The ship’s astrogation system has a series of built-in blocks which prevent a jump from being carried out until I am satisfied that I know where we are jumping to. I am unable to locate our destination in beta-space—and, therefore, the ship is unable to move.”
“Is that all that’s wrong?” Ray Kessler said, breaking the ensuing silence. “Well, hurry up and get a bead on Prospect One, Aesop. It’s almost in our laps, isn’t it?” He pointed at the brilliant star within its pulsing green circle. While he was speaking, the cold of the starless intergalactic deep, which had been dormant inside Surgenor, began to stir within him and spread its black tentacles.
“The fact that a stellar object is readily identifiable in normal-space does not mean that it can be easily identifiable in beta-space,” Aesop replied. “There is no light or any other form of electromagnetic radiation in beta-space. Astrogation is carried out by sensing and analysing the flow patterns of gravitons emitted by stellar masses. Gravitons are difficult to perceive, and their courses are not predictable. To quote the analogy used in your indoctrination books, the beta-space traveller is like a blind man in a large draughty room in which a number of people are blowing soap bubbles. He has to find his way, correctly, from one person to another—and all he has to guide him is the incidence of bubbles breaking on his skin.”
“So what’s the problem now? Can’t you feel the bubbles?”
Not in any useful manner. The graviton, the gravity quantum, was believed to be a universal constant, but in this region of space it appears to be variable which increases with time.”
“Aesop!” Mike Targett had leapt to his feet, his eyes fixed on Surgenor’s face. “Is it a local condition? Confined to this cluster?”
“That conclusion is in agreement with the evidence I have.”
“Then get us out of here, for Christ’s sake! Make a blind jump. To anywhere!”
There was a pause before Aesop replied, time enough for the numbing, sterilizing coldness to reach Surgenor’s brain.
“I repeat, the astrogation system has a series of built-in blocks which prevent a jump from being carried out until the destination has been selected and verified. It is impossible for me to select a destination—therefore, the ship cannot move.”
Targett shook his head, refusing to believe. “But that’s only a mechanical thing, a safety procedure—we can override it.”
“It is one of the most basic design parameters of the ship’s control system. To alter it one would have to redesign and rebuild the central control unit—a task which would require a high degree of specialized knowledge, plus the resources of a large production plant.” Once again, the bland and pedantic tones of Aesop’s voice had no correspondence with the burden of his meaning, and Surgenor—his mind ricocheting away into allegory—conceived a fantastic image of a judge putting on a red nose to pronounce a death sentence.
“I see.” Targett gazed around the ship’s company, gave them a thin, unnatural smile and walked out in the direction of the mess.
“What were you characters talking about?” Kessler demanded. “What’s going on here?”
“I’ll tell you,” Burt Schilling put in, his voice blurred with panic. “They say the ship can’t move. That’s right, isn’t it, big Dave?”
Surgenor stood up, glancing after Targett. “It’s a bit early to jump to conclusions.”
“Don’t try to gas me, you big bastard.” Schilling came towards Surgenor, jabbing an accusing finger. “You know we’re stuck here. Come on—admit it.”
Surgenor realized that the familiar transference had occurred, that—as had happened in the past—he was being identified with the ship and its nonexistent captain. But now he had no reserves upon which others could draw.
“I’ve nothing to admit,” he growled at Schilling. “You have the same access to Aesop as anybody else—talk to him about it.” He turned to go after Mike Targett.
“I’m talking to you!” Schilling clawed at Surgenor’s right arm, pulling him back. Surgenor, instead of resisting the drag of the younger man’s hands, allowed his arm to swing back freely, then threw his own strength into the sweeping movement. Taken by surprise, Schilling stumbled backwards, struck the low parapet of the observation area and fell, screaming, towards the stars. A second later he landed on the curved projection screen. An automatic switch brought on lights and the stars paled to invisibility on the inner surface of a glassy grey sphere. Schilling, who appeared to be winded but not seriously hurt, lay clutching his stomach and staring up at Surgenor with slit-eyed hatred.
“When junior recovers from his little accident,” Surgenor said to the watching group, “tell him to take up his complaints with Aesop—I’ve got problems of my own.”
Theo Mossbake cleared his throat. “Are we really stuck?”
“That’s the way it looks right now, but with rationing we can make our feed last three months, if not longer. That’s quite a bit of time to try working something out.”
“But if the ship can’t be…’
“Talk to Aesop!” Surgenor turned and strode out of the observation room and into the deserted mess, breathing heavily. He went to the drinks dispenser, drew himself a glass of iced water and drank it slowly, then climbed the companionway. The door to the fifth room was closed, but not locked. Surgenor tapped it gently and spoke Targett’s name. There was no reply, and after waiting a few seconds he pushed the door open. Mike Targett was sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched. His forehead was glistening with sweat and his eyes were dull, but otherwise he appeared normal and in control of himself.
“I haven’t decided to end it all, if that’s what’s worrying you,” he said.
“I’m glad about that.” Surgenor tapped the door jamb. “Mind if I come in?”
“Sure, but I told you I’m all right.”
Surgenor entered the room and closed the door behind him. “Okay, young Mike—out with it.”
Targett looked up at him with the same unnatural smile as before. “I could do you a big favour and not tell you this.”
“No favours—just talk.”
“Okay, Dave.” Targett paused to gather his thoughts. “You’ve heard of pulsars, quasars, mythars, block holes, white holes, time windows—right?”
“Right.”
“But you’ve never heard about dwindlars.”
“Dwindlars?” Surgenor frowned at him. “Can’t say I have.”
“That’s because I’ve just invented the word. It’s a new term for a new astronomical phenomenom. New to us, anyway.”
“What happens in it?”
Targett’s smile wavered. “What does the name suggest to you?”
“Dwindlar? Well, the only thing I can…’
“I got the first inkling today when Aesop mentioned that the velocities of the stars in the cluster appeared to be proportionate to their distance from the centre. We see the outermost stars approaching fastest, and so on.”