Wertheimer was not fazed. “Have you used computers?”
“No,” I admitted. “I always meant to when I got time.”
“You did not think we would fail to do so? No more than you, do we have an alien/human dictionary—but we know much. You can choreograph by computer?”
“Sure.”
“Your ship’s computer memories should offer you a year’s worth of study on the trip out. They will provide you with at least enough ‘vocabulary’ to begin the process of acquiring more, and they will provide extensive if hypothetical suggestions for doing so. The research has been done. You and your troupe may be the only humans alive capable of assessing the data and putting them to use. I have seen your performance tapes, and I believe you can do it if anyone can. You are all unique people, at least in your work. You think as well as a human… but not like a human.”
It was the most extraordinary thing anyone had ever said to me; it stunned me more than anything else that was said that day.
“All of you, apparently,” he went on. “Perhaps you will meet with failure. In that case you are the best imaginable teachers and guides for the diplomat team, of whom only one has even minimal experience with free-fall conditions. They will need people who are at home in space to help them, whatever happens.”
He took out a cigarette, and the American civilian turned up the air for him unobtrusively. He lit it with a match, himself. It smoked an odd color: it was tobacco.
“I am confident that all of you will do your best. All of your company who choose to go. I hope that will be all of you. But we cannot wait until the arrival of your friends, Mr. Armstead; there are enormous constraints on us all. If you are to be introduced to the diplomatic mission before take-off, it must be now.”
Wuh oh. Red alert. You’re inspecting your housemates for the next two years—just before signing the lease. Pay attention: Harry and the others’ll be interested.
I took Norrey’s hand; she squeezed mine hard.
And to think I could have been an alcoholic, anonymous video man in New Brunswick.
“Go ahead, sir,” I said firmly.
“You’re shitting me,” Raoul exclaimed.
“Honest to God,” I assured him.
“It sounds like a Milton Berle joke,” he insisted.
“You’re too young to remember Milton Berle,” Norrey said. She was lying down on the near bunk, nodding off in spite of herself.
“So don’t I have a tape library?”
“I agree with you,” I said, “but the fact remains. Our diplomatic team consists of a Spaniard, a Russian, a Chinaman, and a Jew.”
“My God,” Tom said from his reclining position on the other bed, where he had been since he arrived. He did indeed look like strawberry yoghurt, lightly stirred, and he complained of intermittent eye and ear pain. But he was shot full of don’t-hurt and keep-going, and his hands were full of Linda’s; his voice was strong and clear. “It even makes sense.”
“Sure,” I agreed. “If he’s not going to send one delegate from each member nation, Wertheimer’s only option is to keep it down to The Big Three. It’s the only restriction most everybody can live with. It’s got to be a multi-national team; that business about mankind uniting in the face of the alien menace is the bunk.”
“Headed by the proverbial Man Above Reproach,” Linda pointed out.
“Wertheimer himself would have been perfect,” Raoul put in.
“Sure,” I agreed drily, “but he had some pressing obligations elsewhere.”
“Ezequiel DeLaTorre will do just fine,” Tom said thoughtfully.
I nodded. “Even I’ve heard of him. Okay, I’ve told you all we know. Comments? Questions?”
“I want to know about this one-year trip home business,” Tom spoke up. “As far as I know, that’s impossible.”
“Me too,” I agreed. “We’ve been in space a long time. I don’t know if they can understand how little prolonged acceleration we can take at this point. What about it, Harry? Raoul? Can the deed be done?”
“I don’t think so,” Harry said.
“Why not? Can you explain?”
Guest privileges aboard Skyfac include computer access. Harry jaunted to the terminal, punched up a reference display.
The screen said:
“That’s the simplest expression for a transfer time from planet to planet,” he said.
“Jesus.”
“And it’s too simple for your problem.”
“Uh—they said something about a freezing transfer.”
“Got it,” Raoul said. “Friesen’s Transfer, on the tip of my mind. Sure, it’d work.”
“How?” everyone said at once.
“I used to study all the papers on Space Colonization when I was a kid,” Raoul bubbled. “Even when it was obvious that L-5 wasn’t going to get off the ground, I never gave up hope—it seemed like the only way I might ever get to space. Lawrence Friesen presented a paper at Princeton once… sure, I remember, ’80 or a little earlier. Wait a minute.” He hopped rabbitlike to the terminal, used its calculator function.
Harry was working his own belt-buckle calculator. “How’re you gonna get a characteristic velocity of 28 klicks a second?” he asked skeptically.
“Nuclear pulse job?” Tom suggested.
That was what I had been afraid of. I’ve read that there are people who seriously propose propelling themselves into deep space by goosing themselves with hydrogen bombs—but you’ll never get me upin one of them things.
“Hell no,” Raoul said—thank goodness. “You don’t need that kind of thrust with a Friesen. Watch.” He set the terminal for engineering display and began sketching the idea. “You wanna start from an orbit like this.”
“A 2:1 resonance orbit?” I asked.
“That’s right,” he affirmed.
“Like Skyfac?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure, that’d—hey! Hey, yeah—we’re just where we want to be. Gee, what a funny coincidence, huh?”
Harry, I could see, was beginning to smell the same rat Wertheimer had. Maybe Tom was, too; all that yoghurt got in the way. “So then?” I prompted.
Raoul cleared the screen and calculated some more. “Well, you’d want to make your ship lose, let’s see, a little less than a kilometer per second. That’s—well, nearly two minutes acceleration at one gravity. Hmmmm. Or a tenth-gee, say, about a seventeen-minute burn. Nothing.
“That starts us falling toward Earth. What we want to do then is slingshot around it. So we apply an extra .. . 5.44 klicksecs at just the right time. About nine minutes at one gravity, but they won’t use one gravity because you need it fast. Might be, lemme see, 4.6 minutes at two gees, or it might be 2.3 at four.”
“Oh, fine,” I said cheerfully. “Only a couple of minutes at four gees. Our faces’ll migrate around the back of our heads, and we’ll be the only animals in the system with frontbones. Go on.”
“So you get this,” Raoul said, keying the drafting display again:
“And that gives us a year of free fall, in which to practice our choreography, throw up, listen to our bones rot, kill the diplomats and eat them, discuss Heinlein’s effect on Proust, and bone up on Conversational Alien. Then we’re at Saturn. Gee, that’s another lucky break, the launch window for a one-year Friesen being open—”
“Yeah,” Harry interrupted, looking up from his calculator, “that gets you to Saturn in a year—at twelve klicksecs relative. That’s more’n escape velocity for Earth.”