She didn’t understand, couldn’t. “You aren’t being asked to sacrifice them, only fix the thing so it’ll save us.”
He looked up at her and smiled sadly. “No, you misunderstand. The Well of Souls is powered by a singularity, a discontinuity from another Universe. It has a massive power source, but only one. In order to fix the Well of Souls Computer, I would have to shut off the power. That would destroy everything the Markovians created with it. Everything. You’re asking me to destroy the Universe in order to save it.”
Shocked, she looked at him, then glanced around the room. So there it was—cold, impeccable logic declared that more than a dozen races must die.
“What will you do then?” she asked him. “You can’t stay here.”
He sighed. “I’ve always had the power to save or alter myself to fit existing conditions. There’s just never been any real reason to do so. I’ve lived in this area longer than any other person; I’ve been human longer than any other person—I am a human being. What I will do is survive—I always survive. Survive until somebody replaces me with the Markovian or a better ideal. Survive until—if nobody has done so very far in the future—that time when the rip becomes too great. Then I can then turn the power off and fix the problem.” He smiled grimly. “At least I’ll have some company, huh? You, and Obie, and whoever else you choose to save.”
She looked up at him, suddenly filled with new hope. “Save! Now that’s an idea! Obie can manage whole planets! Maybe we can relocate—”
“No, I can’t, Mavra.” Obie’s sad voice came into her mind. She straightened up in surprise, startling Brazil, who couldn’t know what was happening.
“Obie!” she exclaimed aloud. “You son of a bitch! You installed a relay anyway!”
Brazil sat up, interested. “I suddenly feel like an eavesdropper,” he said dryly.
“I’m sorry, Mavra. It was too important. I had to have the link to keep myself informed. If everything had gone right I wouldn’t have told you.”
“I gather,” Brazil put in, “that we are not alone. Damn!” he added a little sarcastically.
Mavra, angry despite Obie’s logic, unleashed a mental tirade. He let it run its course on it, which was a while since she had quite an extensive vocabulary. Finally, when she ran down, the computer said, “Now will you relay what I say?”
She threw up her arms in frustration. “Okay, go ahead,” she told him. To Brazil she added, “He wants to talk to you through me.”
“Fire away,” Brazil invited.
“First of all,” Obie began through Mavra, “forget the idea of spiriting whole planets away. I can’t do it. Transform them into something else, yes, but to move them requires more energy than anything possible to design or build short of the Well of Souls itself, not to mention a near-infinite storage capacity. I can’t save them, Mavra. A few worlds, yes, by transferring just the population, but that’s it. And it would do no good anyway.”
“Sounds like it’s worth a try,” Brazil said. “After all, each of these races started on a single planet. We have millions of years—and a real head start in technology—to redevelop. And you said you could transform a planet. Should make finding perfect sites easy. For the first time I see a ray of hope in all this.”
“It’s no good,” Obie retorted. “Oh, it would last for a while, yes, but we do not have the time to spare for such a project. You have no late option to make the necessary repairs. What the rip in space-time represents is not a reversion to the passive original state but a two-way energy flow. As it grows it is engulfing massive amounts of conventional matter and energy. The rip is not transforming the energy but transmitting it. The rip is the other end of a short circuit. The more that is sent back, the larger the energy bursts inside the Well of Souls. We don’t really have that much time. If the rift transmits enough material, the damage will be beyond compensation by the Well’s protective circuitry, and the Well will self-destruct beyond any hope of repair—leaving this a very, very dead Universe indeed.”
Brazil considered that, then shook his head. “It’s a pretty strong machine,” he replied. “I don’t see it reaching that point, not any time soon. No, I have to reject the argument. For a hypothetical danger that might not arise for millions of years I’m expected to wipe out countless trillions of people? The Well World holds only the descendants of the last batch of fifteen hundred and sixty races developed—the actual total is thousands of times that. Races. People who are born, have a right to grow up, to live, to experience. To cut them off forever because of the possibility of imminent danger—and a remote one, at that—no, no, thank you. I don’t want that responsibility.”
Mavra—don’t relay this! Stand by! I’m going to lock on and bring you both to me!
But I thought he couldn’t go through you without hurting you!she objected.
I have to take the chance. Stand by … Now!
The world went black, and there was the sensation of falling.
Nautilus—Underside
With fascinated curiosity, Nathan Brazil looked at the small laboratory and original control room.
Mavra, still a Rhone, was more apprehensive than anything else. It had felt odd, somehow slightly different being transported to the Nautilus this time—and Obie had not returned her form to its original contours. That was bad.
“Obie?” she called hesitantly. “Obie? Are you all right?”
“I’m here, Mavra,” the computer’s familiar voice told her from its usual central position in thin air. “I—I’m hurt. That’s the only way I can describe it.”
“What happened?” she asked, genuinely concerned. “Was it?…” She glanced at Brazil, who casually stepped down from the pedestal and started to walk around, looking at everything.
“Only slightly,” Obie told her. “I—I had him as a unitary structure and could have transported him without harm, but I tried to get a full breakdown and record. I couldn’t, Mavra. It—well, it caused shorts in my circuitry. I couldn’t handle it. Ordinarily I’d be able to shut it down, but it’s that damned tear, Mavra! I’m not moving or thinking as quickly. As the gash widens I lose a little of myself.”
“If you weren’t acting so damned high and mighty I could have warned you about that,” Brazil said, showing little sympathy. “Every time you break somebody down to file him on your little electronic slides you’re essentially killing him and then reviving him according to the plans. The Well won’t permit you to kill me, and the core of being that is me is not a part of the Markovian Universe, as I said. You have no key to handle the difference in the math.”