The Black Hole

by Alan Dean Foster

  Reinhardt acknowledged the compliment. "Your praise is excessive, Doctor."

  Durant went on. "Your discoveries must have compensated you for the loneliness you've endured these past years. I can't believe you haven't experienced loneliness, despite the company of robot associates."

  "What can a man know of loneliness when he has the whole Universe to keep him company? I have had suns for neighbors. I have spent hundreds of happy hours conversing with the mysterious signals that churn the ether. I've spoken with wonders and listened to the hiss and crackle of worlds being born. Heavenly choirs of quasars sing to me from distances unimaginable with inconceivable power. I am suffused with the gossip of the cosmos. So I am not lonely, no.

  "Besides, someone once said, 'It is only alone a man can achieve his full potential for greatness.' " He paused. They were all silent for a long moment, though for different reasons.

  "I have made peace with myself and the Universe," Reinhardt finally went on. "I am kept alive as well as sane by my hunger to learn, by my thirst to root out the jealously guarded secrets of nature from their hidden places." He turned, waved toward the enormous, glowing screen.

  "This massive collapsar, for example. Nature's most secure, most inviolate hiding place. Who knows what discoveries it shields?" He stared hard at Durant, yet at the same time seemed almost to be pleading.

  "I think, Dr. Durant, that you are a man who longs for a sense of his own greatness but has not yet found his true direction. Such personal discoveries come rarely at best, and never for most men."

  Now McCrae's attention was concentrated on her companion and not on Reinhardt.

  "Perhaps," Durant murmured, smiling hopefully back at the elder scientist, "I'd find that here, if you're in no rush for us to leave. There are still so many things I'd like to ask you."

  "And many things I'd like to tell you." Reinhardt sounded pleased. "Isn't that what I said my purpose in life was? To be the one who answers the questions?

  "But I suggest we discuss that matter over dinner. Your friends should have the opportunity to hear also. Meanwhile, there is still a great deal I can show you here, if you're not yet bored."

  "I'm honored by your generosity, sir."

  "And I'm gratified by your persistent curiosity and your willingness to listen uncritically to what I have to say. The hallmarks of a true man of science."

  Reinhardt led him off toward a far bank of instruments. McCrae moved to follow them, then hesitated. Her gaze traveled back to the vast expanse of the viewscreen, lingered on the seething hell of the black hole as she struggled to subdue the storm in her own mind . . .

  Mesons and muons, meteors and more, vanished down the gravity well of the black hole. As they were torn apart by immense gravitational forces, they gave up energy in the form of radiation. Some of it was at once exquisite and visible, like a cruising white shark or a dark tornado. Some of it was still more deadly, though detectable only with instruments far more sensitive than the human eye. None of it made sense in the way human-generated radiation such as radio waves did. The collapsar was nature gone mad. Yet at the same time it possessed balance and beauty.

  It is sometimes that way with certain men.

  Holland, Pizer and Vincent, having received Reinhardt's invitation to dinner, were walking down another of the Cygnus's seemingly endless corridors.

  Holland was casually memorizing everything distinctive. A marking on a door, the number of lights overhead; anything that would enable them, if necessary, to find their own way back through the maze of passageways to the corridor leading to the reception area outside the Palomino.

  Pizer's attention was periodically distracted by the regular appearance of groups of sentry robots, the same variety whose attention and efficiency he had earlier experienced. Vincent drifted alongside the two men. In his fashion the robot was nervous, apprehensive and decidedly upset that his colleagues had accepted Reinhardt's invitation.

  "There wasn't anything else we could do, Vincent," Holland was telling him. "Except for our initial reception, he hasn't made a single hostile gesture toward us. We'd have been asking for a confrontation if we'd refused his invitation without reason. I wouldn't be surprised if something that slight could set him off. You've noted how volatile he is."

  "I still don't like it."

  Holland regarded the robot with exasperation. "It's only dinner. What could possibly be dangerous about accepting an invitation to dinner?"

  "Said the spider to the fly." Vincent was not being flippant. "I should be with you."

  "What for?" asked Pizer. "To wipe the soup from my chin?"

  "Better than wiping your face off the floor," the machine snapped back. "If you will continue to refuse to take care of yourselves, I don't see why you keep me from doing so for you."

  "We'll be safer without you and Max trying to knock heads." Pizer eyed a nearby sentry with distaste. "I watched Reinhardt when we were first in the command center and you and his toy squared off. He was enjoying the spectacle. Next time he might not interfere. Not that I care whether Max melts you into a puddle of alloy, you understand, but it could escalate into something really dangerous."

  "Your concern touches me," Vincent said sarcastically, "but it is misplaced. It is your skin you should be worrying about." He assumed a lofty attitude, rose half a meter higher above the deck.

  "As would be expected of a mere human, you are impressed by the size and overabundance of heavy metals in the construction of that clumsy mechanism. Its circuitry is twenty years out of date and its higher facilities pitifully inadequate. I would put it on a par with basic-programmed, heavy-materials loaders, certainly nowhere near in mental ability to my own class."

  "It's not Max's mental faculties that concern me," Pizer replied.

  "You are afraid of simple mechanical force?"

  "Yeah, I am. You bet your metallic backside! And you should be, too, for your own sake."

  "I can handle that thing."

  "Far be it from you to admit there isn't anything you can't handle." Semantically outflanked, Pizer was ready to give in. "Far be it from you to admit that subtle debate and refined discussion won't cause it to fall apart at the seams, battered to scrap by your stentorian oratory before it can make sheet metal out of you."

  "Mr. Pizer, there are three basic types of machines as well as men: the wills, the won'ts and the can'ts. The wills accomplish everything. The won'ts oppose everything. The can'ts won't will themselves to try."

  "Very Socratic," said Holland, finally injecting himself into the discussion. "But I doubt that Maximillian would respond as intended. Do us all a favor and try to be a can't, at least where the monster is concerned. I've got enough to worry about without you and him playing another robotic version of chicken. We need you, Vincent. Not another corkscrew."

  "But I—"

  "That's an order, Vincent."

  "Acknowledged, sir." The robot fell into an electronic sulk, unhappy with the situation but powerless to alter it.

  Privately he was considering options, creating scenarios and preparing himself for the worst. He was not angry at the two humans, however. They were prisoners of themselves. Captain Holland and First Officer Pizer were delightful companions, pleasant shipmates. But in his entire existence Vincent had encountered perhaps half a dozen humans who he felt could actually think straight.

  Unexpected sounds, clicking and whirring and staccato buzzes, reached them as they rounded another turn in the corridor. Underlying them was something that might have been electronic music.

  Puzzled, they slowed, hunted for the source. Vincent led them to a wide doorway down a side corridor. As they reached the doorway the sounds seemed to jump out at them. None of the scattered sentry robots moved to restrain or intercept them.

  The room beyond was filled with light and less visible varieties of illumination. Holland blinked, had to squint. Some of the visual effects inside were disorienting, even painful. He was not startled by the sight, only surprised t
o see such an area on board the Cygnus. He had encountered such places before—a recreation area for mechanicals.

  Long ago, the idea of such facilities was criticized as wasteful, if not downright bizarre. The proponents of such facilities were branded as loco and were classed with the very addled machines they sought to soothe. But as the mental circuitry and design of mankind's mechanical servants became increasingly sophisticated, odd forms of behavior that could not be explained as purely engineering errors became more and more frequent. Machines believed completely dependable suddenly went berserk at their posts. Delicate circuits visible only through high-powered microscopes showed inexplicable shifts in electron flow for no known reason.

  The robot psychologist came into being. Initial laughter died when the unexplained incidents dropped off in the areas where such men and their attendant machinery started to work.

  It was determined that the tremendously fragile mind machinery with which the new robots were endowed required exercise and use other than that programmed for it—much as did man's. The first tentative prototypes of the room Holland and the others were now staring into were constructed. Eventually the machines themselves took a metal hand in designing the recreation facilities for factories and ships and service industries.

  Some of the games and sights they chose were variations or direct adaptations of human forms of recreation. Others seemed nothing but random light and noise to men. Man felt at a loss knowing there were certain types of entertainment that his metal offspring could enjoy and appreciate, while he, restricted to his organic brain and body, never could.

  The longer they stood motionless before the room, the more vulnerable they became to awkward questioning. Several of the nearby sentry robots were already eying Vincent uncertainly. He was one of them, but not with them.

  "Hey, Vincent, you'll have the time of your life in there," Pizer said enthusiastically. "Better than hovering outside just waiting for us to finish eating."

  The robot replied cautiously. "I don't mean to sound superior, but I hate the company of robots. And these are all ancient models. I don't know if we can even converse, certainly not to my edification."

  "Twenty years does not ancient make, Vincent." Holland was staring with interest at a machine generating three-dimensional abstract patterns between two robots. "It'll take your mind off worrying so much. Relax, have fun. Remember what they say about all work and no play."

  Vincent generated an electronic sigh. It would be better to agree than to be ordered. This way, if he went inside voluntarily, he would have no compunctions about slipping out later if he felt the need.

  "All sunshine makes a desert, so the Arabs said . . . before the advent of cheap solar power. You'll alert me if you have any trouble, Captain? If there's even a hint of trouble? I will enjoy myself more if I know you remain cognizant of my usefulness."

  "Vincent, I'm always cognizant of your usefulness. You're indispensable, old pot." He smiled. "There's nothing wrong with our communicators. If anything unexpected starts, you'll be the first to know.

  "Now, go on in there, try to take it easy, and have a good time. You deserve it, if only for the amount of work you put in on the regenerator system."

  "Merely doing my duty, Captain. I am not programmed to function on the service-reward system."

  "That should make the rewards all the more enjoyable when they come." Holland patted the robot on the back. Surface receptors immediately noted the contact, converted it into a stream of electrical impulses that were transported to the interpretive section of Vincent's brain. There they were identified, correlated with such additional related elements as Holland's tone of voice, the context of the conversation and his facial expression.

  Not so very different from the way a human would have processed identical stimuli.

  Vincent moved into the noisy room. Pizer had been keeping an eye on the sentries. Now that Vincent had been allowed to enter the recreation area without challenge, Holland and he could continue on their way.

  One sentry seemed to be singling out the first officer for special scrutiny.

  Pizer flipped him a jaunty salute. "As you were . . ."

  The sentry did not respond, but continued to stare after him until the two men had disappeared around a bend in the main corridor. A simple-minded mechanical programmed for few functions, it had by then forgotten all about the non-Cygnian robot now cavorting in the recreation room with other members of the ship's mechanized crew.

  Vincent regarded the shifting metal assembly with apparent indifference. He wandered through the crowd, seemingly oblivious to the outright stares of some of the other robots. None ventured to engage him in conversation, however, and he didn't yet attempt to draw them out.

  He was hunting for a subject likely to be inclined to garrulousness if properly motivated. But it was difficult to distinguish one robotic type from another. The lights made visual identification difficult, despite the acuity of his optics. Furthermore, Reinhardt's machines reflected his personal rather than a standard cybernetic vision. The presence of this large number of hybrids and modified types further confused the matter. It was for such reasons that the human crew members of the Palomino seemed to regard Reinhardt as nothing if not a scientific genius, despite their suspicion of him.

  Vincent held a somewhat lower opinion of the commander of the Cygnus. To him, the perpetrator of these and who knew how many other forms of mechanical destandardization was more a Dr. Moreau than an Einstein.

  Doubtless most of the mechanicals in the room held their master in high esteem. So Vincent kept his critical opinions to himself. For the time being, anyway.

  He was searching for a robot designed to interact closely with humans: a Calvin series twenty, if he was lucky. Such a machine could converse with subtlety and would be more likely to talk freely than other, less loquacious types. There were none in sight, however.

  What he spotted instead was a machine he had already encountered. Likely he would get nothing from it, as he had—or rather, hadn't—previously. But it was of the same general style as himself. It might empathize properly if he could break through its enforced reserve. And the inelegant monster Maximillian was not around to intimidate the other this time. So he floated over to the old-fashioned pool table, hovering for a moment in the background to watch.

  The aged B.O.B. unit utilized a pressure-sensitive cue to match the adjustable arms of the more humanoid machines, but he still missed the shot badly. Vincent analyzed the miss automatically, calculating the pressure to distance ratio involved, and came to the conclusion that the older robot's internal-velocity calculations module needed tuning or replacement. Or else he was simply a lousy pool player.

  The surrounding robots, more of Reinhardt's cybernetic mutants, appeared to enjoy the miss. It was unusual to see one robot taunting or deliberately conspiring to humiliate another, but apparently the old B.O.B. unit regularly received such abuse. Vincent was disgusted; the machines were behaving in an almost human fashion.

  He drifted forward, monitoring the sequencing of his external lights so as not to betray his true feelings, and opened cheerfully. "It appears you are in need of some help."

  The B.O.B. unit did not respond, but Vincent was not to be put off so quickly this time.

  "Vincent is my name," he announced. "Pool is my game." He took the power cue from Bob, inspected it with the air of a machine designed not to use such devices but to manufacture them. Extending a set of fine manipulators, he began making adjustments to the cue's trigger-and-fire mechanism.

  Other robots around the room paused in their activities to watch. Several tried without success to identify the electronic tune of the V.I.N.CENT model was humming via his internal synthesizer. They failed, not having his human-interaction library.

  Within the control tower all was silent save for the steady blips and pops from the multitude of computer readouts. Humanoid robots stood or sat at their posts, attending to individually assigned functions.

/>   Maximillian hovered before the command console. Occasionally the massive head would shift to take in a distant screen or gauge. A tiny spot of light appeared on one screen. The massive mechanical turned to study it quietly. A dial was turned, contact controls carefully attuned. The spot of light grew brighter, defining itself against the intentionally muted background of the black hole and its swirling halo of captured, radiating mass.

  The light continued to travel steadily out from the Pit.

  The table was not an antique, though it had the look of one. So did the matching chairs and the crystal chandelier above, and much of the silverware and other accouterments of a graciously set table. All were reproductions. They had been carefully crafted in the Cygnus's repair shops to Reinhardt's specifications. Three-dimensional history tapes from the ship's library provided the models. Only the huge painting of the Cygnus itself, which dominated one wall, was not an echo of man's past, though the frame that held it was.

  Tastefully aligned drapes framed the expansive window that dominated the opposite wall. The window had the appearance of those once used in old wooden homes, the glass crisscrossed with thin hardwood braces. But the transparent material was far stronger than glass; the wood, decoration instead of support; and the view beyond, one only a few humans had ever set eyes upon. It looked out onto the illuminated length of the Cygnus and the gravity devil in the sky.

  Holland and Pizer entered the room. The rest of the human crew of the Palomino were already present. The captain's attention was drawn now not by the distant maelstrom of the collapsar but by the table, set with fresh fruits, fresh vegetables, salads and covered silver dishes from which rose wonderfully aromatic steam. It was all very different from the fare they had lived on during their eighteen months on the Palomino.

  Two humanoid robots served wine from a real bottle, another reproduction. It would have tasted the same if it had been poured from a modern decanter, but that would have spoiled the effect. Holland knew that the commander of the Cygnus was not one to spoil an effect.