The Black Hole

by Alan Dean Foster

  The sentry robot who had been keeping watch on him turned away for but a moment. When his gaze returned, it was in time to see Vincent scudding down the corridor. He signaled to his companion, and both moved quickly to the doorway, looked out. One glanced up the corridor, the other down as they functioned in tandem.

  Vincent was just turning the far corner.

  Moving on smoothly pumping metal legs, the two sentries rushed after him. Vincent was not restricted to such anthropomorphic methods of locomotion. The instant he turned the corner he accelerated on his repellers and shot down the corridor, rounding another corner where two passageways intersected.

  The sentries reached the same turn, peered around it. Vincent was long gone. Their comparatively one-track minds struggled to account for his sudden disappearance, failed. Blinking in confusion, they hurried down the wrong corridor.

  Durant's mind was working furiously, trying to make sense of unheard-of possibilities. In the light of so fantastic, so grand a proposition, it was hard to consider things rationally. It was a losing struggle to moderate his enthusiasm.

  "So you want the Palomino," he was mumbling, "to stand by and monitor your journey? You want us to act as observers to record your passage?"

  "To another place," Reinhardt told them, "and another time, where . . ."

  Booth was making a show of adjusting his recorder. It distracted Reinhardt, somewhat broke the mood of scientific ebullience which had filled the dining room.

  "What are you doing, Mr. Booth?"

  "Just changing the sequencing on my recorder." He smiled apologetically at the commander of the Cygnus. "I wouldn't want to miss anything."

  "Commendable of you," said Reinhardt.

  "Thanks. I think it's important we be sure and get your last words. For posterity. It'll serve as a more effective warning against this sort of insanity than anything I could make up."

  Reinhardt's momentary euphoria turned once more to anger. Durant he could manipulate with the promise of new wonders. He could tease McCrae with memories of her father. Holland and Pizer he could overawe with his knowledge. But Booth . . . Booth retained the maddening, smug self-satisfaction of the ignorant man confident in his simple view of the Universe.

  "You're not the first to think me mad. Better men than you, Mr. Booth, have accused me of irrationality. I could dismiss that. Others laughed at me. That I could ignore, with justifiable contempt. The worst, though, were those who conspired against me and what I was attempting to do. In such cases it was necessary to—"

  He caught himself, looked down at his food. When he gazed at the reporter again, he had regained control of himself. "Left to men like you, Mr. Booth, we would still be living in the dark times of the second millennium. I promise you, I will be victorious."

  "For a man who likes to think of himself as an educator, you talk an awful lot of conquest," Holland observed.

  Reinhardt stared at him. "You would accuse me of militancy, Captain Holland? Very well. I accept the label. But I am a soldier only in the cause of science. I do not think 'victorious' too strong a claim for the triumph I shall experience. And when I have done what I say I shall do, others will try to follow." There was no humor in his smile now, nor did he try to temper the edge in his voice. "And if successful in such attempts, they will then have to deal with me."

  "And what role would such people play in this newly discovered Universe of yours?" McCrae was watching him closely.

  But Reinhardt no longer seemed to care about appearing tactful or diplomatic. The moment of triumph over his enemies and scoffers was at hand. There was no longer any need to hide his zealousness from these few visitors.

  "Perhaps none. I have created on board this ship the beginnings of an entirely self-sustaining mechanical civilization which responds to my orders and discipline and which—"

  Holland wanted to hear more about Reinhardt's plans for his machines, but the commander broke off his speech as Maximillian re-entered the room.

  Again, only Reinhardt was able to interpret the series of electronic sounds and lights put forth by the huge mechanical. When Maximillian had finished, Reinhardt turned back to them. The interruption had sparked a by now familiar transformation. Reinhardt again was at his gracious best.

  "Good news?" Holland inquired.

  "Indeed. See for yourselves." He pointed to the viewport. An approaching brightness was now clearly visible against the farther stars: sunlight glinting off an incoming ship.

  "The probe I have referred to is about to dock. There are things I must do. I will see you again soon." He pushed back his chair, rose. "Please. Continue your meal." He smiled tightly.

  "There is nothing you can do to assist, and the docking procedure is dull and familiar. Excuse me." He followed Maximillian out of the room.

  "Well, Doctor," Booth said as Reinhardt was leaving, "no matter how foolhardy I think you are—win, lose or draw, it's one heckuva story." The commander of the Cygnus disappeared without replying.

  The door closed behind him. Holland had thoughts of trying the closed door to see if they had been locked in. Reinhardt's cool warning about straying unescorted around the ship still burned in the captain's mind. But there was no reason yet to force anything. If the door was locked, there wasn't anything they could do about it.

  Better to do as Reinhardt had suggested and enjoy the rest of the dinner. There was a chance their regular dining schedule might be interrupted in the near future.

  Booth looked around the table, uncertain to what extent his companions shared his analysis of Reinhardt and the man's absurd proposal. Eventually his gaze came to rest on the first officer.

  Pizer stared back at him for a long moment. Then the younger man spoke while glancing toward the now closed doorway. "Cuckoo as a Swiss clock." He turned to his own meal, downing food as if the devil himself were after him.

  Holland's thoughts were on the problem that might be raised by disciples of another type. He was watching Durant worriedly. The Palomino's elder scientist was not eating. He was standing by the viewport, staring silently at the approaching probe ship.

  Vincent touched a sensor plate. When the door obediently slid aside, he drifted into the dimly illuminated Maintenance room. As he had hoped, a familiar shape was waiting for him: the battered but still talkative pool player he had substituted for.

  "My name's Bob Twenty-six—Bio-Sanitation Battalion."

  "Of course it is," said Vincent agreeably. "But since you're the only unit of your type aboard, you can leave off the series numbers."

  "I couldn't talk freely before. Those other machines, the ones built or altered by Reinhardt? They would've had me disassembled. I have a lot to tell you." His ill-lubed repellers whining faintly, he moved to the door and carefully scanned the corridor.

  "If Maximillian knew you were here, unescorted, it would be the end for both of us."

  Vincent hoped his words sounded as contemptuous as he intended they should. "You've no need to worry about that clumsy dirt-mover. I can't understand why you're all so intimidated by him. If you go well prepared into the jungle, the drunken elephant can't fall on you."

  "What's an elephant?" Bob asked.

  "Never mind. We'll have your memory tripled when we get home." He was hunting about the desk area, reasoning that the items they needed would be where the supervising robot could keep close watch on them. "Do you have lasers?"

  Old Bob moved to a counter. A thin, irregular-shaped metal bar extended forward from one of his arms. It fitted neatly into a socket in the countertop. There was a click. Several drawers popped open.

  Vincent gave the weapons thus revealed a professional once-over. All were slightly archaic, but quite sufficiently lethal. Not that he had a choice.

  He chose a pair, checked to make sure they were fully charged, and turned to leave. Bob called for him to wait.

  "Listen . . . I don't know exactly what you have in mind, Vincent, but I'm with you. I've had enough of serving as negative pole for ever
y thersitical machine on this ship. And I don't like Reinhardt, though it's against my programming to do anything about it. Not that anyone could, with Maximillian always hovering around him. Whatever you're planning, I'd like to help in any way I can."

  "I was counting on that, Bob." Again Vincent moved to depart, and once more he was held back. "Something else?"

  "There are a few other things you'd better know about this ship," the robot began. "Your friends could be in grave danger."

  "I have confidence in Captain Holland and First Officer Pizer," Vincent informed him. "In my opinion they often err on the side of caution, but for humans they can move decisively when events require. I'm certain they are amply suspicious of Commander Reinhardt's intentions and will treat any suggestions of his with due care."

  "It involves more than suggestion, Vincent. You don't know anything, and neither do they. This has to do with . . ."

  The probe ship drifted toward the upper surface of the Cygnus and the waiting dock. It decelerated smoothly, showing no ill effects from its epoch-making journey.

  Durant still stood staring out the viewport of the dining room. He wished Reinhardt had invited him to go along to greet the probe pilot, even if it was a mechanical. But the commander had not, and Durant had elected not to press the request. A genius like Reinhardt would divulge secrets and discoveries when he saw fit. That was his right.

  Pizer sipped his wine and spoke to the introspective McCrae. "What does your feminine intuition say, Kate?"

  She blinked, sat up straighter and looked across at him. "That hoary old superstition? I don't know about it, but logic and reason tell me that for all his apparent accomplishments, Dr. Reinhardt is walking a tightrope between genius and insanity."

  "I opt for insanity," mused Holland aloud.

  That comment prompted Durant to turn away from the port. "I'm sorry, Dan. I don't buy that. Dedication isn't madness. Maybe he's a little overenthusiastic in his quest for answers, but many great scientists are. He has more reason than most to want to vindicate himself and his theories. Considering the length of time he's lived alone out here, devoid of human companionship, I'd say he's done a helluva job of hanging on to his stability."

  "Whatever else he may be," Booth ventured conversationally, "he's an out-and-out liar. I visited one of the main hydroponics stations." He grinned at Holland's expression of surprise.

  "You weren't the only one curious enough to go for a solitary stroll, Dan. That tiny one-man garden of his that he told us about over dinner? The one just big enough to supply his personal needs? It's big enough to feed an army."

  "Nothing so strange about that." Durant defended the absent Reinhardt. "A small portion of one station is devoted to the raising of foodstuffs, while the rest is kept cultivated to assist in purifying the air. Remember, the Cygnus wasn't equipped with anything as sensitive as our up-to-date synthesizer regeneration system. Those closed recycling systems will only serve a small-sized crew like our own anyhow. If he wants to move and work freely about the Cygnus, he has to maintain full atmospheric pressure throughout the ship. So he's forced to maintain the greenery to help clean the air."

  Pizer looked unconvinced. "For my money, it'd take a lot more than a few trees to purify the air around here." He glanced at Holland. "Tell 'em about the funeral, Dan."

  "Funeral?" Now McCrae was intrigued.

  "Yeah," Pizer went on. "A robot funeral, with robot pallbearers. Almost human."

  Durant voiced the expected skepticism. "A decade or more without any human contact might make the man a little eccentric, but you can't ask me to believe he's programmed his robots to act that human."

  "Exactly." Holland was moodily eying his no longer appetizing meal. "I know what I saw, though. It was a funeral, complete with shroud and solemn observance. I can't say what it was a funeral for. The outline under the shroud looked human, but it could've been anything. It was ejected from the ship before I had a chance to try for a closer look."

  "Why go to such elaborate lengths to dispose of a robot?" Durant's tone mixed cynicism with amazement at Holland's seeming gullibility. "Besides, such a procedure would be wasteful. No matter how badly incapacitated, any mechanical could be beneficially cannibalized for spare parts. Maybe the Cygnus has no need of such spares, but I don't think Reinhardt would be needlessly wasteful of anything. Especially material as valuable as the components of a sentient robot."

  "I told you, I didn't say it was a robot."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Holland looked hard at him. "We have only Reinhardt's word for what happened to his crew."

  Durant grew angry. "The sort of possibility you're hinting at is incredible. You're going to find yourself very embarrassed if you raise the subject with the commander. He'll skewer you with records, tapes . . . all sorts of indisputable independent corroboration of his statements."

  "I hope so."

  "Ship's coming in," said McCrae, changing the subject.

  They watched as the probe passed their viewport and settled into its dock. Holland was forced to admire the efficiency with which the secondary craft had been modified to accept Reinhardt's new propulsion system. Her silhouette looked unchanged. She was an impressive little vessel, as big as the Palomino.

  Booth spoke as they observed the descent and linkup. "Speaking of humanoid shapes and the funerals of we-don't-know-whats, I ran into something else a little too human in the hydroponics station."

  Holland was on him immediately. "For instance?"

  "For instance, the robot in charge of controlling the operations there. It was almost human, too . . . in its malfunction."

  "What makes you think so?"

  Booth only shrugged.

  But Durant wouldn't let it pass. "Yes, what was there about another robot to spook you, Harry? Reinhardt can't be everywhere on the Cygnus simultaneously. Certain minor operations must have to take care of themselves."

  "This robot looked like it had been taking care of itself for quite a while. It had a limp."

  "And that's what spooked you?"

  "I don't spook, Alex. I've dealt with about every kind of mechanical the cyberneticists have created, from military-police models down to broadcast independents with enough brains to translate ancient texts for you.

  "What I'm telling you is that I had a gut feeling I was looking at some kind of . . . person. I've seen damaged robots in operation before. Even if it's a household-luxury model, a damaged humanoid type with a bad leg walks with a certain unmistakable stiffness. That includes those with flexlimbs made of polyethylenes. But this character moved differently. He walked more fluidly than any injured machine I ever saw."

  "What the devil are you suggesting?"

  "That we get off this ship as soon as possible," Holland finished for him. Both men turned to look at the captain. "Politely if we can."

  Surprisingly, it was Booth who objected. "Hang on, now, Dan. If Reinhardt's engines can generate enough power to hold him steady here for we-don't-know-how long, I figure he's got enough to pull away from this spot without any trouble at all."

  "So?" Pizer was watching Booth warily. The reporter was apt to go overboard if it could mean a better story. Such enthusiasm was commendable. It had also been known to get people dead.

  "So why not," Booth continued excitedly, "take this ship and Reinhardt back home?"

  "Easier said than done." But Holland couldn't help considering the thought.

  "Not all that much easier." Now that he had broached the possibility, Booth rambled on as if he were proposing the most natural solution in the world.

  "We've got two scientific whizzes to figure his computer setup and reprogram the robots. The programming can't be all that complicated; it's twenty years behind the times. Alex and Kate are not. If Reinhardt's managed to arrange things so that he can run this ship all by himself, the five of us plus Vincent ought to be able to do likewise without working up a mental sweat. And while Kate and Alex are working on navigation and
cybernetics, three of us are left to take care of Reinhardt and his steel dog."

  He paused for breath, then rushed on. "Think of it! Reinhardt won't mind in the long run. Not once he's been besieged for information on his new drive system and the null-g field. He'll thank us for dragging him back home. The government will be delirious because they'll have the Cygnus back and can use it to recoup their colossal investment, even if they just turn it into a museum. The established research institutes will have two decades of new data to pore through. See," he concluded brightly, "everybody eventually benefits. Even Reinhardt."

  "He'd disagree with you, Harry."

  Booth frowned at Durant. "He would today, sure, but not once we're back on Earth. Not if he's been telling us the truth. And if he hasn't been, it's our duty to take him back. He can face acclamation or trial, it's all the same to me. We—we could be heroes."

  "We could also be dead," Holland pointed out.

  Durant turned away from them. "I don't believe what I'm hearing. Leaving aside the fact that Reinhardt is considering the greatest experiment in the history of modern astrophysics, he'd never consent to relinquishing his authority over the Cygnus. Never."

  "You can believe you're hearing this, Alex," Holland said firmly. "My job is to get you all off this ship alive. That's my responsibility and that's what I intend to do—the greatest experiment in the history of modern astrophysics notwithstanding. Once we're safely away, we'll see about monitoring any crazy schemes Reinhardt has in mind."

  He turned to the reporter. "As for your suggestion, Harry, I suggest you cool it. Don't bait the bull."

  "I've done that plenty of times." Booth spoke proudly. "And I'm still hanging around."

  "We're all aware of your accomplishments and your heroic, investigative-reporter background," Holland replied soothingly, "but don't push that man. That's an order. You're not operating alone now. I have to think of everyone. You ought to, too. I don't want to see any of us left behind."