by Sam Smith
Dag Olvess was the eldest. He was eighteen, tall and well-proportioned, had just completed a year's scholarship with an eminent professor, was on his way back to a university in the name city as mine. That a city should boast more than one university... My anticipation was heightened by his every casual utterance.
The other boy was Malamud Bey. He was fourteen years old and shorter than I. And, where I felt privileged to be befriended by Dag, I could not understand why Dag sought the company of Malamud. For Malamud was exactly like those boys on the supply station. Where Dag and I both wore simple tunics, Malamud had circles and squares painted upon his. He was also forever playing games and practical jokes.
Although Malamud was officially listed as the ship’s errand boy, his capacity seemed to be more that of mascot. The crew of six seemed to welcome his pranks and silly jokes by way of light relief — to offset the boredom of their journey. Because I must admit that, where for me the journey itself was exciting, I could imagine how its novelty could pall. After only a few days, once I had explored the ship, exhausted its novelty, I too began to look forward to my destination, pestered Dag with questions about the city and its universities.
The only other interest lay in the stations we put into. Apart from the mail, our cargo seemed to alternate between metal ingots and ore. We would put into a smelting rig, unload the ore, take on the ingots. At the next supply station we would unload the ingots, take on more ore. And so on, as we zigzagged across the galaxy.
At each smelting rig we also took off the crew, who were replaced by the new crew we had picked up at the last supply station. (I do not know if this is common knowledge, but those crew stay on the rigs for only a few months at a time. Because of the dangers inherent in the use of such intense heat — one of the early smelters is now a small sun — the crews are not allowed to take their families onto the rigs with them.)
Many of the rig crews we carried appeared to know Malamud, were pleased to see him. I could not understand why they found his strange use of words and his pranks so amusing. So one day, about our third week out, I asked Dag to tell me why he so enjoyed Malamud’s company.
Before I give his reason I feel that I must relate the immediate circumstances that led me to ask such a question.
A few days previously I had been leant against a wall in my customary posture — one foot on the floor, one foot on the wall behind me — and I had been gazing out to space.
Malamud had already found me thus several times and had rudely broken my train of thought with inane questions such as, “What can you see out there?" And he had made a game of pretending to examine each star before us. Yet another time he had knocked on my head and had asked if I was in there. I fear that I must have displayed my irritation for, on the day I have mentioned, he crept up, unseen by me, and — where my lifted slipper was pressed against the wall — he squeezed in some contact adhesive. He then crept away to fetch Dag and some of the crew. On their return he ran up to me and said,
"Quick Pi!. Quick! You should see what’s on the other side.”
Of course, when I made to follow him, my slipper being stuck to the wall, I fell flat on my face. Dag, Malamud and the crew all laughed at my graceless fall. I, though, did not see any humour whatsoever in it. And, when I managed to extricate my foot from the slipper on the wall and I said that I did not see anything amusing about a slipper being stuck to a wall, they laughed all the more. I did not understand; and my puzzlement seemed only to add to their humour. While all I could see was that I had been made to fall over and now I would have to buy myself some new slippers. Though, to be fair, I should add that at the next supply station Malamud did buy me a new pair of slippers.
However, before that I put my question to Dag.
“You must understand Pi," he said, “that Malamud has a different intelligence to you. You have closed your mind to him. You must open it. If you do you can probably learn as much from him as you will from many a learned professor."
When I doubted that Malamud could teach me anything at all, except to avoid him, Dag said,
“I learnt more from Malamud in one sentence than I did from a whole year’s scholarship. Let me explain. Soon after I joined the ship Malamud asked me what I was studying. Now, as any philosophy student will tell you, as soon as you tell anyone that you are a philosophy student you are asked what philosophy is, and of what use it is."
I too had been intending to ask Dag just those two questions; but, not having Malamud's brash manner, I had been awaiting a more propitious moment.
"I endeavoured to explain to him,” Dag continued, "by telling him how philosophers had defined intelligence, quoting to him one of the earliest philosophers — ‘I think therefore I am.'" (For his degree Dag's dissertation was to be on the pre-Space philosophy of the planet Earth, its influence upon our culture.) "With such a definition to hand," Dag told me, "we can treat with other species, decide whether they are of a reactive or a rational intelligence. Malamud thought only a moment on what I had told him, then he said, "So — I don’t think therefore I'm not?" And laughing he left me. During the past few weeks I've been trying to come to terms with that one statement. Which in all likelihood Malamud has forgotten. You should cultivate his company Pi. He may surprise you too."
Although I did not understand Dag’s appreciation of such an irreverent upside-down retort, I did heed his advice and sought Malamud's company. And the longer I knew him the more I did come to appreciate his bright and provocative intelligence. In the weeks that followed I even played games with him; although he frequently became enraged at my unsportsmanlike equanimity. For it did not matter to me whether I won or lost; and, try as I might, I could understand neither his taunting jubilation in victory nor his curses in defeat.
Nor could I understand his or Dag's laughter at some mischance. In fact my lack of humour became a standing joke to them And to the rest of the crew. I learnt to patiently wait for their laughter to subside, then I would ask why they thought a particular remark so funny. Such a question, though, often set them to laughing again. So, thereafter, unless I was thoroughly perplexed, I learnt not to ask for explanations where the humour of others was concerned.
As I learnt to tolerate their incomprehensible humour so they tolerated my lack of it. And I was grateful to them for that, glad to be invited on their jaunts and excursions — onto the rigs and supply stations. Through Malamud's effrontery Dag and I met many interesting people, saw many facets of our civilisation which I would otherwise have missed on that journey.
By the ninth week of our voyage, two months from our destination, we were all three firm friends, inseparable companions. That week the longest unbroken stretch of our trip began — going on a loop around the outer rim of a galaxy so that we could make maximum speed. On the far reach of that loop we encountered a cosmic storm of terrific proportions.
At the last supply station our Captain had been notified of a cosmic storm in the area. As the storm had lain directly in our path the Captain had decided to steer a course behind it.
So, for three days we skirted that storm, the freighter rocking and bucketing about. At the storm's height, to stop the ingots crashing through the ship's hull, the captain had them cocooned in webbing and switched off the gravity. Malamud and Dag invented a weightless race through the ship’s corridors. As Malamud complained that I didn’t put my heart into it, I was made the judge. Even then, much to their chagrin, I once forgot to look to see who had won.
On the third day the turbulence ceased; and, the danger appearing to be over, the gravity was reactivated. Little did we know that we were now entering the most dangerous phase of the storm. For, in the aftermath of the storm, came the cosmic dust.
In a newer ship I doubt that it would have had much effect, but the Yilan was an old ship, had passed through the rear of such storms many times before. The velocity of the dust resulted in it pitting the hull. Where the hull had been previously pitted, those minuscule grains of dust penetrated the
Yilan's outer skin. Our atmosphere began to leak into space. I suppose that, from the time we first noticeably began to lose pressure, to when the first plates began to buckle, took less than an hour.
Apart from our freighter crew of six, we had two rig crews in transit. Including Dag, Malamud and I, that made nineteen in all. However, due to some oversight, we had only ten spacesuits on board. When this was discovered the rig crews began to panic.
As it became rapidly evident that the hull was going to collapse, the captain decided to take everyone into the command module and blast it away from the freighter. The command module could be sealed off, had its own inbuilt power supply and life-support.
As Malamud and I went to rush off to the command module, Dag restrained us.
"It'll be hopeless in there," he said, "If the hull's leaking, so will that be. Come with me."
It says much for Dag's character that, in such desperate circumstances, both Malamud and I followed him without question.
We hadn't turned two corners before Malamud, divining where we were bound, said,
“The shuttle!" Then I too realised Dag's intention.
On this voyage the shuttle had been used only the once — to take a sick woman off an outstation. She had been on the Yilan just the one day. And that had been weeks before. In their panic the rest of the crew had overlooked it. And the shuttle, being stored within the ship, it would not have been damaged by the dust.
With the ship buckling in on itself we had difficulty unjamming the inner airlock door. However, once we were through, we wasted little time in disconnecting the umbilical from the ship, and we very soon had the shuttle's door fastened behind us.
The shuttle had three seats — the third one between and to the rear of the other two. As I was the last to enter I took the rear seat. We hurriedly strapped ourselves in.
"Take us out," Dag told Malamud. Malamud had occasionally been allowed to pilot the shuttle on the small journeys it had made.
"The door won't open," Malamud said.
"Blast the bolts," Dag told him.
“How?" Malamud was trembling.
Neither Dag nor Malamud had studied to become technicians.
I undid my straps, leant forward between them and scanned the list of emergency procedures. I tapped in the code. The perimeter of the outer door shuddered. Slowly the door drifted away.
"Now — take us out," Dag said.
As the shuttle moved forward I began to strap myself back into my seat. Just as we cleared the ship I realised that I had left behind my luggage.
“My violin!" I exclaimed. At that moment all that I could think of was my solemn promise to my mother. And with that single thought in my head, not aware of what I was doing, I stood.
Through the rear ports I watched awe-struck as the Yilan, silhouetted against the glittering sweep of the galaxy, collapsed in on itself.
All forms of propulsion that we know of are but a rapid series of controlled explosions; even to the movement of our own bodies. As the Yilan's hull imploded, the explosions of its reactors became uncontrolled. Forced in upon themselves they became a critical mass.
“Sit down Pi!" Dag shouted at me. But I was transfixed by the spectacle before me, saw the hull shake as the command module blasted free, and a moment later, when it seemed that the hull could contract no more, there came a blinding flash.
And that is the last that I remember of our departure from the Yilan.
Chapter Three
After a perilous journey into the unknown, during which I am appalled by the ignorance of my two companions, we find sanctuary — of a kind
I recovered consciousness to find Malamud hovering over me. Of course, I thought, we would be weightless.
"I thought you were going to lay there snoring forever," Malamud said.
His eyes were moist. That puzzled me. Dag drifted over.
"Welcome back," he said. "How do you feel?” I swallowed.
My throat was parched. Malamud squirted some water between my lips.
"Be sparing with that." Dag took the bottle from him, said to me, "I'm afraid the Yilan was as remiss about the shuttle's emergency supplies as they were about the spacesuits. That's the last of the water."
That too puzzled me. I asked if the shuttle was leaking. They did not grasp the relevance of my question. I had to explain to them that the life-support recycled the humidity given off by our bodies, by our every breath. I told them where the tank was to be found.
“Unless our excrement is recycled too,” Dag said, “I’m afraid food remains a problem. We have only one tube left.”
"Where are we?" I asked Dag.
"A good question," Malamud said.
Dag briefly related what had happened after I had lost consciousness.
The blast from the Yilan had sent us hurtling into space. My being unstrapped, that same blast had sent me hurtling to the rear of the shuttle, where I had banged my head. As soon as our momentum had stabilised, Malamud had strapped me into my seat and he and Dag had sutured the cut on my forehead.
"Fortunately," Dag said, "the first aid kit was complete."
Since then, for eight days, Malamud had nursed me. While Dag had searched space for some sign of civilisation. He had found none.
"We have also," Dag ruefully admitted, "almost run out of energy."
In the hope of finding civilisation, Dag had steered a course for an orange hydrogen/helium star. On the Yilan we had passed close to two such stars. Both had been encircled by horticultural platforms — bank upon bank of shimmering green being constantly sown and harvested, producing enough food daily to feed a city. And, although the work on those platforms is done by machine, those machines — of course — require someone to monitor them. With that in mind Dag had aimed for the orange star.
"But, not until we had entered its gravitational field, did I recall what you told me about quasars — that any platforms around a star make its light and radiation fluctuate and so, from a distance, such a star takes on the appearance of a quasar. By then, though, it was too late — I had to use up all our energy leaving its gravitational pull."
"Why?" I asked him.
Both Dag and Malamud looked to one another concerned, their expressions wondering if the bang on my head had affected my powers of reason.
"This shuttle is a recent model," I told them, "It must have been a replacement for the Yilan's original shuttle. This model can take on its own energy — through the solar traps in the wing roof. You should have gained more energy than you lost. Didn’t you switch.. .?” There was no need to finish the question: I could see that neither had known that it was possible.
"So where are we?” Malamud asked me.
I was weak from my eight days inactivity. Malamud unstrapped me and, guiding me over to the console, strapped me in again. I was thankful for the weightlessness, knew from my dreamlike drifting that, even in the weakest gravity, I would have felt nauseous.
I quickly acquainted myself with the console; and, after a couple of false starts, succeeded in switching our energy source to the solar traps. Provided we didn't use the engines, the solar traps would, from there on, pick up and intensify enough cosmic radiation to top up our energy stores, compensate our life-support uses.
Next I found the limits of the shuttle's knowledge. Its chart memory was not exhaustive. Normally, prior to leaving the Yilan, it would have been given the detailed local charts. All that I would be able to safely ascertain from its large scale charts would be our appropriate whereabouts. Nevertheless I told the shuttle to take sightings; and, though I did not recognise one configuration from this novel angle, the shuttle turned through 9O°, identified stars from its charts, took its bearings.
While I was doing that, Malamud was scathingly telling Dag what he thought of philosophy students. I must admit that I too had been surprised anew at his ignorance of basic technicalities. When, once before on the ship he had made apparent his ignorance of some prosaic fact known to all technicians, I had
asked him the extent of his qualifications. It seemed that his education had been eclectic, for, no sooner had he grasped the fundamentals of a subject, than he had lost interest in it. So, by fits and starts, he had proceeded to that most generalised of all subjects — philosophy.
Once my computations were complete — the sightings did not tally with the shuttle's dead reckoning — I told Dag and Malamud of our probable whereabouts.
"So far as I can make out, we are on the outer rim of another galaxy. When the Yilan exploded we were in intergalactic space, weeks from anywhere. The force of the explosion, plus the residual speed of the Yilan, must have combined to shoot us through space at a colossal speed. Which probably accounts for the discrepancy between my sightings and the dead reckoning. Our speed must have been such that the shuttle was incapable of registering it. It was lucky that we went near the star — it slowed us down. The galaxy beyond, so far as I can tell, is uncharted. I very much doubt that there is any civilisation there.”
“And none here either,” Dag said.
"Without up-to-date charts we have no means of knowing."
"So, Master Technician," Malamud said, "what do we do now? And don't go off into a trance,” he added as I curled into a thoughtful posture.
I roused myself. I could see only two options open to us. The first was that we continue on our present course in the hope that we chance upon a last outpost of civilisation.
The Yilan’s captain had sent out mayday signals prior to the explosion. Dag too had sent a regular SOS from the shuttle — until he had worried about using up all our energy. Our phenomenal speed, however, meant that we were already far in advance of those signals. Now, though, that I had resumed transmitting, the rescue services would come searching for us. But not for some months, and we had less than a day's rations left. So, apart from our having so little energy, there was little point in our turning around and retracing our course.
We had only one real option, and a desperate one at that — to land on a planet.
