The crew of the Dark Star had all been human beings once upon a time. Exemplary human beings. A quintet of the most accomplished young human beings in existence. But they had all changed somewhat since that last, glowing evaluation had been made.
They'd been chosen partly because of their youth. Because of it—for although they might be away from Earth for only five or ten years shiptime, a century or so would pass back on their home world.
It was felt that young men returning still young from such an ordeal would be better able to adapt to whatever new society and civilization they found than would middle-aged men returning old. Also, the younger the man, the more resilient his emotions, the faster his reflexes—and the less he would have to remember and be sad about. Or so the psychometricians had argued.
They were partly right, and partly wrong. The men of the Dark Star did have less to remember than older men would have. But they remembered it that much more strongly.
So they looked into the mirror that was the communications screen and watched while this pale alien organism jabbered meaninglessly at them and they hated it and all that it now represented.
It was harder for Doolittle. Talby had his stars, and Pinback his almost-memories and his comic books, and Boiler his silent anger—but Doolittle had only memories, held stronger than most. So he hated it most of all.
Hated the hot bath the man had clearly enjoyed not too long ago. Hated his pleasant smile and honest good nature. Hated his clean clothes and polished epaulets and fresh air, and most especially he hated the girl the man was probably going to meet that night after they finished preparing this broadcast, hated the smooth thighs and fine soft belly and geometrically luscious . . .
He hated the computers he could see whirring mindlessly behind the man, and the men who ran those computers, and the computers who ran those men and their wives and their wive's friends, and the friends of the wive's friends and the buddies they played golf with on Sunday, and the kids of the buddies they played golf with on Sunday, and the outings they all went on to the beach . . .
To the beach, the beacon of the world, the olive green light that burned in the back of his pounding skull.
He hated them all—the taxpayers of the world who had heeded the fatuous exhortations of the scientists and politicians to make the habitable worlds of the galaxy safe for human colonization. Make them safe by funding the Dark Star project.
Make them safe by removing any unstable planetary bodies or oddball worlds that coexisted in a system with them. An. eccentricity of orbit, an internal rumble of molten indigestion—that was enough to send the Dark Star homing in on a planet to plant a thermostellar trigger in its lower intestine, set off a chain reaction, and remove from it forever a chance to interfere with future human settlements. Most of all Doolittle hated them because they had been the ones ultimately responsible for putting him out here. And because they wouldn't let him return home until this run was finished.
Not that the crew of the Dark Star was untrustworthy, or not among the most stable of the race, no. But there was always the outside chance—just a hint, the psychometricians said—that even the best men could go bonkers on a trip of this length. So, to be on the safe side the Dark Star itself had built into its structure explosive material that could he rendered inert only when the last thermostellar device had been successfully dropped, as recorded by the computer. Then they would he permitted to return home to full honors and acclaim and due process.
But they couldn't chance letting one of those planet-busters back into Old Sol's backyard.
Still, they were almost finished. What had begun as a leisurely journey had turned into a frenzied search for yet another unstable world, and another. Eighteen unstable planets destroyed in three years, shiptime. Three years—twenty years back on Earth.
They were far ahead of the best estimates, but certain things even the psychometricians hadn't imagined could drive men to superhuman effort.
And now only two bombs were left, numbers nineteen and twenty; and once they were successfully launched on their suicidal way, the Dark Star could go home. Home . . . back to and among the aliens he hated.
Doolittle didn't remember exactly when he had started hating the pink-faced aliens. But then it struck him that he didn't remember a lot of things lately—ever since Commander Powell had died. He activated the start switch.
The alien coughed lightly, cleared its throat, and began smoothly, with only the slightest tinge of self-consciousness.
"Hi, guys," it said brightly. "Glad we got your message finally. You'll be interested to hear it was broadcast live over the whole Earth—in prime time. You should have seen the ratings, guys. I mean, it was phenomenal. Knocked the top-rated . . ."
The alien hesitated, as if he was listening to someone speaking out of hearing range. He nodded imperceptibly and spoke again, rather more solemnly now.
"About the first of the colony ships. Everyone in the U.N. had been haggling over it for months, but that message from you guys threw it all over to the pro-colonization forces. Nothing like some honest emotion to sway recalcitrant politicos. The brass here at Mission Control are real proud of the way you fellas conveyed real anguish and tears and all.
"They should be getting started on the actual construction of the first ships any day now. There are just a few last details to be ironed out. Like, the Soviets claim the deep-space drive is their invention so they should have the largest number of colonists, while the Chin . . . Chinese think that it should be loaded according to the percentage of world population.
"The Israelis are pushing for an extra-large allotment on their claim of having designed the computer; and we, of course, feel that since we paid for most of the hardware so far and supplied the crew, that we ought to have a few more than the Wops and the . . ."
Again the alien looked nonplussed, listening to someone off-mike. His smile reappeared easily a moment later.
"But that's all internal politics and needn't concern you guys and the wonderful job you're doing." He hesitated and looked slightly concerned. "The time lag on these messages is getting longer . . . even longer than the boys here in relativity computation had expected. We gather from the ten-year delay that you are approximately eighteen parsecs out. We anticipated originally, as you will recall, that you would work more of a circular course closer in to Earth. But I guess systems with habitable worlds and unstable ones in combination are farther apart than the boys here predicted, right?
"The upshot of what I'm trying to say is that some people here get nervous when we don't hear from you as frequently as scheduled. We know you guys have lots of things to do, but"—Boiler made a growling sound—"try and drop us a line a little more often, okay? Just to say hiya." His grin broadened weakly and he looked down at a cuesheet out of camera view.
"As to the specifics of your message—sorry to hear about the radiation leaks on the ship, but equally glad to hear they've only affected minor mechanisms and haven't touched anything basic to your mission. Really sorry to hear about the death of Commander Powell. I was personally all broke up. Of course, I never had the honor of actually meeting him, but I remember how we used to read about him and the rest of you wonderful guys in school. There was a week of mourning here on Earth. The flags were at half mast, and a Congressional inquiry has been launched to investigate the firm that made the defective seat circuitry.
"We are informed, though, that the seat circuit shorting out like that was a one-in-a-million chance, so the rest of you should have no compunctions about sitting down on the job, hah, hah." He smiled again.
"We're all behind you wonderful guys a hundred percent. The job you're doing now will be remembered by billions of successful colonists thousands of years in the future, when all those systems you've cleared are filled with flourishing new populations—all operating under democratic principles, we expect." He winked.
"Now, about your two requests . . ." His eyes strayed to the hidden sheet again.
"I hate him," Doolittle whispered under his breath.
"Gee, what a nice fella," Pinback grinned inanely.
Boiler growled and punched buttons.
"First, about your request for portable radiation shielding and weld mechanism to replace the apparently defective plating." He shook his head. "Sorry to have to report that this request has been denied. I hate to send bad news when you guys are doing such a wonderful job, but I think you'll take it in the proper spirit." He heaved a theatrical sigh. "You know how politicians are when money is mentioned.
"There have been some cutbacks in the U.N. appropriations, and what with the cash for the colony ships and all having such a rough time getting through committee, we just can't afford to send a hyperspeed cargo shuttle out there to you. I've got to confess it didn't help our case when we had to admit that we didn't know exactly where you were, but have you ever tried explaining to a minister from Malaysia how big a parsec is?
"But I know you guys will make do. You've been doing amazing things so far. Lourdes—he's our project chief now, and a nicer, sweeter guy you couldn't find anywhere—says he doesn't know how you and Boiler got the shielding redistributed near the drive without getting a lethal dose of radiation. He doesn't think it made you sterile, since you should have died in the first place, but you guys shouldn't worry about that.
"About your other request." He leaned forward and looked right and left in a conspiratorial way. "Frankly, if it was up to me and the regulars here at Deep Space Mission Control, we'd cryostate the six girls and shoot 'em out to you. Only trouble was, some idiot leaked the request to the press, and they blew it up out of all proportion. But don't worry." He sat back and winked again. "We covered for you guys . . . made out how it was all a big joke on your part to show how well you're doing, right?"
Boiler was punching buttons faster now.
"Gee, what a nice fella," Pinback repeated, his smile a little less broad now.
I wish it were him up here and me down there smiling idiotically up at him, Doolittle thought desperately.
"So I'm really afraid," the alien continued, "that the request has been declared inoperative. But at least you know that we down here sympathize with you guys. It's the higher-ups who're making things tough."
"It'll bet he's queer as a two-dollar bill," Boiler said suddenly. "Flaming queen." Growl.
"He looks like a queer—look at his nails."
"That might be the current style on Earth," countered Pinback. "Anyway, you can't see his nails. They're below the vision pickup."
"Well, I saw 'em," Boiler insisted, his voice rising dangerously. He glared at the sergeant. "Wanna make something of it?"
"Well, gee, no," Pinback admitted. "I mean, it didn't seem to me it meant that much to you . . . I mean . . ."
"Goddamn faggots," Boiler rumbled.
"Quiet, Boiler," Doolittle said softly. He had his finger on the Hold button. "We've started it . . . we may as well hear all of it." As he lifted his finger off the control, Boiler lavished a last predatory glare on the subdued Pinback and returned to his button pushing. It didn't seem quite as much fun now. Damn queer had broken his concentration. Who needed their stupid messages anyhow?
"So anyway, that's how it is down here on Earth. Or up here on Earth, depending on which way you guys are heading, hah, hah. I wish there was something more I could say," and for a moment a flicker of humanity seemed to appear in the alien's face. Again he seemed to acknowledge the words of an off-screen presence, and the flicker disappeared.
"Well, as you know, these deep space calls cost a lot of money, so all I can say for all of us here at McMurdo is, keep up the good work and drop us a line more often, huh?"
Fizzle . . . pop . . .the words END COMMUNICATION appeared on the screen. Doolittle switched it off.
"Surprised he didn't blow us a goodbye kiss," muttered Boiler. The other two ignored him.
"Nice to know they're thinking about us so warmly, isn't it, guys?" Pinback ventured cautiously, looking from Doolittle to Boiler and back to Doolittle. "Isn't it?"
"Quiet, Pinback," said Doolittle, working controls. "We're almost there. We've got a planet to blow."
"Ah, gee, you guys never wanna talk anymore." Pinback folded his arms and sat back, pouting. "Blow it up, blow it up—that's all you think about anymore. We do that all the time. When was the last time we all just sat around and talked, huh? About nothing in particular?"
"You do that all the time, Pinback," Doolittle commented.
"Yeah, but it's pretty dull just talking to you guys if you don't chat back. I might as well talk to a blank wall."
"You do that all the time, Pinback."
Oh, you think you're so smart, Doolittle, Pinback muttered silently. Always ready with the snappy comeback, aren't you? Well, we'll see who comes out of this mission with a clean bill of health! Wait till the psyche boys get a look inside your head. Then you'll be sorry you didn't talk to me when you had the chance.
I tried to help you, Doolittle, but you don't want to be helped, so don't blame me when they lock you in solitary for observation, with doctors poking and monitoring and prodding and digging into your brain, digging, digging . . .
Pinback was glad when Doolittle switched the overhead screen from communications to fore visual pickup. He was beginning to drown in the sweat of his own thoughts.
A world sprang into sharp focus. It was sterile, empty, deserted. No animals moved on its surface, no fish swam in its seas. Nothing grew and nothing moved. It was no different from a thousand other worlds they had encountered, but it had one thing in common with eighteen others—eighteen others they had encountered and destroyed.
They had found two habitable worlds in this system. One planet was very Earthlike, the other marginally so. Some day each might support a population as great as that of Earth's today.
But as things stood there would be no point in planting an incipient civilization on either of them because this world, according to computer predictions, sat in an unstable orbit. In not more than two hundred thousand nor less than five thousand years it would spiral inward to intercept its own sun.
There was the chance that nothing serious would happen—the world might be turned instantly to ashes. However, if conditions were right, it could be enough, just enough, to alter the position of the star in relation to its habitable planets. Or worse yet, set it on the path to nova.
Waste it, and want not, Doolittle thought—the motto of the scientists who had proposed and organized the Dark Star mission and its objectives.
So now they would commence operations to quietly eliminate a world in a soundless, overwhelming explosion bigger than any ever seen on Earth, thereby rendering the system safe for Mom, Apple Pie, and another four or five billion of the social insect called man. A voice sounded in his earphones.
"What'd you say, Pinback?" he mumbled in reply.
"Goggle, freep, tweep."
He spoke into the mike again. "What was that? I still can't understand you." Might as well be nice to poor Pinback. After all, he tried his best to do a sergeant's job.
Pinback was always trying. That was one of his problems. At times he reminded Doolittle just a bit too much of the unctuous young officer who had delivered the message from Earth base.
One of these days Corporal Boiler was going to . . .
Pinback shoved the mike aside and leaned over. "I said, I'm trying to reach Talby. Something's wrong with the damned intercom. If you're not going to talk to me, then I'm going to work, I need a last-minute diameter approximation. Do you expect me to figure that my self?"
"Calm down, Pinback. There's something wrong with everything on this ship." He flicked a fingertip on his own mike. "Talby, Talby, this is Dooiittle, do you read me? Answer me, Talby . . . wake up, man."
Eleven, twelve, thirteen, wonder what I've seen . . .
Three blue-white suns, just above the plane of the ecliptic. He jotted them down in his mental catalog. Odd to see three of the same magnitude g
rouped so closely together. Another interesting surprise.
Exactly how many stars were now included in his private collection he didn't know. There were at least several thousand. He would know better if he entered them formally in the ship's scientific records—something he adamantly refused to do.
Doolittle had bugged him about it when be found out what the astronomer was doing—or rather, wasn't doing. But Talby's smile had defeated him. You couldn't reduce a star to an abstract figure, Talby had patiently tried to explain. It was demeaning, both to the man and to the star. Doolittle gave up after a while.
Talby touched controls, and the observation chair swerved another ninety degrees, tilted forward. Maybe he could convince Doolittle to rotate the ship again, so that he could see the other half of the heavens for a while. Doolittle never understood these requests. He insisted that after a while all stars looked the same: uniform, ugly little fireflies glaring in the night-space. Talby couldn't make him see. Poor Doolittle.
Poor Talby.
Something buzzed insistently in his head. At first he thought it might be another of his headaches. In a way, it was.
"Talby, Talby, this is Doolittle. Can you read me? Acknowledge, Talby."
The corporal blinked, forced himself out of the real universe and back into the irritating dreamworld of reality . . . the triangular dreamworld of the Dark Star.
"Oh, yes, Doolittle. Yes, I read you. What is it?"
Doolittle continued to manipulate the instruments in front of him as he spoke to Talby. The astronomer was beginning to worry him. No, no . . . that wasn't quite right. Talby had been worrying him for some time now. He always meant to do something about it, but there were so many other things to worry about, so many other tasks he was responsible for now.
Not that Talby had ever done anything to threaten the safety of the ship—quite the contrary. He was efficient in his duties to the point of abnormality. But it bothered Doolittle that the astronomer spent so much time in the observation dome. It bothered Doolittle that Talby didn't eat his meals with the rest of them. It bothered Doolittle that Talby never joined them for their admittedly deadly dull group recreation periods.
Dark Star Page 2
