Dark Star

by Alan Dean Foster

  No, the vastnesses of the galaxy supposedly held no terrors for him. But then, the psychologists who had told him that hadn't spent years floating away from sight of Earth in a tiny metal triangle, years without even a glimpse of their own sun. A journey like this brought home to a man something about space no psychometrician could ever approximate.

  Not that it was complicated. No. Space was big, man was small, and you couldn't dwell on that very long or the bigness would assume its proper proportions and come down on the mind and smash it. But Talby, he reflected, seemed to have licked that problem. He was going to turn some theories around when he got back home, if they could ever pry him out of his precious dome. Talby thrived on the emptiness.

  Doolittle hated him for it.

  Talby had removed his headset and was ripping the protective foil off his breakfast. Wadding up the thin metal into a ball, he tossed it with casual unconcern down the open hatchway. Doolittle followed its path until it had vanished from sight, then he turned his gaze back on the astronomer, who was starting to suck on a tube of concentrated eggs.

  "You know, Talby, you really ought to come down and eat your meals with the rest of us. Or at least come down to sleep. You spend too much time up here."

  At least a thousand times now he had repeated similar statements of identical content to the astronomer. And for the thousandth time Talby, as unperturbed as ever, came back with the same answer—after swallowing a mouthful of food.

  "Why? I like it up here. I don't bother any of you, do I? You should be glad of the extra privacy."

  "We've got plenty of privacy, Talby. We've got a whole ship that's almost empty now in which to hide from each other." He paused, then went on in a different vein. "You used to come down and eat with the rest of us. Doesn't it get lonely being up here so much? I mean, privacy is one thing, Talby, but . . ."

  He trailed off as the astronomer finished his eggs. Finished them quickly, Doolittle thought. In a hurry to get the awkward refueling of his body out of the way. That wasn't natural. Mealtime was one of their few remaining ties to Earthly habits. Talby opened a tube of bread substitute.

  "I don't like going below since Commander Powell died," he said. "I feel too enclosed down there."

  "Yeah," muttered Doolittle helplessly. What could he say to that? "You should spend more time below, though. You know, see more of the ship."

  "Me?" Talby answered, hearing him and yet not hearing him. "What do I want to look at the ship for? I know what the ship looks like. That's not why I came on this mission, Doolittle." He leaned back and stared outward with that peculiar, farsighted stare Doolittle now knew instantly.

  "Up here, I can watch things, Doolittle. I love to watch things. Just stare at the sun systems and nomad meteors, gas clusters and distant galaxies. You know, I bet I've seen more stars than any human being alive, Doolittle. And you never know what may come tumbling by to say hello in overdrive or hyperdrive. Some of them would surprise you, Doolittle."

  "Yeah," Doolittle mumbled again. Talby was making him increasingly nervous these days. "But you'll have plenty of time for that later, though. I mean, think of it this way: we've been in space twenty years now and we've only aged three years physically, so there'll be plenty of time later for staring around. Won't there, Talby? Talby?"

  "Are we really going into the Veil Nebula region?" the astronomer whispered.

  "Of course we are," Doolittle insisted. "I mean, I gave the order and supervised the course correction, didn't I? It's programmed, isn't it?"

  "You know, Doolittle," Talby said quietly, "if we are going into the Veil region, we may actually find a strange and beautiful thing: the Phoenix Asteroids. They should be passing through there about now, if the predictions are really correct."

  "Oh. Phoenix Asteroids." Doolittle's brow furrowed. It seemed to him that that was a name he should know, a name he'd heard before. It wasn't that he'd cheated his way through the astronomy courses, too. It was just that he hadn't paid much attention to anything but the basics for navigation and plotting. Sightseeing highlights he had kind of glossed over.

  "Phoenix Asteroids?" he confessed finally. "I don't think I ever heard of them."

  Talby gave him a look Doolittle couldn't quite interpret. Anger. Contempt. Pity.

  "They're a body of asteroids—at least, that's what the best guesses think they are—that are running on a definite orbit, but one so vast that for years nobody could calculate it.

  "They were detected right after the development of the first big lunar telescopes. They don't travel in a straight line like most asteroid groupings. Nor do they belong to any one sun system. But they have a true orbit.

  "Once every twelve point three trillion years they circle our universe. They pass through our galaxy in the region of Sol just once, and they'll return in slightly less than twelve point three trillion years from now. But the Earth won't be here to meet them. The Earth may not be anyplace by then. The universe may not be anyplace. But the Phoenix will."

  "Crazy . . . how can anybody calculate an orbit like that?" muttered Doolittle, and then he felt stupid for asking it because, obviously, somebody had calculated it.

  "I don't know, Doolittle. I'm no computer, but it's been done. As for the Phoenix itself, we don't know much about it. Its composition is just a guess. An asteroidal grouping seems as logical as anything for something that defies as many laws as this does." He leaned back in his chair and looked outward, outward. The Phoenix Asteroids . . .

  "They're something different, Doolittle. Something so different we can't even begin to assign an explanation for them. For example, for the scopes on the moon to pick them up visually means they must have their own internal source of light, Doolittle, and an incredibly intense one at that. They glow. Their spectrum changes constantly, the colors on the charts flow like wine. Nobody knows how, or why. By rights, an astronomical object that small should be invisible to us at such distances. You shouldn't be able to detect them from Earth at all, let alone distinguish something like color. But you can, Doolittle, you can."

  Doolittle just stared at Talby, thinking. It seemed to him that he would remember something as spectacular as the Phoenix Asteroids, despite his often lackadaisical approach to some courses. Were they real . . . or another figment of Talby's all-too-active imagination, the product of too much stimulation from an unrelenting universe viewed too long?

  "They just glow," Talby was whispering as he stared out the dome, "just glow as they drift in a great grand circle around the whole universe. The Phoenix Asteroids."

  Doolittle considered what Talby had said for a long time, while neither man said anything. The only sounds were occasional ship groans and mechanical belches rumbling up through the open hatch.

  Doolittle finally looked up, hands folded in front of him, and spoke to Talby. "You know what I think about, Talby? You're always talking about yourself, and Boiler and Pinback let themselves go any old time—but I'm not like that. Yet up here . . ." and he gazed at the heavens above, "it's easier to talk, I think. You know what I think about?"

  The astronomer didn't respond, but looked expectantly down at him. Thus encouraged, Doolittle talked on, his hands twisting and turning on themselves.

  "It's funny . . . I kinda sit around a lot on the ship, alone, trying to get a lotta time to myself. I can't talk to the others, really. I've never been too good at talking to anybody in the program. I don't know why. It bothers me, Talby. I didn't have any trouble talking to people back home. I was positively gregarious, back home."

  "We've all gone through a change, Doolittle," Talby said in a sepulchral voice.

  "Yeah, I guess . . . Anyway, with time to myself, I can think about back . . . back home in Malibu. Do you know where Malibu is, Talby?"

  The astronomer shook his head. Mere Terran geography held little interest for him. His cartographic concerns were cosmic in scope.

  "It's a little town north of Los Angeles Megalopolis. A beach town. I lived there before I got int
o the program. And I used to surf all the time, Talby. I used to be a great surfer." He paused, glanced up at the silent astronomer. "What time do you think it is back home, Talby, back in the States?"

  Talby stared out the dome. "In Los Angeles; it would be about eight-oh-five in the morning."

  "Yes, sure." Doolittle tried to hide his smile. "But what time of year?"

  Talby shook his head.

  "I'll bet it's spring," Doolittle mused, his smile spreading. "The waves at Malibu and Zuma—that's a beach north of Malibu, Talby—are so fantastic in the spring. I can remember running down the beach in those early spring mornings in my wet suit, my board under my arm and the fog pricking my face . . ." He stopped. Talby wasn't really listening. He was watching the stars again. But it was good to talk to someone else about it.

  "The waves would really be peaking, you know . . . high and glassy." He might have been describing a woman now—and in a sense, he was. "You'd hit that water, just smash into it, and before you could wake up you're coming right off one of those walls and you just ride all the way in, perfect."

  "Perfect." Talby echoed, looking back down at him suddenly. Maybe a part of him had been listening after all.

  "You know," the lieutenant continued sadly, "I guess I miss the waves and my board more than anything."

  Talby smiled. "Tell me more about it, Doolittle."

  "You really want to hear?"

  Talby nodded, and Doolittle told him about the waves . . .

  4

  PINBACK SHIFTED AWKWARDLY in the beach lounge chair and adjusted his sunglasses. It was hot on the sand today. He squinted up at the brilliant sun directly overhead.

  Judging by the position of Old Sol, it was just about noontime. He'd have to get ready for lunch—but not yet. The sun felt too good right now. He glanced at his watch. Have to be careful; another ten minutes on this side and then he'd turn over and bake the other half.

  Leaning back, he squirmed into a comfortable position on the lounge, fiddling slightly with his swimsuit and tank top. Just another ten minutes.

  He was slipping into a comfortable half-dreamworld when the scratching sound interrupted. He tried to ignore it, but it refused to go away. Not only that, but it was getting louder. Now what?

  Must be some kid nearby digging with a shovel. Have to speak to his mother. Pinback raised his glasses, leaned out from under the glare of the big sunlamp, and glanced backup the narrow corridor.

  Boiler's backside hove into view, out of place and unwelcome, thoroughly shattering the idle illusion Pinback had so carefully constructed. The corporal was dragging something heavy in the artifical gravity, a large, square piece of metal with open hinges on one side.

  Pinback thought he recognized it. He watched as Boiler dragged the weighty slab over to the far end of the corridor and turned it, leaning it at an angle up against the wall, facing back at them. Then he did recognize it.

  "Hey, that's the lid to the heating unit, isn't it?"

  Boiler ignored him. He examined the lid, then knelt and readjusted it so that it rested against the wall at a slightly sharper angle. Then he rubbed his hands in evident satisfaction and walked back past Pinback.

  The sergeant watched him leave. He was as puzzled as he was awake, now. Boiler's cryptic activities seemed to have no meaning. Pinback was enlightened moments later.

  Boiler reappeared and now held a large, cumbersome object cradled tightly in both arms. Even though they had used this particular instrument only once before, and a long time ago at that, Pinback knew what it was immediately.

  It was the portable laser—both lighter and deadlier than it looked. Its presence in Boiler's hands suggested unpleasant possibilities.

  For a moment Pinback thought of just leaving. When Boiler got some crazy idea fixed in his Neanderthal skull, nobody could talk him out of it. Not even Doolittle. And whatever he was up to now was bound to be crazier than most.

  He took a step toward the exit, then stopped. This wasn't something he could just walk away from. If Boiler wanted to try to mutilate his own hand with his collection of knives, that was one thing. But the laser was more than a toy.

  "You're . . . you're not supposed to have that out except in an emergency," he finally managed to stutter. His beach fantasy had long since been shattered. "That's not for target practice."

  Boiler barely bothered to glance at him. Instead, he hefted the weapon and lined up an eye with the lens-sight. While Pinback watched and fretted, Boiler pulled the trigger.

  There was a short burst of intolerably bright red light. The light beam contacted the center of the propped-up lid. A brief flare of flame erupted from the wounded area as the intense heat ignited the metal itself. It died out quickly, cooling.

  A neat hole surrounded by molten metal had been drilled in the lid's middle. Boiler looked back at Pinback and smiled with pleasure. Then he licked his thumb and touched it to the sight at the far end of the laser, a back woodsman's gesture of centuries past.

  "That's dangerous," Pinback insisted inanely as the corporal raised the laser again. "You might cut all the way through the lid and into the ship's circuitry. You could cut through something vital."

  Boiler fired again. There was a puff of white from the lid this time as another hole spurted tiny flames and appeared alongside the first. Boiler frowned, lowered the weapon, and began adjusting some switches set into one side.

  Pinback watched him nervously, wishing Powell, wishing even Doolittle were here. He really should go and get Doolittle, but what would Boiler do if left alone?

  "Suppose you cut right through the lid and then through the hull of the ship? What about that, huh?"

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, it's calibrated for distance, stupid," Boiler growled.

  "So what? You could still make a mistake. It wouldn't take much. I'll tell Doolittle."

  Boiler's head jerked up, and he stared dangerously at the sergeant. Boiler was right on the edge, and something just might have happened except—

  They were interrupted by a smooth, faintly erotic voice that was totally unexpected right then.

  "Sorry to break in on your recreation, fellows," the computer announced contritely, "but it is time for Sergeant Pinback to feed the alien."

  "Awwww," Pinback groaned, shuffling one foot and looking down at the floor, "I don't wanna do that now."

  "May I remind you, Sergeant Pinback," the computer continued inexorably, "that it was your idea in the first place, and no one else's, to bring the alien on board. If I may quote you, you said, 'the ship needs a mascot.' "

  "Yeah, but—" Pinback tried to protest. The computer rode over any objections.

  "It was your idea, so looking after it is your responsibility, Sergeant Pinback."

  Boiler gave him the sinister ha-ha.

  "Rats," grumbled Pinback. "I've gotta do everything around here. It's everybody's mascot—why can't they help out?"

  "It's your pet, buddy. I don't even like looking at it. Gives me the galloping quivers. Even Doolittle thinks you should toss it out the lock."

  "No feelings, any of you. So it isn't the perfect pet, so what? We all have our faults."

  Boiler greeted that with another ha-ha and turned back to adjusting the laser.

  Pinback walked off down the corridor muttering to himself. Lazy, care-for-nothings, insensitive—a good thing at least one person on this ship was interested in something besides destruction. Wait till they got back to Earth and everyone got a look at his alien. Not much question who would get the medals then! He had intended to share the glory with the others, but if they didn't care enough to help look after it, well then, they could just go find their own mascots!

  He muttered to himself in this manner all the way back to the compartment they had sealed off for the live alien specimens. On the way he stopped and picked up a dustpan and broom. A sanitary portable vacuum would have been more practical and more efficient, but some insane psychometrician back on Earth had decided that a dustpan and broom w
ould be the better choice.

  They'd feel less lonely with a few familiar tools around, and the extra exercise would be desirable. Pinback wished the psycher were there now, so he could exercise the dustpan and broom over his skull.

  Over door was a crude stenciled sign that read WATCH IT! The admonition had firm foundation in previous happenings, and he opened the door carefully.

  His particular pet alien had grown more and more adventurous as it had become acclimated to the ship. The last time he had gone to look after it, it had been waiting just inside the doorway to pounce on him.

  Then there was the time the luminants had gotten loose. Brilliantly hued geometric shapes of pure light, the most alien life form they had ever encountered, the luminants had allowed themselves to be docilely convoyed on board and into a cage of lucite. Once in free space, they had proceeded to saunter out of their "cage" as though it were not there—which for them was quite true. There followed a hectic week of pursuing them all over the ship, with dark panels, flashlights, and anything they thought might induce or force the luminants back into their cage.

  It was all frantic and impossible. How do you capture something made out of pure light? It was Powell who finally hit on the idea of using mirrors. A complex arrangement of hidden mirrors made their new cage into an honest one. They could still slip out any time they wanted—but the internal mirror arrangement insisted otherwise. So they stayed put, inside the glass prison.

  Pinback stepped into the room and quickly looked around. No sign of the Beachball.

  The room was empty except for the luminants' big smoked-glass cage. Four of the luminants responded immediately to his presence. Pity they weren't intelligent. They were peaceful, even friendly—and extremely stupid.

  Now, as he hunted for the Beachball, the four light-creatures floated close to the glass wall of their cage. They might have made nice pets . . . but how could you pet a thing you couldn't even be sure was there? It would have been like trying to be affectionate to the beam of a searchlight.