The Stardance Trilogy

by Spider

  I shook my head, still grinning uncontrollably. “I’m not sure I can make you see it, Mr. Secretary-General.” Something about the set of his mouth made me decide to try. “From my point of view, I’ve just walked into a Hitchcock movie.”

  He considered it, momentarily imagining what it must be like to be an ordinary human thrust into the company of agitated lions, and grinned himself. “Then at least we shall try to make the dialogue fresh,” he said. A good deal of his weariness seemed to be low-gee malaise, the discomfort of fluids rising to the upper body, the feeling of fullness in the head and the vertigo. But only his body noticed it. “Let us proceed. I am impressed by your record, Mr.—” He glanced down, and the paper he needed was not there. The American civilian had it, and the Russian general was looking over his shoulder. Before I could prompt him, he closed his eyes, jogged his memory, and continued, “—Armstead. I own three copies of the Stardance, and the first two are worn out. I have recently viewed your own recordings, and interviewed several of your former students. I have a job that needs doing, and I think you and your troupe are precisely the people for that job.”

  I didn’t want to get Bill in trouble, so I hung a dumb look on my face and waited.

  “The alien creatures you encountered with Shara Drummond have been seen again. They appear to be in a parking orbit around the planet Saturn. They have been there for approximately three weeks. They show no sign of any intention to move, nearer to or farther from us. Radio signals have been sent, but they have elicited no response. Will you kindly tell me when I come to information that is new to you?”

  I knew I was caught, but I kept trying. In low gee, you chase spilled milk—and often catch it. “New to me? Christ, all of it’s—”

  He smiled again. “Mr. Armstead, there is a saying in the UN. We say, ‘There are no secrets in space.’”

  It is true that between all humans who choose to live in space, there is a unique and stronger bond than any of them and anyone who spends all his life on Earth. For all its immensity, space has always had a better grapevine than a small town. But I hadn’t expected the Secretary-General to know that.

  Norrey spoke while I was still reevaluating. “We know that we’re going to Saturn, Mr. Secretary-General. We don’t know how, or what will happen when we get there.”

  “Or for that matter,” I added, “why this conference is taking place in Skyfac cubic.”

  “But we understand the personal implications of a space trip that long, as you must have known we would, and we know that we have to go.”

  “As I hoped you would,” he finished, respectfully. “I will not sully your bravery with words. Shall I answer your questions, then?”

  “One moment,” I interjected. “I understand that you want our entire troupe. Won’t Norrey and I do? We’re the best dancers—why multiply your payload?”

  “Payload mass is not a major consideration,” Wertheimer said. “Your colleagues will be given their free choice—but if I can have them, I want them.”

  “Why?”

  “There will be four diplomats. I want four interpreters. Mr. Stein’s experience and proven expertise are invaluable—he is, from his record, unique. Mr. Brindle can help us learn the aliens’ response to visual cues designed by computers which have seen the Stardance tapes—the same sort of augmentation he provides for you now. A sort of expanded vocabulary. He will also provide a peaceful excuse for us to judge the aliens’ reaction to laser beams.”

  His answer raised several strong objections in my mind, but I decided to reserve them for later. “Go on.”

  “As to your other questions. We are guests of Skyfac Incorporated because of a series of coincidences that almost impels me to mysticism. A certain ballistic transfer is required in order to get a mission to Saturn at all expediently. This transfer, called Friesen’s Transfer, is best begun from a 2:1 resonance orbit. Skyfac has such an orbit. It is a convenient outfitting base unequalled in space. And by chance Siegfried, the Saturn probe which was just nearing completion, is in a precessing ellipse orbit which brought it within the close vicinity of Skyfac at the right time. An incredible coincidence. On a par with the coincidence that the launch window for Saturn opened concurrent with the aliens’ appearance there.

  “I do not believe in good fortune of that magnitude. I suspect personally that this is some kind of intelligence and aptitudes test—but I have no evidence beyond what I have told you. My speculations are as worthless as anyone’s—we must have more information.”

  “How long does that launch window remain open?” I asked.

  Wertheimer’s watch was as Swiss as he, exquisite and expensive but so old fashioned that he had to look at it. “Perhaps twenty hours.”

  Oof. Now for the painful one. “How long is the round trip?”

  “Assuming zero time in negotiation, three years. Approximately one year out and two back.”

  I was pleasurably startled at first: three years instead of twelve to be cooped up in a canful of diplomats. But then I began to grasp the acceleration implied—in an untested ship built by a government on low-bid contracts. And it was still more than enough time for us all to adapt permanently to zero gee. Still, they obviously had something special and extraordinary up their sleeves.

  I grinned again. “Are you going?”

  A lesser man would have said, “I regret that I cannot,” or something equally self-absolutory—and might have been completely honest at that. Secretary-Generals don’t go chasing off to Saturn, even if they want to.

  But all he said was, “No,” and I was ashamed that I had asked the question.

  “As to the question of compensation,” he went on quietly, “there is of course none adequate to the sacrifice you are making. Nevertheless, should you, upon your return, elect to continue performing, all your operating costs will be covered in perpetuity by the United Nations. Should you be disinclined to continue your careers, you will be guaranteed unlimited lifetime transport to and from, and luxury accommodations at, any place within United Nations jurisdiction.”

  We were being given a paid-up lifetime plane ticket to anywhere in human space. If we survived to collect it.

  “This is in no sense to be considered a payment; any attempt at payment would be laughable and grotesque. But you have chosen to serve; your species is grateful. Is this satisfactory to you?”

  I thought about it, turned to Norrey. We exchanged a few paragraphs by facial telegraph. “We accept the blank check,” she said. “We don’t promise to cash it.”

  He nodded. “Perhaps the only sensible answer. All right, let us—”

  “Sir,” I said urgently, “I have something I have to say first.”

  “Yes?” He did me the honor of displaying patience.

  “Norrey and I are willing to go, for our own reasons. I can’t speak for the others. But I must tell you that I have no great confidence that any of us can do this job for you. I will try my best—but frankly I expect to fail.”

  The Chinese general’s eyes locked onto me. “Why?” he snapped.

  I continued to look at Wertheimer. “You assume that because we are Stardancers, we can interpret for you. I cannot guarantee that. I venture to say that I know the Stardance tapes, even the classified ones, better than any person here. I shot them. I’ve monkeyed with speed and image-field until I knew every frame by name and I will be damned if I understand their language. Oh, I get flashes, insights, but…

  “Shara understood them—crudely, tentatively, and with great effort. I’m not half the choreographer she was, nor half the dancer. None of us is. No one I’ve ever seen is. She told me herself that what communication took place was more telepathy than choreography. I have no idea whether any of us can establish such a telepathic rapport through dance. I wasn’t there; I was in this oversized donut, four bulkheads away from here, filming the show.” I was getting agitated, all the pressure finding release. “I’m sorry, General,” I said to the Chinese, “but this is not something you
can order done.”

  Wertheimer was not fazed. “Have you used computers?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I always meant to when I got time.”

  “You did not think we would fail to do so? No more than you, do we have an alien/human dictionary—but we know much. You can choreograph by computer?”

  “Sure.”

  “Your ship’s computer memories should offer you a year’s worth of study on the trip out. They will provide you with at least enough ‘vocabulary’ to begin the process of acquiring more, and they will provide extensive if hypothetical suggestions for doing so. The research has been done. You and your troupe may be the only humans alive capable of assessing the data and putting them to use. I have seen your performance tapes, and I believe you can do it if anyone can. You are all unique people, at least in your work. You think as well as a human…but not like a human.”

  It was the most extraordinary thing anyone had ever said to me; it stunned me more than anything else that was said that day.

  “All of you, apparently,” he went on. “Perhaps you will meet with failure. In that case you are the best imaginable teachers and guides for the diplomat team, of whom only one has even minimal experience with free-fall conditions. They will need people who are at home in space to help them, whatever happens.”

  He took out a cigarette, and the American civilian turned up the air for him unobstrusively. He lit it with a match, himself. It smoked an odd color: it was tobacco.

  “I am confident that all of you will do your best. All of your company who choose to go. I hope that will be all of you. But we cannot wait until the arrival of your friends, Mr. Armstead; there are enormous constraints on us all. If you are to be introduced to the diplomatic mission before take-off, it must be now.”

  Wuh oh. Red alert. You’re inspecting your housemates for the next two years—just before signing the lease. Pay attention: Harry and the others’ll be interested.

  I took Norrey’s hand; she squeezed mine hard.

  And to think I could have been an alcoholic, anonymous video man in New Brunswick.

  “Go ahead, sir,” I said firmly.

  “You’re shitting me,” Raoul exclaimed.

  “Honest to God,” I assured him.

  “It sounds like a Milton Berle joke,” he insisted.

  “You’re too young to remember Milton Berle,” Norrey said. She was lying down on the near bunk, nodding off in spite of herself.

  “So don’t I have a tape library?”

  “I agree with you,” I said, “but the fact remains. Our diplomatic team consists of a Spaniard, a Russian, a Chinaman, and a Jew.”

  “My god,” Tom said from his reclining position on the other bed, where he had been since he arrived. He did indeed look like strawberry yoghurt, lightly stirred, and he complained of intermittent eye and ear pain. But he was shot full of don’t-hurt and keep-going, and his hands were full of Linda’s; his voice was strong and clear. “It even makes sense.”

  “Sure,” I agreed. “If he’s not going to send one delegate from each member nation, Wertheimer’s only option is to keep it down to The Big Three. It’s the only restriction most everybody can live with. It’s got to be a multi-national team; that business about mankind uniting in the face of the alien menace is the bunk.”

  “Headed by the proverbial Man Above Reproach,” Linda pointed out.

  “Wertheimer himself would have been perfect,” Raoul put in.

  “Sure,” I agreed drily, “but he had some pressing obligations elsewhere.”

  “Ezequiel DeLaTorre will do just fine,” Tom said thoughtfully.

  I nodded. “Even I’ve heard of him. Okay, I’ve told you all we know. Comments? Questions?”

  “I want to know about this one-year trip-home business,” Tom spoke up. “As far as I know, that’s impossible.”

  “Me too,” I agreed. “We’ve been in space a long time. I don’t know if they can understand how little prolonged acceleration we can take at this point. What about it, Harry? Raoul? Can the deed be done?”

  “I don’t think so,” Harry said.

  “Why not? Can you explain?”

  Guest privileges aboard Skyfac include computer access. Harry jaunted to the terminal, punched up a reference display.

  The screen said:

  t2-t1=√2p8/u [tan f2/2 + tan8 f2/2 - tan f1/2 - 1/3 tan8 3f1/2]

  “That’s the simplest expression for a transfer time from planet to planet,” he said.

  “Jesus.”

  “And it’s too simple for your problem.”

  “Uh—they said something about a freezing transfer.”

  “Got it,” Raoul said. “Friesen’s Transfer, on the tip of my mind. Sure, it’d work.”

  “How?” everyone said at once.

  “I used to study all the papers on space colonization when I was a kid,” Raoul bubbled. “Even when it was obvious that L-5 wasn’t going to get off the ground, I never gave up hope—it seemed like the only way I might ever get to space. Lawrence Friesen presented a paper at Princeton once…sure, I remember, ’80 or a little earlier. Wait a minute.” He hopped rabbitlike to the terminal, used its calculator function.

  Harry was working his own belt-buckle calculator. “How’re you gonna get a characteristic velocity of 28 klicks a second?” he asked skeptically.

  “Nuclear pulse job?” Tom suggested.

  That was what I had been afraid of. I’ve read that there are people who seriously propose propelling themselves into deep space by goosing themselves with hydrogen bombs—but you’ll never get me up in one of them things.

  “Hell no,” Raoul said—thank goodness. “You don’t need that kind of thrust with a Friesen. Watch.” He set the terminal for engineering display and began sketching the idea. “You gotta start from an orbit like this.”

  “A 2:1 resonance orbit?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” he affirmed.

  “Like Skyfac?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sure, that’d—hey! Hey, yeah—we’re just where we want to be. Gee, what a funny coincidence, huh?”

  Harry, I could see, was beginning to smell the same rat Wertheimer had. Maybe Tom was, too; all that yoghurt got in the way. “So then?” I prompted.

  Raoul cleared the screen and calculated some more. “Well, you’d want to make your ship lose, let’s see, a little less than a kilometer per second. That’s—well, nearly two minutes acceleration at one gravity. Hmmmm. Or a tenth-gee, say, about a seventeen-minute burn. Nothing.

  “That starts us falling toward Earth. What we want to do then is slingshot around it. So we apply an extra…5.44 klicksecs at just the right time. About nine minutes at one gravity, but they won’t use one gravity because you need it fast. Might be, lemme see, 4.6 minutes at two gees, or it might be 2.3 at four.”

  “Oh, fine,” I said cheerfully. “Only a couple of minutes at four gees. Our faces’ll migrate around the back of our heads, and we’ll be the only animals in the system with frontbones. Go on.”

  “So you get this,” Raoul said, keying the drafting display again:

  “And that gives us a year of free fall, in which to practice our choreography, throw up, listen to our bones rot, kill the diplomats and eat them, discuss Heinlein’s effect on Proust, and bone up on Conversational Alien. Then we’re at Saturn. Gee, that’s another lucky break, the launch window for a one-year Freisen being open—”

  “Yeah,” Harry interrupted, looking up from his calculator, “that gets you to Saturn in a year—at twelve klicksecs relative. That’s more’n escape velocity for Earth.”

  “We let the ship get captured by Titan,” Raoul said triumphantly.

  “Oh,” Harry said. “Oh. Dump eight or nine klicksecs—”

  “Sure,” Raoul went on, punching keys. “Easy. A tenth gee for two-and-a-half hours. Or make it easy on ourselves, a hundredth of a gee for a little more than a day. Uh, twenty-five and a half hours. A hundredth gee isn’t enough to make pee trickle down your leg, even
if you’re free-fall adapted.”

  I had actually managed to follow most of the salient points—computer display is a wondrous aid for the ignorant. “Okay then,” I said sharply, in my “pay attention, here comes your blocking” voice, focusing everyone’s attention by long habit. “Okay. This thing can be done. We’ve been talking it over ever since two hours before your shuttle docked here. I’ve told you what they want of us, and why they want all of us. My inclination is to tell you to have your answers ready along about next fall. But the bus is leaving soon. That launch window business you mentioned, Raoul.” Harry’s eyes flashed suspiciously, and yes, Tom too had picked up on the improbability of such luck. “So,” I went on doggedly, “I have to ask for your final answers within the hour. I know that’s preposterous, but there’s no choice.” I sighed. “I advise you to use the hour.”

  “Damn it, Charlie,” Tom said in real anger, “is this a family or isn’t it?”

  “I—”

  “What kind of shit is that?” Raoul agreed. “A man shouldn’t insult his friends.”

  Linda and Harry also looked offended.

  “Listen, you idiots,” I said, giving it my very best shot, “this is forever. You’ll never ski again, never swim, never walk around under even Lunar gravity. You’ll never take a shit without technological assistance again.”

  “Where on Earth can you take a shit without technological assistance today?” Linda asked.

  “Come on,” I barked, “don’t give me satire, think about it. Do I have to get personal? Harry—Raoul—how many women you figure you’re going to date in space? How many would leave behind a whole world to stay with you? Seriously, now. Linda—Tom—do you know of any evidence at all to suggest that childbirth is possible in free fall? Do you want to bet two lives someday? Or had you planned to opt for sterilization? Now the four of you stop talking like comic book heroes and listen to me, God dammit.” I discovered to my transient surprise that I genuinely was blazing mad; my tension was perfectly happy to find release as anger. I realized, for the first time, that a little histrionics can be a dangerous thing. “We have no way of knowing whether we can communicate with the goddam fireflies. On a gamble with odds that long, stakes this high, two lives is enough to risk. We don’t need you guys anyway,” I shouted, and then I caught myself.