Silent Running

by Harlan Thompson

  “YES. BARKER?”

  Lowell’s lips twisted. “No, this is Lowell.”

  “. . . UNH, WHAT’S THE TROUBLE, LOWELL?”

  “Seem to be experiencing some kind of problem with the main coupling.”

  Neal seemed to register thought, then

  “. . . UNH, MIGHT BE YOUR INTERFACE IS OFF THE AL.”

  “Well that’s what we figured it probably was. We’re going ahead and setting it right now.”

  “WE’LL BE GETTING BACK TO YOU. JUST AS SOON AS WE CAN. AAH, LOWELL . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  Neal’s voice grew concerned.

  “. . . EVERYTHING OKAY OVER THERE . . . ?”

  “Oh . . . yeah, okay. Everything’s A-okay.”

  “WE’LL WAIT TO HEAR, BUDDY.”

  “Roger!” Lowell got up and, holding his thigh in pain, moved to the auxiliary control room. He dropped into a chair and spoke into a microphone: “Drone One, Drone Two, Drone Three, please report immediately to the main cargo area.”

  Through the screen he saw a drone working on the ship’s hull. At the message, it retracted its manipulator and proceeded toward the hatchway.

  Beyond the drone, the huge antenna revolved. Just past it gleamed the forest dome, and farther in the distance, Sequoia, Northwest Coniferous still orbited alongside. Drones labored on her hull like tiny ants. Her domes were gone.

  With the message to the drones delivered, Lowell struggled back to Main Control. Coming through the door, he heard Neal’s voice again . . .

  “ ‘BERKSHIRE’ TO ‘VALLEY FORGE’ . . . ?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Lowell said impatiently.

  “COME IN ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ ‘BERKSHIRE’ TO ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ COME IN ‘VALLEY FORGE,’ ”

  went on insistently.

  “ ‘BERKSHIRE’ TO ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ COME IN ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ COME IN . . . ‘BERKSHIRE’ TO ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ ”

  “Valley Forge to Berkshire. Come in, Berkshire.” Lowell’s voice betrayed his pain.

  “HOW’S IT DOING, LOWELL?”

  “It’s not going too well. I’m afraid we’re going to have to torch those pins.”

  “WELL MOVE ON IT, BUDDY. DARKNESS IS COMING UP ON YOU. THREE . . . THREE TWO ZERO . . . ONE.”

  “Right, we’ll try our best.”

  “BOYS HERE GETTING ANXIOUS FOR HOME.”

  “Right, I understand.”

  “COMING INTO DARKNESS AT THREE . . . THREE TWO ZERO . . . ONE. BLOW IT ANY OLD WAY YOU CAN, LOWELL. BIG BILLY WANTS TO GO.”

  “We’re tryin’.” Lowell lifted his thumb from the microphone switch and the line went dead. In the sudden, eerie silence, Lowell stood for a moment, motionless.

  For seconds he continued to hover over the console. Suddenly he began punching switches, following the same pattern that Barker had used earlier.

  A voice from Sequoia came over the speaker, telling of bombings of other domes in space with their cargoes of forests.

  “YELLOWSTONE REPORTS FINAL JETTISON. ARCADIA, BLUE RIDGE, GLACIER, MOJAVE REPORT FINAL JETTISON . . . UNH, WE’VE GOT A HOLD ON ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ ”

  “RIGHT!” A second voice confirmed.

  Lowell let out his breath, and turned to ease himself down in front of Main Control console.

  For a moment, staring at the maze of buttons, switches, readouts, and displays, a panic seemed to take him. He grew faint. He almost fell, then steadied himself and took two or three deep breaths. His hand moved out, wavered. He flicked a switch tentatively. Then he flicked another.

  Blood was dripping, drop by drop, onto the rubber flooring.

  Below deck, three drones were filing along in a row, headed, as Lowell had ordered, for the main cargo area. Delicate yet substantial, when they moved their complex hydraulic systems emitted subtle, barely audible hissing sounds. Their feet, shod in rubber, made faint squeaks on the metal floor.

  Lowell thought of them, and knew that he must see them soon. But now, he turned once more to Main Control and punched coordinates into the main gyro control.

  A screen lighted up . . .

  SATURN

  PLUS 477.9 • PLUS 25/33 • PLUS 99:08

  Lowell swallowed, staring at the screen. He turned and watched a clock spinning off half-seconds and approaching a reading of 00:000.

  Lowell clicked off, then struggled down to the auxiliary control on the cargo deck.

  He hit a switch and the lights dimmed. He punched a button and a low buzzer sounded. A thin, high-pitched beep began. Lowell drew his breath, hit a switch, then a button, and heard a series of loud explosive cracks, like arcing circuit breakers.

  Darkness was falling and Saturn was an ominous orange color. Valley Forge’s exterior running lights dimmed and faded as the ship passed into Saturn’s shadow. Off in the distance, the sun was being eclipsed by Saturn. Neal’s voice came over the radio:

  “ ‘VALLEY FORGE’ . . . ‘VALLEY FORGE’ . . . WHAT’S WRONG? YOUR LIGHTS ARE GOING?”

  Through it all, the drones had reached the cargo area and were beginning to push huge, used, empty cargo modules toward a ramp and out . . .

  Suddenly there was an incredible roaring and whooshing of air as the cargo deck equalized with the vacuum of space.

  Lowell fought his way back to Main Control. Automatic switches began to slam shut, rapid-fire, their indicator lights shutting off or changing colors. A low hum began, increasing to a shrill whine. A railing began to shudder, then shake violently.

  Sweat ran in rivulets down Lowell’s strained face. The sound of synthesizers grew louder, shriller, and then static exploded from the radio . . .

  Neal’s voice came urgently:

  “ ‘VALLEY FORGE’ . . . ! ‘BERKSHIRE’ TO ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ ”

  Then Sequoia No.2 cut in:

  “I HAVE AN EMERGENCY IGNITION ON ‘VALLEY FORGE,’ READING . . . RED, NINE, NINE 0! I GET A TWO FOUR ON ‘VALLEY FORGE,’ READING RED . . .”

  Lowell gathered himself for a moment, then clicked open the line and spoke into the microphone. He faked a panic, calling stridently: “Valley Forge to Berkshire, I’ve got an emergency. Neal, do you read me, Neal? I’ve got a main buss blowout on three, eight and ten panels . . . I got a premature detonation on Dome Number Two and I’ve got an explosion on the main cargo deck. Please advise me immediately . . .”

  “I READ YOU!”

  Neal’s voice was panicky.

  “PUT ON WOLF, LOWELL. NO, CHANGE THAT, GIMME BARKER.”

  “I can’t find Barker. I can’t find Wolf or Keenan either. I’m afraid to death they might have been in Dome Number Two.

  “GOD . . . NUMBER TWO BLEW UP! STAND BY!”

  Lowell cut off, whispering, “I will.”

  FIVE

  For a moment he stood quietly by the dead radio, then made his way to the vestibule of his room. Like someone not quite rational or who has had a bad dream, Lowell stood motionless in front of his mirror, staring into sunken, haunted eyes.

  He drew in his breath, trembling, then opened the tap on his sink and began to wash his face.

  Finishing and looking for a towel, he saw a black bag on the adjoining sink. It contained his surgical instruments.

  Lowell glanced down at them, then at his leg. Carefully, he loosened the tourniquet. Blood gushed out, pouring down his leg and spreading in a glistening pool around his foot.

  Lowell hurriedly closed the tourniquet, then staggered as a wave of nausea swept over him. He reached for the towel rack, but his legs gave out and he fell.

  How long he lay there, he never knew. From his position on the floor, he finally opened his eyes. A drone bent over him. Lowell grabbed the little robot’s manipulator arm and pulled himself up. Two more drones entered the room. Lowell turned and limped out. The drones idled their mechanisms for a moment, then followed.

  Passing Main Control, Lowell paused, then on impulse, walked through the door to sit at the panel. He clicked on the radio, then forcing anger into his voice called out: �
��Valley Forge to Berkshire. Valley Forge to Berkshire. Come in, Neal . . .

  Neal’s voice came over:

  “ ‘BERKSHIRE’ TO ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ THIS IS NEAL.”

  “Yeah,” Lowell burst out. “What the hell’s taking so long? How am I going to fix this craft? Where am I headed?”

  “COMING UP NOW,” Neal answered.

  But then another voice, more official-sounding, came on:

  “LOWELL, THIS IS ANDERSON.”

  His voice had a solemn but patronizing tone.

  “LOWELL, IF YOU CONTINUE AS YOU ARE, YOU’LL HIT THE NORTHEASTERN QUADRANT OF SATURN’S OUTER RING AT THREE . . . 0 . . . TWO TOMORROW.”

  Smiling faintly but sounding angry, Lowell demanded, “So what does that mean?” To himself, he added, “As if I didn’t know. It means finis. Kaput. The end!”

  “WE . . . WE DON’T THINK YOU’LL MAKE IT THROUGH, LOWELL,” Anderson said gently. “YOU GOT ANY FAMILY . . . ?”

  “No . . .”

  “WELL . . .” Anderson went on, “IT’S A BAD ANGLE AND THESE SHIPS AREN’T MADE TO SHOOT THE RAPIDS. THE PLAN IS TO FIND WHERE THE EXPLOSION CHOPPED THE MAIN BUSS AND REROUTE IT. YOU’LL HAVE TO DO SOME CUTTING.”

  Lowell waited a moment then said, “Okay.”

  “WE TRACKED A BUNCH OF CARGO MODULES OFF YOUR STARBOARD SIDE,” Anderson went on. “WE FIGURE MAYBE ONE OF THE GYRO TANKS UNDER THE FLOOR CUT LOOSE. IT MAY HAVE EXPOSED THE MAIN BUSS DUCT, IF WE’RE LUCKY.”

  Lowell was getting faint. “I’ll check it out,” he managed, then turned to drag himself down a corridor to its end and to a door marked in bold black lettering:

  EMERGENCY

  OPERATING ROOM

  CAUTION

  WATCH YOUR STEP

  Lowell stood for a dazed moment, numbly staring at this information, then pushed inside.

  The room was a cold, ceramic white. The walls, ceiling, and floor, where rectilinear scuppers converged at a single chromium drain, glistened.

  Directly in front of Lowell stood his own operating table. Above it rested a huge light.

  Lowell took a few steps forward, staring at the slab. He fingered the equipment familiarly, then began to prepare dressings and instruments. He was weak and trembling, but managed to assemble the necessary supplies to suture his severed artery.

  At length he pulled himself up onto the operating table and lay back against the contoured backrest. His breath came in shudders through stretched lips.

  He managed to pull the instruments and dressings nearer and began to cleanse the wound, but fatigue was overwhelming him and he couldn’t even hold his head forward long enough to see what he was doing.

  Lowell rested a moment, then slowly raised himself off the operating table. He stood, wavering, then headed for the door.

  Seconds later he hobbled down the corridor holding his injured leg before him. He made it into Drone Control, then reaching the console, pulled a manual from a drawer. Leafing through it he stopped at a heading which read:

  MAINTENANCE DRONES

  OPERATION

  AND

  PROGRAMMING

  Lowell pulled out a circuit card and inserted it under the microscope. He looked into the scope to inspect the microscopic view of an integrated circuit. He watched a microprobe enter from the side and deftly cut a tiny, threadlike wire, then scratch away a small, blue-gray resistance disc. Wires were deftly severed and rerouted.

  He saw complex block diagrams, 3-D spatial flow charts, and circuits displayed in digital form.

  Lowell’s hand moved across the screen and broad strokes of the light pen scattered lines into abstract patterns of pulsing luminosity—then bold, decisive forms appeared from the tip of Lowell’s swiftly moving pen.

  Lowell looked up to see, in a drone control panel, one of the little robots about to perform its familiar task of welding over a micro-meteoroid impact dent, when suddenly it retracted its manipulator arm and stood erect and motionless.

  Through the microscope, Lowell watched a logic terminal block—tiny tweezers lifted a pin from its socket and replaced it in another.

  The drone still had not moved.

  Two other drones, beyond the first one, stood at attention, silhouetted by stars shining behind them.

  Lowell replaced the last cover over the circuits he had altered.

  He rose, rubbing the small of his back in discomfort. He pushed three buttons on the display console and after a few seconds three screens brightened with images of each drone’s point of view. Lowell ripped off three pieces of white tape and placed one over the corner of each screen. He wrote the numbers one, two, and three on each tape. A long pause, then Lowell called: “Drone One, Drone Two, Drone Three. Report to surgery immediately.”

  When Lowell reached surgery, the three drones stood motionless inside.

  “Drones One . . . Two . . . Three,” he said, “I need your help.”

  The three drones cycled to life, throbbing and whirring.

  Lowell picked up a plastic bottle and began washing each drone’s manipulator arm in alcohol. This done, he adjusted the operating light over the lowered table, then managed to ease himself down to it.

  The drones hovered over Lowell and he addressed the drones. They whirred and clicked silently as he talked: “The procedure’s a simple one. You’ll remove the tourniquet, suture the artery, clean the wound, then close it and bandage it. Drone One, you will do the procedure, Drone Two, you will assist. Is that clear? Drone Three you will administer the oxygen anesthetic.”

  The drones’ whirring and clicking changed rhythm, increasing in speed and intensity.

  “All right,” Lowell said, grasping the oxygen mask. “I’ll take a mild anesthesia.” In moments, he nodded okay.

  The drones began working over Lowell with precision and remarkable intensity. In addition, they coordinated their activities amazingly well, seeming to work in tandem, but with no visible communication between them. But when Drone One required an instrument, it was within easy reach of his motorized arm—held there by Drone Two.

  At first Lowell reflected anxiety. This quickly changed to surprize and delight. Under mild anesthesia he began to relax, though still keeping an eye on the procedure.

  “Good,” he applauded. “Nice work . . . just a little lower there, Drone One . . . That’s it . . . excellent.”

  The drones worked on, unperturbed.

  Drone Two began to prepare the dressing for the wound, as Drone One closed the wound with a liquid.

  “Good . . . very nice . . .” Lowell commended.

  Drone One finished, backed away, and Drone Two applied the bandage. Then Two backed away as well, and both drones’ motors seemed to return to idle.

  “Neat and tidy,” Lowell said surveying the work. Very pleased, he raised himself from the table and tested his leg. It held. “Wonderful . . . superior work . . . You can return to your regular duties now.”

  The drones clicked and whirred, then turned to leave.

  Lowell limped slowly from the Drone Control room and headed for Main Control.

  Before going inside he paused a moment.

  Valley Forge was alone now, and still in darkness. Saturn was closer, much closer, and huge. Like some cosmic talisman of terrible, preternatural power, it stood against the sky, mute and silent, gripped in its swirling, misty-silver rings.

  Lowell could make out the drones working on the hull as usual.

  He walked through the door and into Main Control. He sat in a chair, weak, and a little groggy. His breathing was thin, and his motions slow. He began to transmit: “Commander Anderson . . . I can’t get anywhere near the main buss duct. It’s just all torn up down there.”

  “. . . AAH . . .” Anderson’s voice was patronizing, and there was a long pause. Then he said, “LISTEN, FREEMAN . . . THAT’S YOUR FIRST NAME, RIGHT?”

  “Right,” Lowell replied.

  “HAVE YOU GOT ANY FAMILY, FREEMAN?”

  “No, sir,” Lowell said.

&
nbsp; “WELL . . . LISTEN, FREEMAN . . . YOU’VE BEEN WITH THIS PROJECT SINCE THE START . . . AND YOU’VE KNOWN THE RISKS.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lowell’s voice was weak.

  “I DON’T REALLY KNOW HOW TO SAY THIS, FREEMAN . . .” Anderson talked as though talking to a common sailor.

  “That’s all right, sir.”

  “WE’VE GOT SOME TROUBLE,” Anderson went on.

  “I figured.”

  “YES, UH . . . I’M REALLY SORRY.”

  “For what, sir?”

  “WE’LL NEVER BE ABLE TO STOP YOU BEFORE YOU HIT SATURN’S RINGS . . .” Anderson’s silence mixed with the radio static.

  Lowell’s smile came twisted. “I see,” he finally managed. “And no one’s ever survived it before . . .”

  “YOU . . . YOU MIGHT WANT TO CONSIDER TAKING A . . . A PILL?”

  Anderson’s voice was heavy with meaning.

  “Suicide . . . ?” Lowell queried, then shook his head. “No sir . . . I just couldn’t.”

  Anderson went on: “THEN THE BEST THING WE CAN DO IS SEND OUT A SEARCH PARTY THE LONG WAY AROUND . . . BUT IT’S KIND OF LIKE A NEEDLE IN A HAYSTACK, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.” He paused a moment then said, “FREEMAN . . . ?”

  A moment passed. “Yes . . . ?” Lowell asked.

  Anderson’s voice came with static, then cleared, and became husky with remorse.

  “GOD BLESS YOU, FREEMAN,” he blurted out. “YOU’RE A HELL OF AN AMERICAN!”

  Lowell passed a hand across his eyes and looked toward Dome One, with its forest and gardens still riding there intact . . . ready for Earth, when summoned. “Thank you, sir,” he managed. “Thank you. I think I am . . .”

  Lowell flicked off the radio and there on the screen lay the night sky, and Saturn hanging right there beyond the hull.

  Anderson’s words “You’ll never make it through Saturn’s rings,” came back to haunt him. He’d said, “Take a pill . . .” Lowell’s hands lay idly at his sides. His long face was solemn, his eyes deep in thought.

  All at once, the memory of Wolf’s inert body lying in the grass came sharply into Lowell’s mental focus.

  Almost dreamlike was the gesture of his hand—as though to rub it from his mind.