Chapter 37
The radar and optical images had grown stronger with the passage of time, but still displayed the shimmering quality which stumped even Homebase's technical experts. Worse still, Mozy and Kadin couldn't for the life of them get an accurate fix on the object's flightpath. The most painstaking measurements produced course projections that invariably diverged from later observations of the object's position and velocity—a situation that forced them to continually correct their own course, in an effort to match orbits.
Particularly annoying to Kadin was their inability to trace the problem to any defect in their own instruments. Mozy had already given up trying. (Maybe it's not a malfunction at all,) she said. (Maybe that's what it's actually doing.)
(Perhaps,) Kadin said. (But we've seen no propulsion activity or exhaust, and no mechanism I know of would cause that kind of image-smearing.)
(It is an alien spacecraft, after all.)
(Well, that's the real question,) Kadin said. (I mean, perhaps we're lunatic to expect it to behave according to our assumptions.)
(I'm not sure lunatic is the right word.)
(You know what I m—)
(ANALYSIS CAN-, CANNOT BE PERFORMED EXCEPT IN CONTEXT OF KNOWN PARADIGMS,) Mother Program interjected.
(The paradigm may have to be changed,) Kadin said. (Even the most fundamental of assumptions must be discarded when they prove contrary to observation. A paradigm can only explain reality; it cannot command reality's obedience.)
Mozy offered no further opinion; it all seemed rather theoretical to her. She silently continued making her course corrections as they closed on the speck that was the alien spacecraft.
* * *
As the hours passed, Mozy focused on piloting and translating, leaving other worries to Kadin. Her linguistic skills were improving, unlike Mother Program's. Several tentative translations indicated that they were being welcomed to match orbits with the alien craft. There were no clues in the messages to the peculiar movement of the alien ship; but they would be rendezvousing in the next twenty-four hours, and presumably they'd have learned something by then.
If they lasted that long. Mother Program's navigational functions were degrading rapidly. There was some discussion with Homebase about the possibility of a "virus" contamination in the programming that could be causing a progressive breakdown, but there was nothing for Mozy to do about it, except to keep flying. She was far too busy now to maintain an image of a body or a ship's bridge. She was the ship.
Flying, walking, or crawling, she felt as though she were battling against a growing vestibular disorientation. Not quite vertigo, but heading in that direction. Well . . . she might be staggering a bit, she thought, but she was damn straight going to get there, regardless.
* * *
It moved across the starfield, brightening steadily. Under optical magnification, it looked like a reddish brown stone, almost crystalline in appearance, yet pulsing fluidly like a drop of water in weightlessness.
The range was closing rapidly, and it was time to prepare for rendezvous and docking. The rendezvous programs were intact, for the moment—unused and undisturbed by the deterioration which was crippling the autopilot functions. Mozy feverishly studied the encapsulated approach and docking routines, hoping to learn their proper functions before they, too, began breaking down. Was she finding it harder to concentrate, or was it just her imagination, fed by overwork and stress? Did those terms apply anymore?
(David, I have to watch this thing like crazy, just to keep us on course.)
(You're doing fine. There'll be a medal in it for you if you can get us into an orbit around the thing. I have to finish working out our greeting protocols.)
(Orbit. Right. I'll do my best.)
* * *
It was close enough now to see clearly. It was not a spaceship at all. It was an asteroid—a scarred, pitted rock, more or less shaped like a potato, and dozens of times larger than the spaceship Mozy had been expecting. Its surface was indeterminate in color, though brighter and more reflective than Kadin could explain. One moment it appeared to be dusted with a silvery powder, and the next, it was all maroon browns and shadows.
The shimmering effect subsided as they approached. Mozy fired the maneuvering jets and steered into a parking orbit around the asteroid. She noticed that as the asteroid became clearer, other images, such as the stars, began to blur. Kadin noted this also, but offered no comment as he switched on instruments to probe the asteroid.
(What do we have, Mother?) Kadin said. (Mother Program?)
(TARGET OBJECT OBJECT ISSSSSS . . . IRON-NICKEL ASTEROID; ELONGATED SPHEROID IN SHAPE, ECCENTRICITY 0.17; LENGTH, MAJOR AXIS, 1.2 KILOMETERS; LENGTH, MINOR AXIS . . .)
(Yes, yes, but what about the honeycombs, and the funny effects we've been seeing?)
(ESTIMATE TWO-THIRDS OF VOLUME NON-SOLID. NOT SOLID. ANOMALOUS EFFECTS NO LONGER OBSERVABLE; HOWEVER, UNCERTAINTY LEVELS IN THAT REGARD ARE HIGH. MASS-DENSITY READINGS INCONSIS-, INCONSISTENT WITH KNOWN MATERIALS AND OBSERVED SOLID VOLUMES. PLEASE PROVIDE NEW . . . NEW . . .)
(Go on.)
(PLEASE PROVIDE NEW ASSUMPTION SET FOR ANALYSIS.)
(Um . . . yes. A little later, perhaps,) Kadin said. (You keep working on it. Mozy, I'm scanning for fixtures, windows, instruments, propulsion unit, anything like that. Can you go on autopilot for a while? I think your vision is more acute.)
(We're sharing the same eyes. How—?)
(I don't mean your eyes. I mean your visual perception.)
(Oh. Well . . . all right. As long as we're in an unpowered orbit.) Mozy released the override, and took a look around.
On first impression, it was terribly lonely out here beside this dimly lit asteroid, a quarter of a light-year from home. Sunlight was just bright starlight at this distance. Still, with enhancement, she could easily view the asteroid's surface rolling beneath them as they orbited. Had she thought before that it looked like a fluid crystal? Now, it just looked like normal, well-behaved rock, doing nothing out of the ordinary. If it was honeycombed as Mother Program said, then someone or something must be inside. You wouldn't know it from the outside, though. It looked as natural as the day it congealed out of the primordial dust—no visible markings or signs of construction—and no emissions of hard radiation.
But how, she wondered, does it move?
(Mozy,) Kadin said, in what was almost a drawl, (The mass of this thing is about right for a solid asteroid. But it's not solid, it's hollowed out. I think maybe Homebase is in for a few surprises.)
(Shall we tell them now?)
* * *
Jonders's image was a hash of snow. Something was garbling the signal, and they thought they knew what it was. (I suspect that the shimmering we observed is a field effect surrounding the asteroid,) Kadin was saying. (We're on the inside of the field now, so when our transmission beams pass through the boundary, they get thrown slightly out of phase. It ought to be possible to compensate.)
(Did you measure the field as you passed through?) Jonders asked.
(No.)
(Oh.) Jonders sounded disappointed. (Well, we'll work on it.)
While Kadin reviewed the situation with Homebase, Mozy turned to other matters. A signal was coming in from the asteroid.
She listened intently to the whee'ing and warbling, and worried over their meanings. By the time she was ready with a translation, Jonders was gone, and Kadin was waiting impatiently. She compared her version to that of the translator program. Its version read: (TRAVELLED PATH LAND GO TO PEOPLES MEET.) Hers read: (IF YOU WISH FOR A MEETING WITH US, FELLOW TRAVELERS, PLEASE LAND YOUR CRAFT AND BE WELCOME.)
(Well,) Kadin said, (that's encouraging.)
(Shall we land?)
(We'll have to wait a bit.)
(Why?)
(Homebase says to remain in parking orbit and continue making observations.)
(Why?)
(They're waiting for Hathorne to arrive at the Center, to take authority for the go/no-g
o decision.)
(Go/no-go decision?)
(Right.)
(We came a quarter of a light-year to orbit here and wait,) Mozy said.
(Right.)
(Well, that answers one question.)
(What's that?)
(We're definitely in the army now.)
(Yes, ma'am,) said Kadin.
* * *
The spacecraft bucked, and began tumbling. Two attitude control jets were popping off erratically. Mozy quickly shut them down. As she was preparing to stop the spin, a maneuvering jet went off. (What's happening?) Kadin asked.
(Son of a bitch.) Mozy damped the jet and deactivated the automatic control. Now the orbit was going to be screwed up.
(Have you got a handle on it?) Kadin said.
(I've got it, I've got it,) she snapped. (Nav-control is gone. The rendezvous programs are starting to sizzle, too.) She measured the orbit. They were moving closer to the asteroid.
(How bad is it, Mother Program?) Kadin said.
He had to ask three times, before he got an answer. Then: (NAVIGATION CAPACITY IMPAIRED 73 PERCENT IN ATTITUDE AND MANEUVERING CONTROL, AND MAIN DRIVE STEERING. 82 PERCENT FUNCTION REMAINING IN RANGING, EE& DYNAMICCC DOCKLNG . . . .)
(Bad,) Mozy said. (And getting worse.)
(When will this start affecting us?) Kadin wondered aloud.
(So far, it's mainly in the autonomic processing circuitry.)
(But Mother Program—)
(Yes. If it's hitting her, it will hit us, eventually.) She didn't want to think about that too deeply right now. That had to do with mortality. Dying slowly.
(Our effective time could be limited.)
(I recommend landing now.)
(Homebase won't be ready for almost a day,) Kadin said.
(We'll never hold it together that long. I need computer backup for the landing. I can reroute some of the processing, but if the function keeps degrading . . .)
(Can't we compensate?)
(How would I know? I've never landed one of these things before. It won't do any good for us to wait in orbit like good boys and girls, if we crash going in.) She made some new calculations; they were swinging in an elongated loop around the asteroid. If she didn't do something to correct it, they would crash soon, anyway. (I'd say we have to either land, or get some distance. Maybe a lot of distance. We may not get back for another chance, though.)
Kadin seemed lost in thought. Finally he said, (I can call Homebase in sixty-five minutes. Can we hold on that long?)
(I don't know.) Mozy was recircuiting, checking functions. (It's going downhill fast.)
(Can you make it now? Right now?) Kadin said.
She scanned, estimating. (Yes. I think so. Yes.)
Kadin hesitated for one second, then said, (The midsection of the asteroid along the longer axis. Take her down.)
(Aye.) Mozy computed, then with great care, fired a braking burn. At first, nothing much seemed to happen. Then the asteroid began to turn more slowly beneath them, and then not at all, and it loomed steadily larger in the sky as they dropped toward it, and Mozy waited, steadying herself, timing for the correct moment to fire the landing rockets.
Chapter 38
The plane banked sharply into the New Phoenix approach. Hathorne looked up from his papers as the sun streamed dazzling through his window. The hydrogen jets whined down, and there was a soft hum under the seat as the landing gear dropped into place.
Regret, mainly, was what he felt. Regret, that he might have to terminate the Father Sky mission. So close to success. After his battles with the Oversight Committee to keep the mission alive, its failure would in a way be a personal failure for Leonard Hathorne. What would the President think when he learned that his chance to lead the world to its first meeting with extraterrestrials might melt like ice out of his hands? And this talk from the Space Forces of getting a manned mission out there was a crock of bull. They'd get something out there eventually, sure, but the alien ship would practically be to Earth by then. And the Russians and the Chinese and the Japs were sure to be hot on their heels. Some lead that would be.
Nevertheless, Father Sky looked shakier with each passing day. The latest reports were the worst yet. Progressive breakdown in the computer systems. Navigation failing, and no one knew why. Artificial intelligence status: unknown. He had approved a "go" for orbit around the alien asteroid, but even that may have been a mistake. The spaceship had gone silent seventeen hours ago. No warning, no apparent reason—but no response to Homebase's call. Just silence. Seventeen hours of silence.
The probe was already in orbit around the alien artifact, so there was no way that the aliens wouldn't know if it broke down—if not now, then later. They'd approached the aliens, made contact, and then failed. Possibly even crashed. Worst of all, shown weakness. Maybe the aliens were friendly and altruistic; maybe it wouldn't matter. Maybe.
It was possible, of course, that there were other reasons for the silence. The spacecraft might have been captured. It might be that Kadin, still functional, had been forced, for reasons unknown, to black out communications for purposes of diplomacy or survival. That was in fact Hathorne's only real hope—that there was a better explanation than the obvious one. And that was why he had to look at the data before any action could be taken.
It wasn't much of a hope, but it was something.
The plane thumped and rumbled, shaking Hathorne's bones as it hurtled down the runway and finally slowed to taxiing speed. Hathorne shifted uncomfortably, snapping his briefcase closed. He didn't mind flying, so much, but being cramped in these seats hour after hour was a killer, especially with a prostate problem that meant he was always getting up and going to the can. He always figured there was at least one person on the plane thinking, Some hotshot this guy is, has to go pee every half hour—probably just can't hack flying.
So much for being the impressive figurehead.
The plane taxied to the far corner of the airfield, made a turn, and stopped; and there was the hopper waiting for him. "Mr. Hathorne," his security aide called from the front of the cabin.
"Coming!" The hatch opened, and he followed the aide out and down, blinking in the sun. A short trot across the glaring white pavement, and then they ducked under the rotor and boarded the hopper. The aide was saying something as they settled in, but his voice was carried away by the rising keen of the hopper engines, and Hathorne ignored him and stared moodily out the window as they lifted and veered onto course for Sandaran Link Center.
* * *
Jonders wished that Marshall and Hathorne would hurry and make whatever decision it was they were going to make. It was a hell of a time to start changing the agenda, he thought, glancing at the operations clock. Transmission cycle was due to start in three minutes.
This Hathorne fellow had the look of a man who was accustomed to power, although physically, he was less imposing in person than on the holo-screen. His hair was streaked with grey, but he had a young man's face. He looked very Eastern—smooth and cocksure, and rather impatient. Probably from Harvard Law, Jonders thought. Or Yale. A half hour ago, he had descended upon the operations center as though he owned the place.
Hathorne was conferring with Marshall now, and shaking his head. Jonders couldn't hear what was being said; but he knew that support from the Oversight Committee had eroded recently, with the reports of continuing problems. He knew what Marshall was probably saying—that whatever was causing the computer breakdown, it was the rigidly defined functions such as navigation that were failing first. The heuristics, the consciousness systems, Kadin and Mozelle, were surviving in better shape—probably, according to the systems experts, because they were capable of adapting to the changing computer matrices as malfunctions developed—possibly without even being aware of doing so. What was unclear was how long this could continue.
It was likely enough that the question was moot. No signal had been received now for eighteen hours. Most were betting that the system had failed catastrop
hically, or that the spacecraft had crashed. Jonders wasn't betting.
He glanced somberly around the operations room. The engineers were talking patiently among themselves. Delarizzo, the security agent, was standing in a corner, watching everyone and no one. On the wall above the linkup console, the new viewscreen was glowing, ready to display selected, computer-processed renditions of Jonders's visual impressions during the linkup. If there ever was another linkup.
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