by Isaac Asimov
It did not bother Aratap. To some of the older soldiers such increasing softness seemed a degeneration; to himself it seemed increasing civilization. In the end–in centuries, perhaps–it might even happen that the Tyranni would melt away as a single people, fusing with the present conquered societies of the Nebular Kingdoms–and perhaps even that might be a good thing.
Naturally, he never expressed such an opinion aloud.
“I came to tell you something,” said Hinrik. He puzzled over it awhile, then added, “I have sent a message home today to my people. I have told them I am well and that the criminal will be shortly seized and my daughter returned to safety.”
“Good,” said Aratap. It was not news to him. He himself had written the message, though it was not impossible that Hinrik by now had persuaded himself that he was the writer, or even that he actually headed the expedition. Aratap felt a twinge of pity. The man was disintegrating visibly.
Hinrik said, “My people, I believe, are quite disturbed over this daring raid upon the Palace by these well-organized bandits. I think they will be proud of their Director now that I have taken such rapid action in response, eh, Commissioner? They will see that there is still force among the Hinriads.” He seemed filled with a feeble triumph.
“I think they will,” said Aratap.
“Are we within range of the enemy yet?”
“No, Director, the enemy remains where he was, just off Lingane.”
“Still? I remember what I came to tell you.” He grew excited, so that the words tumbled out. “It is very important, Commissioner. I have something to tell you. There is treachery on board. I have discovered it. We must take quick action. Treachery–” He was whispering.
Aratap felt impatient. It was necessary to humor the poor idiot of course, but this was becoming a waste of time. At this rate he would become so obviously mad that he would be useless even as a puppet, which would be a pity.
He said, “No treachery, Director. Our men are stanch and true. Someone has been misleading you. You are tired.”
“No, no.” Hinrik put aside Aratap’s arm which, for a moment, had rested upon his shoulder. “Where are we?”
“Why, here!”
“The ship, I mean. I have watched the visiplate. We are near no star. We are in deep space. Did you know that?”
“Why, certainly.”
“Lingane is nowhere near. Did you know that?”
“It is two light-years off.”
“Ah! Ah! Ah! Commissioner, no one is listening? Are you sure?” He leaned closely, while Aratap allowed his ear to be approached. “Then how do we know the enemy is near Lingane? He is too far to detect. We are being misinformed, and this signifies treachery.”
Well, the man might be mad, but the point was a good one. Aratap said, “This is something fit for technical men, Director, and not for men of rank to concern themselves with. I scarcely know myself.”
“But as head of the expedition I should know. I am head, am I not?” He looked about carefully. “Actually, I have a feeling that Major Andros does not always carry out my orders. Is he trustworthy? Of course, I rarely give him orders. It would seem strange to order a Tyrannian officer. But then, I must find my daughter. My daughter’s name is Artemisia. She has been taken from me, and I am taking all this fleet to get her back. So you see, I must know. I mean, I must know how it is known the enemy is at Lingane. My daughter would be there too. Do you know my daughter? Her name is Artemisia.”
His eyes looked up at the Tyranni Commissioner in appeal. Then he covered them with his hand and mumbled something that sounded like “I’m sorry.”
Aratap felt his jaw muscles clench. It was difficult to remember that the man before him was a bereaved father and that even the idiot Director of Rhodia might have a father’s feelings. He could not let the man suffer.
He said gently, “I will try to explain. You know there is such a thing as a massometer which will detect ships in space.”
“Yes, yes.”
“It is sensitive to gravitational effects. You know what I mean?”
“Oh yes. Everything has gravity.” Hinrik was leaning toward Aratap, his hands gripping one another nervously.
“That’s good enough. Now naturally the massometer can only be used when the ship is close, you know. Less than a million miles away or so. Also, it has to be a reasonable distance from any planet, because if it isn’t, all you can detect is the planet, which is much bigger.”
“And has much more gravity.”
“Exactly,” said Aratap, and Hinrik looked pleased.
Aratap went on. “We Tyranni have another device. It is a transmitter which radiates through hyperspace in all directions, and what it radiates is a particular type of distortion of the space fabric which is not electromagnetic in character. In other words, it isn’t like light or radio or even sub-etheric radio. See?”
Hinrik didn’t answer. He looked confused.
Aratap proceeded quickly. “Well, it’s different. It doesn’t matter how. We can detect that something which is radiated, so that we can always know where any Tyrannian ship is, even if it’s halfway across the Galaxy, or on the other side of a star.”
Hinrik nodded solemnly.
“Now,” said Aratap, “if the young Widemos had escaped in an ordinary ship, it would have been very difficult to locate him. As it is, since he took a Tyrannian cruiser, we know where he is at all times, although he doesn’t realize that. That is how we know he is near Lingane, you see. And, what’s more, he can’t get away, so that we will certainly rescue your daughter.”
Hinrik smiled. “That is well done. I congratulate you, Commissioner. A very clever ruse.”
Aratap did not delude himself. Hinrik understood very little of what he had said, but that did not matter. It had ended with the assurance of his daughter’s rescue, and somewhere in his dim understanding there must be the realization that this, somehow, was made possible by Tyrannian science.
He told himself that he had not gone to this trouble entirely because the Rhodian appealed to his sense of the pathetic. He had to keep the man from breaking down altogether for obvious political reasons. Perhaps the return of his daughter would improve matters. He hoped so.
There was the door signal again and this time it was Major Andros who entered. Hinrik’s arm stiffened on the armrest of his chair and his face assumed a hunted expression. He lifted himself and began, “Major Andro–”
But Andros was already speaking quickly, disregarding the Rhodian.
“Commissioner,” he said, “the Remorseless has changed position.”
“Surely he has not landed on Lingane,” said Aratap sharply.
“No,” said the major. “He has Jumped quite away from Lingane.”
“Ah. Good. He has been joined by another ship, perhaps.”
“By many ships, perhaps. We can detect only his, as you are quite aware.”
“In any case, we follow again.”
“The order has already been given. I would merely like to point out that his Jump has taken him to the edge of the Horsehead Nebula.”
“What?”
“No major planetary system exists in the indicated direction. There is only one logical conclusion.”
Aratap moistened his lips and left hurriedly for the pilot room, the major with him.
Hinrik remained standing in the middle of the suddenly empty room, looking at the door for a minute or so. Then, with a little shrug of the shoulders, he sat down again. His expression was blank, and for a long while he simply sat.
The navigator said, “The space co-ordinates of the Remorseless have been checked, sir. They are definitely inside the Nebula.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Aratap. “Follow them anyway.”
He turned to Major Andros. “So you see the virtues of waiting. There is a good deal that is obvious now. Wherever else could the conspirators’ headquarters be but in the Nebula itself? Where else could we have failed to locate them? Avery prett
y pattern.”
And so the squadron entered the Nebula.
For the twentieth time Aratap glanced automatically at the visiplate. Actually, the glances were useless, since the visiplate remained quite black. There was no star in sight.
Andros said, “That’s their third stop without landing. I don’t understand it. What is their purpose? What are they after? Each stop of theirs is several days long. Yet they do not land.”
“It may take them that long,” said Aratap, “to calculate their next Jump. Visibility is nonexistent.”
“You think so?”
“No. Their Jumps are too good. Each time they land very near a star. They couldn’t do as well by massometer data alone, unless they actually knew the locations of the stars in advance.”
“Then why don’t they land?”
“I think,” said Aratap, “they must be looking for habitable planets. Maybe they themselves do not know the location of the center of conspiracy. Or, at least, not entirely.” He smiled. “We need only follow.”
The navigator clicked heels. “Sir!”
“Yes?” Aratap looked up.
“The enemy has landed on a planet.”
Aratap signaled for Major Andros.
“Andros,” said Aratap, as the major entered, “have you been told?”
“Yes. I’ve ordered a descent and pursuit.”
“Wait. You may be again premature, as when you wanted to lunge toward Lingane. I think this ship only ought to go.”
“Your reasoning?”
“If we need reinforcements, you will be there, in command of the cruisers. If it is indeed a powerful rebel center, they may think only one ship has stumbled upon them. I will get word to you somehow and you can retire to Tyrann.”
“Retire!”
“And return with a full fleet.”
Andros considered. “Very well. This is our least useful ship in any case. Too large.”
The planet filled the visiplate as they spiraled down.
“The surface seems quite barren, sir,” said the navigator.
“Have you determined the exact location of the Remorseless?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then land as closely as you can without being sighted.”
They were entering the atmosphere now. The sky as they flashed along the day half of the planet was tinged with a brightening purple. Aratap watched the nearing surface. The long chase was almost over!
Seventeen: And Hares!
TO THOSE WHO have not actually been in space, the investigation of a stellar system and the search for habitable planets may seem rather exciting, at the least, interesting. To the spaceman, it is the most boring of jobs.
Locating a star, which is a huge glowing mass of hydrogen fusing into helium, is almost too easy. It advertises itself. Even in the blackness of the Nebula, it is only a question of distance. Approach within five billion miles, and it will still advertise itself.
But a planet, a relatively small mass of rock, shining only by reflected light, is another matter. One could pass through a stellar system a hundred thousand times at all sorts of odd angles without ever coming close enough to a planet to see it for what it is, barring the oddest of coincidences.
Rather, one adopts a system. A position is taken up in space at a distance from the star being investigated of some ten thousand times the star’s diameter. From Galactic statistics it is known that not one time in fifty thousand is a planet located farther from its primary than that. Furthermore, practically never is a habitable planet located farther from its primary than one thousand times its sun’s diameter.
This means that from the position in space assumed by the ship, any habitable planet must be located within six degrees of the star. This represents an area only 1/3600th of the entire sky. That area can be handled in detail with relatively few observations.
The movement of the tele-camera can be so adjusted as to counteract the motion of the ship in its orbit. Under those conditions a time exposure will pinpoint the constellations in the star’s neighborhood; provided, of course, that the blaze of the sun itself is blocked out, which is easily done. Planets, however, will have perceptible proper motions and therefore show up as tiny streaks on the film.
When no streaks appear, there is always the possibility that the planets are behind their primary. The maneuver is therefore repeated from another position in space and, usually, at a point closer to the star.
It is a very dull procedure indeed, and when it has been repeated three times for three different stars, each time with completely negative results, a certain depression of morale is bound to occur.
Gillbret’s morale, for instance, had been suffering for quite a while. Longer and longer intervals took place between the moments when he found something “amusing.”
They were readying for the Jump to the fourth star on the Autarch’s list, and Biron said, “We hit a star each time, anyway. At least Jonti’s figures are correct.”
Gillbret said, “Statistics show that one out of three stars has a planetary system.”
Biron nodded. It was a well-worn statistic. Every child was taught that in elementary Galactography.
Gillbret went on, “That means that the chances of finding three stars at random without a single planet–without one single planet–is two thirds cubed, which is eight twenty-sevenths, or less than one in three.”
“So?”
“And we haven’t found any. There must be a mistake.”
“You saw the plates yourself. And, besides, what price statistics? For all we know, conditions are different inside a Nebula. Maybe the particle fog prevents planets from forming, or maybe the fog is the result of planets that didn’t coalesce.”
“You don’t mean that?” said Gillbret, stricken.
“You’re right. I’m just talking to hear myself. I don’t know anything about cosmogony. Why the hell are planets formed, anyway? Never heard of one that wasn’t filled with trouble.” Biron looked haggard himself. He was still printing and pasting up little stickers on the control panels.
He said, “Anyway, we’ve got the blasters all worked out, range finders, power control–all that.”
It was very difficult not to look at the visiplate. They’d be Jumping again soon, through that ink.
Biron said absently, “You know why they call it the Horsehead Nebula, Gil?”
“The first man to enter it was Horace Hedd. Are you going to tell me that’s wrong?”
“It may be. They have a different explanation on Earth.”
“Oh?”
“They claim it’s called that because it looks like a horse’s head.”
“What’s a horse?”
“It’s an animal on Earth.”
“It’s an amusing thought, but the Nebula doesn’t look like any animal to me, Biron.”
“It depends on the angle you look at it. Now from Nephelos it looks like a man’s arm with three fingers, but I looked at it once from the observatory at the University of Earth. It does look a little like a horse’s head. Maybe that is how the name started. Maybe there never was any Horace Hedd. Who knows?” Biron felt bored with the matter, already. He was still talking simply to hear himself talk.
There was a pause, a pause that lasted too long, because it gave Gillbret a chance to bring up a subject which Biron did not wish to discuss and could not force himself to stop thinking about.
Gillbret said, “Where’s Arta?”
Biron looked at him quickly and said, “Somewhere in the trailer. I don’t follow her about.”
“The Autarch does. He might as well be living here.”
“How lucky for her.”
Gillbret’s wrinkles became more pronounced and his small features seemed to screw together. “Oh, don’t be a fool, Biron. Artemisia is a Hinriad. She can’t take what you’ve been giving her.”
Biron said, “Drop it.”
“I won’t. I’ve been spoiling to say this. Why are you doing this to her? Because Hinrik
might have been responsible for your father’s death? Hinrik is my cousin! You haven’t changed toward me.”
“All right,” Biron said. “I haven’t changed toward you. I speak to you as I always have. I speak to Artemisia as well.”
“As you always have?”
Biron was silent.
Gillbret said, “You’re throwing her at the Autarch.”
“It’s her choice.”
“It isn’t. It’s your choice. Listen, Biron”–Gillbret grew confidential; he put a hand on Biron’s knee–” this isn’t a thing I like to interfere with, you understand. It’s just that she’s the only good thing in the Hinriad family just ROW. Would you be amused if I said I loved her? I have no children of my own.”
“I don’t question your love.”
“Then I advise you for her good. Stop the Autarch, Biron.”
“I thought you trusted him, Oil.”
“As the Autarch, yes. As an anti-Tyrannian leader, yes. But as a man for a woman, as a man for Artemisia, no.”
“Tell her that.”
“She wouldn’t listen.”
“Do you think she would listen if I told her?”
“If you told her properly.”
For a moment Biron seemed to hesitate, his tongue dabbing slightly at dry lips. Then he turned away, saying harshly, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Gillbret said sadly, “You’ll regret this.”
Biron said nothing. Why didn’t Gillbret leave him alone? It had occurred to him many times that he might regret all this. It wasn’t easy. But what could he do? There was no safe way of backing out.
He tried breathing through his mouth to get rid, somehow, of the choking sensation in his chest.
The outlook was different after the next Jump. Biron had set the controls in accordance with the instructions from the Autarch’s pilot, and left the manuals to Gillbret. He was going to sleep through this one. And then Gillbret was shaking his shoulder.
“Biron! Biron!”
Biron rolled over in his bunk and out, landing in a crouch, fists balled. “What is it?”
