by Frank Borsch
"We're at as much of a loss as you are."
"Well, let's retrace the sequence of events, see if we can figure out what happened. Did you do anything that might have frightened him?"
"Sharita did have her beamer pointed at him, at first," Rhodan said.
"No," Sharita contradicted him. "I had my beamer in my hand. I wasn't aiming at him, or not consciously, anyway. And even if ... look, if he's afraid of a weapon being aimed at him, killing himself with that same weapon isn't exactly a triumph of logic, is it?"
"Fear isn't logical," Rhodan said. "But you're right. It wasn't the beamer. He was only really aware of you after you had dropped the weapon."
For some time, the only sound was the footfalls of the command crew as they swarmed over the wreck to make sure there weren't any other survivors.
What had driven this man to suicide? Pearl looked around the tiny compartment—Lord, it was freezing in here!—then back at Rhodan and Sharita. She cleared her throat. The commander wouldn't like what she had to say, but it was the obvious conclusion. "Sharita, it must have been something to do with you."
"Pearl!"
"It's a statement of fact, not a reproach. But according to what you've said, he reacted positively to Rhodan."
"What's so different about Perry? This guy couldn't possibly tell that he's immor—"
"Sharita, he isn't wearing a uniform."
Sharita looked down at her black uniform, then turned to look at Rhodan's brightly colored slacks and shirt. "All right, I'm wearing a uniform. Since I'm the commander, that isn't so unusual, is it? Anyway, all this is pure speculation that we'll never be able to prove one way or the other."
"I disagree. We do have clues to work from," Rhodan said.
"Oh? Like what? This fellow here can't tell you anything."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that. Pearl, would you be so kind as to bring forward the ship's doctor?"
* * *
Hyman Mahal, the Palenque's medical officer, was a stocky man with a receding hairline. Without a word, he bent down next to the corpse, sparing only a passing glance at the large wound sealed by the beamer's ray.
Mahal was a man of few words, and few of his shipmates knew much about him. Pearl's sympathetic nature invited confidences, however, and in a sentimental moment some months earlier, Mahal had spoken of his early career.
As a young doctor, the medical officer had been stationed on a mining world. There was little competition for such jobs, which was why even a new graduate with average grades could get hired for the position. Mahal believed being stationed even to a mining post would be a great adventure; all he had to do was make the best of it, and sooner or later he would move on to bigger and better things. A mere six months later, he stood on the verge of alcoholism, worn down by his monotonous duties, prodigious amounts of overtime, and loneliness. Comradeship was for those who went into the mines; everyone else lived in safety and isolation.
When he thought it couldn't get any worse, a fully loaded freighter, a steel globe a kilometer and a half in diameter, had crashed into the planet, and the resulting earthquake collapsed every mine. Mahal spent the next six days treating the maimed and dying, then the six months left on his contract recovering horribly mangled corpses.
"One good thing came out of it," Mahal had concluded, as Pearl sat in shaken silence.
"What is that?" the first officer had asked.
"It's all behind me. I've seen enough death for ten lifetimes. What can bother me now?"
Pearl was a long way from such philosophical acceptance. The sight of the headless corpse made her ill. She would have liked nothing better than to run out into the corridor and throw up—and then not come back.
"Doctor Mahal," Rhodan said, "I have two questions that I hope you can answer. The first is: Is this a human being?"
Mahal set to work without acknowledging Rhodan's question. He had his medical kit with him, a mobile, antigrav-supported mini-laboratory. At his direction, the kidney-shaped device lowered itself onto the corpse's chest. Pearl heard a humming and a hissing as the mini-lab extended its nano-feelers and took tiny tissue samples. At the same time, Mahal examined the dead man the old-fashioned way. He felt the corpse, lifted its arms and legs, tapped on the knees and elbows. He spent a particularly long time examining the hands and fingers.
He took a pointed scraper from his pocket and slid it under one thumbnail. When he withdrew it, a tiny black clump clung to the point. Mahal inserted it in an opening on the mini-lab.
"I thought as much," he murmured, more to himself than those waiting. "Soil. Enriched with microorganisms."
"What? That's impossi—"
The mini-lab interrupted Sharita with a sustained buzz. Mahal read the results of the evaluation on a directional display.
"Well?"
"The corpse is definitely human, of Lemurian descent."
"Any unusual characteristics?"
"He is strikingly healthy. He seems to be accustomed to physical labor. He is less than twenty-five years of age, and shows no trace of the deposits typical of an unbalanced diet, even though practically all human beings have them."
"Anything else?"
"He has never been sunburned. The skin samples are definite on that point."
"That doesn't necessarily contradict the dirt under his thumbnail," Sharita said. "Maybe he was really careful about using lots of sunscreen. Why is no sunburn so significant?"
"His genes are severely damaged—to an impossible degree for a planet-dweller, and certainly for someone who has never been exposed to the sun without protection."
"That can be explained, too," Pearl put in. She had been concentrating on the faces of Rhodan, Sharita and Mahal, and so her nausea had decreased to an almost bearable level. "This wreck can't have shielded him very efficiently from cosmic radiation in open space. Thus the genetic damage."
Mahal shook his head. His fingers played absentmindedly with the scraper he had used to sample the dirt from under the dead man's thumbnail. "Not a bad guess, but the nature of the damage is against that explanation. This could only be the result of years worth of exposure to cosmic radiation penetrating through insufficient shielding."
"This compartment was the only section of the wreck that remained airtight. There is no evidence that he had any supply of water or food—no empty containers or scraps—and the air supply had to be limited, as well," Rhodan stated.
"He can't have spent years in this compartment."
"Exactly. And that brings me to my second question. Can you tell us, Mahal, how long he was drifting through the vacuum on this wreck?"
"Hmm." The ship's doctor gave the mini-lab's syntron new commands. New values appeared on the display. "Based on his condition and assuming he didn't have any food or water with him, I'd estimate between thirteen and fifteen days, seventeen at the maximum."
"Thank you, Mahal. That's all I need to know," Rhodan said. He turned to the commander. "Sharita, I suggest we go back to the bridge. There's nothing else to learn here."
Sharita nodded without argument—a telling sign of how deeply the suicide had affected her.
* * *
The rest was a simple exercise in calculation, some fast talking and a stellar performance by the Palenque's hyperdetection officer.
Rhodan presented his theory to Sharita Coho and Pearl Laneaux at the map table in the control center. The other members of the bridge crew and the crews of the crawlers were connected in real time.
"The calculation isn't difficult," Rhodan began. "We know how long the dead man was confined in the wreck: between thirteen and a maximum of seventeen days. The wreck was traveling at near light-speed, so the point at which the shuttle came apart has to be roughly half a light-month away, plus or minus ten percent."
"Assuming that it didn't change its speed," Sharita interjected. An undertone in her voice hinted that she had regained her self-confidence in the comfortable surroundings of the control center.
"Anything
else would be highly unlikely," Rhodan replied mildly. Pearl wondered if the Immortal could be made to lose his composure—and if the sight would be worth being around him in such a moment. "The shuttle broke into two sections. Our half had no means of acceleration."
Sharita grimaced.
Pearl intervened before Sharita could voice the violent retort that surely was on the tip of her tongue. "So, we know where the shuttle broke apart. What do we accomplish by finding that location?"
"We find answers. The shuttle didn't collide with another object. As the fate of the crawler proves, there wouldn't be anything left but a cloud of particles if it had. Someone shot at it."
"The Akonians?" Sharita guessed. "The Ochent Nebula has been swarming with them these past few weeks."
"Probably not," Pearl said. "I've had the techs take a closer look at the wreck, and this shuttle was struck by a conventional warhead—hardly more than an oversized firecracker. Neither we nor the Akonians use anything like that. And it was not an accident. We've found the entry point."
"All right, so it wasn't the Akonians. Who, then?"
"I don't know." Rhodan shrugged. "In order to find out, we have go where the attack took place."
"And then what?" Sharita balled her hand into a fist and struck her other palm. "Do you think the attackers are just sitting there waiting for someone to bring them to justice? And think about the company you're in. We're prospectors, not saviors of the universe intent on righting every wrong. We're out here to make a profit!"
"The biggest profit waits for those with the courage to step off the beaten path," Rhodan advised. "Executing an ultra-light jump will take only a few minutes, and we won't stay more than a few minutes."
"Then why go there at all?"
"To be certain of what we've found. Maybe to find more information. But definitely to search for the mother ship."
"Mother ship?"
Pearl hoped her mouth wasn't hanging open as unattractively as Sharita's.
"The mother ship. Think about it! We've brought the wreck of a shuttle, a transfer craft, on board. Its engines could not have accelerated it to near light-speed; everything about its design is clearly intended for short-range flights. There's only one explanation: the shuttle must have gotten its velocity from the mother ship. And that ship must still be in the area of impact, unless it has hyperdrive capability. But I consider that extremely unlikely since we haven't found any trace of five-dimensional technology in the wreck."
Pearl and Sharita were silent, then they exchanged a long look. Pearl nodded almost imperceptibly. She hoped Sharita had enough self-control to follow her advice.
"Very well," Sharita said finally. She spoke slowly, as though she had to force out each syllable. "Your logic is convincing. We'll investigate." She looked into the lens of the humming microcamera floating nearby. "You heard me, people! We're going on a treasure hunt!"
She turned to Pearl. "Plot the trajectory of the wreck before we took it on board—we'll follow it. And not half a light-month, but four light-years."
"But that's much too far!" Pearl protested. What had gotten into Sharita this time? "That's almost a—"
"—hundred times. Exactly. Because of the high velocity, time ran a hundred times faster on the shuttle than for us. The fifteen days we're assuming are measured in subjective time on board the wreck."
Pearl felt herself turning red. "Oh. I didn't think of that."
"Don't worry about it," Sharita said. "That's what you have me for."
9
"Lemal?"
The Naahk of the Nethack Achton had to force himself to turn his attention away from the screen. He didn't appreciate being disturbed. Especially not when he was working on the Ship's chronicle.
"Yes? What is it?"
"The Tenoy have succeeded in capturing one of the traitors."
"Good."
Lemal Netwar bent over the screen once more. The work on the chronicle was difficult and tiring, but indispensable. Who would record the history of the Nethack Achton for future generations if not he? The Net, perhaps, but somehow he doubted a presentation by a group of linked computers would say much to human readers. In an attempt to present an accurate depiction of facts, the Net would support its account with graphs and statistics, possibly even letting the numbers speak for themselves with no text at all. Lemal Netwar was not interested in that kind of truth. His account was based on human qualities—and for him, chief among them seemed to be forgetfulness. It seemed to him that he found it harder to remember with each passing year.
And to remember, he needed quiet.
"Lemal?"
He suppressed a curse. "Yes, what is it? Have you caught more?"
"No, not yet," the Net replied. "But it won't be much longer. The interrogation will begin very soon."
The interrogation. The Naahk had managed to drive it out of his mind. "I know that."
"Don't you want to be present? The last time ... "
The last time was long ago! he wanted to shout. This interrogation, many other difficult decisions ... they were the price of his rank. He had to pay that price or resign his rank along with everything that came with it. At the thought, his hand went automatically to the chain around his neck, and he knew he could never make that sacrifice. Lemal Netwar had too much to lose.
"I'm coming," he said.
The Naahk left his rooms, something he did more and more infrequently. The older he grew, the more inclined to stay in his quarters he became. The Net took care of most routine business without his participation, and probably did it better than he would have—at least, truer to the spirit of the Ship and less prone to error. For the few critical decisions that required his involvement, he had learned that he could make them just as easily inside his quarters. He had even convinced himself that making judgments from the isolation of his quarters was better. Distance between him and those whose fates he determined allowed him to be more objective.
There was one additional and immediate reason why Netwar left his quarters only reluctantly: it was unbearably painful.
The Naahk's residence was situated near the long axis around which the Nethack Achton rotated in order to generate artificial gravity. Gravity increased with distance from the axis. The Inner Deck, which lay closest to the axis, had a third of the Homeland's gravity. In the Naahk's quarters, which hung like a spider's ensnared prey in a web of cable connections almost in the center of the Ship, that level sank to a tenth. Just enough for things to stay in place but exerting no undue pressure on his joints.
The elevator that connected the Naahk's residence with the Inner Deck began moving. Since the cable was seldom used, it now groaned loudly. Netwar idly imagined that the strain of moving affected the cable in the same way moving affected his joints.
Netwar moaned as pain stabbed his knees and hips. He tried to stand perfectly still to deny the pain a target, but either he failed to remain motionless or the disease had reached a new stage of intensity.
As the Naahk, Netwar commanded the skills of the best doctors on the Ship, but they couldn't help him. They could only give a name to his suffering: arthritis. The doctors couldn't prevent the accelerating deterioration of his joints; they couldn't even slow it down. All Netwar could do was accept his disease as a necessary evil that went along with his rank and hope that he would be freed from it sooner rather than later.
Through the transparent plastic floor of the elevator cabin, Netwar saw people waiting for him. Several Tenoy, but no officers—no one from the higher ranks of the administration, not even a Tenarch.
Why get their hands dirty, when others would do it for them?
He pulled himself together as the cabin approached the Inner Deck. Just before the elevator glided to a stop, he injected himself with pain medicine, his hand clenching the injection gun in his pocket.
The pain disappeared at once, replaced by a feeling of elation for which Netwar knew from experience he would pay dearly. The injection freed him from pain for
several hours: the problem with eliminating it was that he ordinarily used the pain to regulate his movements. By paying attention to his level of discomfort, he could avoid actions that would aggravate his condition. Without the pain to guide him, he almost certainly gave the deterioration of his joints a push, and in the long term twisted the screw of his pain one turn higher.
The Tenoy bowed to him mutely, their eyes fixed firmly on the chain around his neck. This was perhaps the most significant moment of their lives: they were meeting the Naahk in person! Perhaps their emotion was so great that they would be able to repress the memory of the screams they would soon be hearing. Netwar already knew that he would not be able to do that. These screams would join the many others that tore him out of his sleep at night.
The Tenoy had brought an electric three-wheeled vehicle, and now politely indicated for him to sit on the wide padded seat. The Naahk refused. If he only had a few dearly purchased hours left to use his body, he didn't want to waste them by sitting, even if doing so would have been easier on his joints. More importantly, refusing the ride would reinforce his status. The Tenoy would tell every detail of their meeting with the Naahk, including, of course, his modesty.
They started out. The walk led them through the steel landscape of the Inner Deck. Netwar knew that most metach came to this section of the Ship only reluctantly. They missed the green that defined the Middle and Outer decks, but most of all they felt oppressed by the close quarters. The Inner Deck had such a small diameter that there could be no illusion of a sky. If one raised his head, he saw the opposite side of the deck, on which the machinery complexes and people hung upside down, attached to the floor by centrifugal force. After all these years, even the Naahk found it hard to shake off the feeling of being about to fall toward the ceiling.
But Netwar didn't look up. He concentrated entirely on the miracle of his legs carrying him forward with the effortlessness and strength of a young man.
