by Les Johnson
“I’m busy,” he growled.
Unperturbed, the avatar’s smiling face said, “Yesterday you requested use of the main communications antenna.”
“I want to use it as a radio telescope, to map out the interstellar hydrogen we’re moving through.”
“The twenty-one centimeter radiation,” said the avatar knowingly.
“Yes.”
“You are no longer studying the pulsars?”
He bit back an angry reply. “I have given up on the pulsars,” he admitted. “The interstellar medium interests me more. I have decided to map the hydrogen in detail.”
Besides, he admitted to himself, that will be a lot easier than the pulsars.
The AI avatar said calmly, “Mission protocol requires the main antenna be available to receive communications from mission control.”
“The secondary antenna can do that,” he said. Before the AI system could reply, he added, “Besides, any communications from Earth will be six years old. We’re not going to get any urgent messages that must be acted upon immediately.”
“Still,” said the avatar, “mission protocol cannot be dismissed lightly.”
“It won’t hurt anything to let me use the main antenna for a few hours each day,” he insisted.
The avatar remained silent for several seconds: an enormous span of time for the computer program.
At last, the avatar conceded, “Perhaps so. You may use the main antenna, provisionally.”
“I am eternally grateful,” Ignatiev said. His sarcasm was wasted on the AI system.
As the weeks lengthened into months he found himself increasingly fascinated by the thin interstellar hydrogen gas and discovered, only to his mild surprise, that it was not evenly distributed in space.
Of course, astrophysicists had known for centuries that there are regions in space where the interstellar gas clumped so thickly and was so highly ionized that it glowed. Gaseous emission nebulae were common throughout the galaxy, although Ignatiev mentally corrected the misnomer: those nebulae actually consisted not of gas, but of plasma—gas that is highly ionized.
But here in the placid emptiness on the way to Gliese 581, Ignatiev found himself slowly becoming engrossed with the way that even the thin, bland neutral interstellar gas was not evenly distributed. Not at all. The hydrogen was thicker in some regions than in others.
This was hardly a new discovery, but from the vantagepoint of the starship inside the billowing interstellar clouds, the fine structure of the hydrogen became a thing of beauty in Ignatiev’s eyes. The interstellar gas didn’t merely hang there passively between the stars, it flowed: slowly, almost imperceptibly, but it drifted on currents shaped by the gravitational pull of the stars.
“That old writer was correct,” he muttered to himself as he studied the stream of interstellar hydrogen that the ship was cutting through. “There are currents in space.”
He tried to think of the writer’s name, but couldn’t come up with it. A Russian name, he recalled. But nothing more specific.
The more he studied the interstellar gas, the more captivated he became. He went days without playing a single game of chess. Weeks. The interstellar hydrogen gas wasn’t static, not at all. It was like a beautiful intricate lacework that flowed, fluttered, shifted in a stately silent pavane among the stars.
The clouds of hydrogen were like a tide of bubbling champagne, he saw, frothing slowly in rhythm to the heartbeats of the stars.
The astronomers back on Earth had no inkling of this. They looked at the general features of the interstellar gas scanned at ranges of kiloparsecs and more; they were interested in mapping the great sweep of the galaxy’s spiral arms. But here, traveling inside the wafting, drifting clouds, Ignatiev measured the detailed configuration of the interstellar hydrogen and found it beautiful.
He slumped back in his form-fitting desk chair, stunned at the splendor of it all. He thought of the magnificent panoramas he had seen of the cosmic span of the galaxies: loops and whorls of bright shining galaxies, each containing billions of stars, extending for megaparsecs, out to infinity, long strings of glowing lights surrounding vast bubbles of emptiness. The interstellar gas showed the same delicate complexity, in miniature: loops and whorls, streams and bubbles. It was truly, cosmically, beautiful.
“Fractal,” he muttered to himself. “The universe is one enormous fractal pattern.”
Then the artificial intelligence program intruded on his privacy. “Alexander Alexandrovich, the weekly staff meeting begins in ten minutes.”
— 3 —
Weekly staff meeting, Ignatiev grumbled inwardly as he hauled himself up from his desk chair. More like the weekly group therapy session for a gaggle of self-important juvenile delinquents.
He made his way grudgingly through the ship’s central passageway to the conference room, located next to the command center. Several other crew members were also heading along the gleaming, brushed-chrome walls and colorful carpeting of the passageway. They gave Ignatiev cheery, smiling greetings; he nodded or grunted at them.
As chief executive of the crew, Ignatiev took the chair at the head of the polished conference table. The others sauntered in leisurely. Nikki and Gregorian came in almost last and took seats at the end of the table, next to each other, close enough to hold hands.
These meetings were a pure waste of time, Ignatiev thought. Their ostensible purpose was to report on the ship’s performance, which any idiot could determine by casting half an eye at the digital readouts available on the ship’s display screens. The screens gave up-to-the-nanosecond details of every component of the ship’s equipment.
But no, mission protocol required that all twelve crew members must meet face-to-face once each week. Good psychology, the mission planners believed. An opportunity for human interchange, personal communications. A chance for whining and displays of overblown egos, Ignatiev thought. A chance for these sixty-year-old children to complain about one another.
Of the twelve of them, only Ignatiev and Nikki were physicists. Four of the others were engineers of various stripes, three were biologists, two psychotechnicians and one stocky, sour-faced woman a medical doctor.
So he was quite surprised when the redheaded young electrical engineer in charge of the ship’s power system started the meeting by reporting:
“I don’t know if any of you have noticed it yet, but the ship’s reduced our internal electrical power consumption by ten percent.”
Mild perplexity.
“Ten percent?”
“Why?”
“I haven’t noticed any reduction.”
The redhead waved his hands vaguely as he replied, “It’s mostly in peripheral areas. Your microwave ovens, for example. They’ve been powered down ten percent. Lights in unoccupied areas. Things like that.”
Curious, Ignatiev asked, “Why the reduction?”
His squarish face frowning slightly, the engineer replied, “From what Alice tells me, the density of the gas being scooped in for the generator has decreased slightly. Alice says it’s only a temporary condition. Nothing to worry about.”
Alice was the nickname these youngsters had given to the artificial intelligence program that actually ran the ship. Artificial Intelligence. AI. Alice Intellectual. Some even called the AI system Alice Imperatress. Ignatiev thought it childish nonsense.
“How long will this go on?” asked one of the biologists. “I’m incubating a batch of genetically-engineered algae for an experiment.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem,” the engineer said. Ignatiev thought he looked just the tiniest bit worried.
Surprisingly, Gregorian piped up. “A few of the uncrewed probes that went ahead of us also encountered power anomalies. They were temporary. No big problem.”
Ignatiev nodded but made a mental note to check on the situation. Six light years out from Earth, he thought, meant that every problem was a big one.
One of the psychotechs cleared her throat for attention, then a
nnounced, “Several of the crew members have failed to fill out their monthly performance evaluations. I know that some of you regard these evaluations as if they were school exams, but mission protocol—”
Ignatiev tuned her out, knowing that they would bicker over this drivel for half an hour, at least. He was too optimistic. The discussion became quite heated and lasted more than an hour.
— 4 —
Once the meeting finally ended, Ignatiev hurried back to his quarters and immediately looked up the mission logs of the six automated probes that had been sent to Gliese 581.
Gregorian was right, he saw. Half of the six probes had reported drops in their power systems, a partial failure of their fusion generators. Three of them. The malfunctions were only temporary, but they occurred at virtually the same point in the long voyage to Gliese 581.
The earliest of the probes had shut down altogether, its systems going into hibernation for more than four months. The mission controllers back on Earth had written the mission off as a failure when they could not communicate with the probe. Then, just as abruptly as the ship had shut down, it sprang to life again.
Puzzling.
“Alexander Alexandrovich,” called the AI system’s avatar. “Do you need more information on the probe missions?”
He looked up from his desk to see the lovely female face of the AI program’s avatar displayed on the screen above his fireplace. A resentful anger simmered inside him. The psychotechs suppose that the face they’ve given the AI system makes it easier for me to interact with it, he thought. Idiots. Fools.
“I need the mission controllers’ analyses of each of the probe missions,” he said, struggling to keep his voice cool, keep the anger from showing.
“May I ask why?” The avatar smiled at him. Sonya, he thought. Sonya.
“I want to correlate their power reductions with the detailed map I’m making of the interstellar gas.”
“Interesting,” said the avatar.
“I’m pleased you think so,” Ignatiev replied, through gritted teeth.
The avatar’s image disappeared, replaced by data scrolling slowly along the screen. Ignatiev settled deeper into the form-adjusting desk chair and began to study the reports.
His door buzzer grated in his ears. Annoyed, Ignatiev told his computer to show who was at the door.
Gregorian was standing out in the passageway, tall, lanky, egocentric Gregorian. What in hell could he want? Ignatiev asked himself.
The big oaf pressed the buzzer again.
Thoroughly piqued at the interruption—no, the invasion of his privacy—Ignatiev growled, “Go away.”
“Dr. Ignatiev,” the Armenian called. “Please.”
Ignatiev closed his eyes and wished that Gregorian would disappear. But when he opened them again the man was still at his door, fidgeting nervously.
Ignatiev surrendered. “Enter,” he muttered.
The door slid back and Gregorian ambled in, his angular face serious, almost somber. His usual lopsided grin was nowhere to be seen.
“I’m sorry to intrude on you, Dr. Ignatiev,” said the engineer.
Leaning back in his desk chair to peer up at Gregorian, Ignatiev said, “It must be something terribly important.”
The contempt was wasted on Gregorian. He looked around the sitting room, his eyes resting for a moment on the pile of abandoned equipment hiding the fireplace.
“Uh, may I sit down?”
“Of course,” Ignatiev said, waving a hand toward the couch across the room.
Gregorian went to it and sat, bony knees poking up awkwardly. Ignatiev rolled his desk chair across the carpeting to face him.
“So what is so important that you had to come see me?”
Very seriously, Gregorian replied, “It’s Nikki.”
Ignatiev felt a pang of alarm. “What’s wrong with Nikki?”
“Nothing! She’s wonderful.”
“So?”
“I . . . I’ve fallen in love with her,” Gregorian said, almost whispering.
“What of it?” Ignatiev snapped.
“I don’t know if she loves me.”
What an ass! Ignatiev thought. A blind, blundering ass who can’t see the nose in front of his face.
“She . . . I mean, we get along very well. It’s always fun to be with her. But . . . does she like me well enough . . .” his voice faded.
Why is he coming to me with this? Ignatiev wondered. Why not one of the psycotechs? That’s what they’re here for.
He thought he knew. The young oaf would be embarrassed to tell them about his feelings. So he comes to old Ignatiev, the father figure.
Feeling his brows knitting, Ignatiev asked, “Have you been to bed with her?”
“Oh, yes. Sure. But if I ask her to marry me, a real commitment . . . she might say no. She might not like me well enough for that. I mean, there are other guys in the crew. . . .”
Marriage? Ignatiev felt stunned. Do kids still get married? Is he saying he’d spend two centuries living with her? Then he remembered Sonya. He knew he would have spent two centuries with her. Two millennia. Two eons.
His voice strangely subdued, Ignatiev asked, “You love her so much that you want to marry her?”
Gregorian nodded mutely.
Ignatiev said, “And you’re afraid that if you ask her for a lifetime commitment she’ll refuse and that will destroy your relationship.”
Looking completely miserable, Gregorian said, “Yes.” He stared into Ignatiev’s eyes. “What should I do?”
Beneath all the bravado he’s just a frightened pup, uncertain of himself, Ignatiev realized. Sixty years old and he’s as scared and worried as a teenager.
I can tell him to forget her. Tell him she doesn’t care about him; say that she’s not interested in a lifetime commitment. I can break up their romance with a few words.
But as he looked into Gregorian’s wretched face he knew he couldn’t do it. It would wound the young pup; hurt him terribly. Ignatiev heard himself say, “She loves you, Vartan. She’s mad about you. Can’t you see that?”
“You think so?”
Ignatiev wanted to say, Why do you think she puts up with you and your ridiculous posturing? Instead, he told the younger man, “I’m sure of it. Go to her. Speak your heart to her.”
Gregorian leaped up from the couch so abruptly that Ignatiev nearly toppled out of his rolling chair.
“I’ll do that!” he shouted, starting for the door.
As Ignatiev got slowly to his feet, Gregorian stopped and said hastily, “Thank you, Dr. Ignatiev! Thank you!”
Ignatiev shrugged.
Suddenly Gregorian looked sheepish. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”
“No. Nothing, thank you.”
“Are you still . . . uh, active?”
Ignatiev scowled at him.
“I mean, there are virtual reality simulations. You can program them to suit your own whims, you know.”
“I know,” Ignatiev said firmly.
Gregorian realized he’d stepped over a line. “I mean, I just thought . . . in case you need . . .”
“Good day, Vartan,” said Ignatiev.
Blundering young ass, Ignatiev said to himself, as the engineer left and the door slid shut. But then he added, And I’m a doddering old numbskull.
He’ll run straight to Nikki. She’ll leap into his arms and they’ll live happily ever after, or some approximation of it. And I’ll be here alone, with nothing to look forward to except oblivion.
VR simulations, he huffed. The insensitive young lout. But she loves him. She loves him. That is certain.
— 5 —
Ignatiev paced around his sitting room for hours after Gregorian left, cursing himself for a fool. You could have pried him away from her, he raged inwardly. But then he reflected, And what good would that do? She wouldn’t come to you; you’re old enough to be her great-grandfather, for god’s sake.
Maybe the young oaf was right. Maybe I sh
ould try the VR simulations.
Instead, he threw himself into the reports on the automated probes that had been sent to Gliese 581. And their power failures. For days he stayed in his quarters, studying, learning, understanding.
The official explanation for the problem by the mission directors back on Earth had been nothing more than waffling, Ignatiev decided as he examined the records. Partial power failure. Only temporary. Within a few weeks it had been corrected.
Anomalies, concluded the official reports. These things happen to highly complex systems. Nothing to worry about. After all, the systems corrected themselves as they were designed to do. And the last three probes worked perfectly well.
Anomalies? Ignatiev asked himself. Anomaly is a word you use when you don’t know what the hell really happened.
He thought he knew.
He took the plots of each probe’s course and overlaid them against the map he’d been making of the fine structure of the interstellar medium. Sure enough, he saw that the probes had encountered a region where the interstellar gas thinned so badly that a ship’s power output declined seriously. There wasn’t enough hydrogen in that region for the fusion generator to run at full power! It was like a bubble in the interstellar gas: a region that was close to empty of hydrogen atoms.
Ignatiev retraced the flight paths of all six of the probes. Yes, the first one plunged straight into the bubble and shut itself down when the power output from the fusion generator dropped so low it could no longer maintain the ship’s systems. The next two skirted the edges of the bubble and experienced partial power failures. That region had been dangerous for the probes. It could be fatal for Sagan’s human cargo.
He started to write out a report for mission control, then realized before he was halfway finished with the first page that it would take more than six years for his warning to reach Earth, and another six for the mission controllers’ recommendation to get back to him. And who knew how long it would take for those Earthside dunderheads to come to a decision?
