The Reefs of Space

by Frederik Pohl

  It was a bad spot for Ryeland. If anything happened to the girl, there was no doubt in the world that he would be held responsible. Gottling would see to that. And then good-bye dreams of freedom.

  In fact, more likely it would be good-bye head!

  Ryeland swore angrily. The Peace Doves squawked and rose into the air, circling around him. He paused, searched around, found a length of heavy chain just outside the cage door. Heaven knew what it had been used for—though the stains on it suggested one possibility. He caught it up and dove into the cage after the girl.

  "Stop," she said calmly. "I don't want to turn the Doves loose on you."

  "Then get out of here!" he demanded. The floor of the cage was slippery with a kind of odorous slime. Part of it was the spaceling's blood, undoubtedly, but there was more —decaying small things that Ryeland couldn't recognize; perhaps they were animals that had come with the space-ling. The stench was powerful and sickening, but Ryeland didn't let it stop him. If that girl could stand it, that dainty creature who lived in an atmosphere of lilac blossoms and ease, certainly he could!

  She was bending over the creature, reaching down to caress its golden fur. "Drop that chain," she ordered over her shoulder. "It's afraid of you."

  It flinched from her touch at first. Then it relaxed. It licked at her face with a long black tongue. A sudden rumble filled the cage, like the purr of a giant cat.

  There was an eruption of noise from outside. Colonel Gottling, radar-horned, deep eyes blazing fury out of the face like a skull, came racing in with a dozen men in Technicorps scarlet. "Get her out of there, you fool!" he roared, waving the electric prod at Ryeland.

  The spaceling saw him and the enormous purr stopped. The creature began to whimper and tremble. "Hold it!" cried Ryeland. "You're frightening the spaceling. It may attack Miss Creery!"

  But Donna Creery needed no help from him just then. On her knees in the bloody slime, she looked up from the torn, blood-crusted fur of the creature and her eyes were a hawk's eyes. "Colonel Gottling," she said in a thin voice that cut like knives. "I've been wanting to talk to you!"

  The skull-faced colonel swallowed but stood his ground.

  "You must get out of there, Miss Creery! The animal is dangerous. It has already wounded half a dozen men!"

  "And what were the men doing to the spaceling?" The girl bent to pat the golden battered head. Two or three fat green flies were buzzing through the thinning cloud of light around the wounds on the spaceling's flanks. "Filthy," she said with scorn. "I want this cleaned up!"

  She stood up and gestured Ryeland ahead of her out of the cage. "I want a meeting of the whole Team," she said coldly, closing the cage door behind her, "and I want it now! Meanwhile, Gottling, have your men clean that cage out. And if I catch any of them using that prod again, I'll see how they like it used on themselves!"

  Gottling turned purple. In a voice stiff with self-control he said: "It is no longer my project, Miss Creery. Mr. Ryeland has taken it over."

  "I give it back," said the girl. "I have another use for Mr. Ryeland."

  Ryeland said, shocked: "But the Machine ordered—"

  “I’ll take care of the Machine," she said calmly. "Get started on this cage, you men! The spaceling needs her symbiotic partners and they're dying fast." She turned to the door. "Now let's have that meeting," she said grimly. "I want to get a few things straight!"

  They were back at Point Crescent Green. The Team was buzzing like flies around the spaceling's wounds.

  Donna Creery dominated the meeting. Major Chatterji tittered shyly and General Fleemer made half a dozen speeches on Teamwork; Colonel Gottling was in an icy rage and Colonel Lescure fluttered objections. But not one of them could stand up against the girl.

  She blazed: "If that animal dies, she's going to take the lot of you with her! I've got news for you. There's a shortage of salvage material at the Body Bank." She stared around the room appraisingly. "Some of you would make pretty good spare parts. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Quite clear," General Fleemer said humbly. "But, Miss Creery, our Team objective—"

  "Shut up," she said mildly. "Yes? What is it?"

  Machine Major Chatterji said with great respect; "There's a message for you on the teletype."

  "It can wait." There was an audible gasp but the girl paid no attention. "From this date forward, Mr. Ryeland is in charge of the Team."

  General Fleemer choked and sputtered: "Miss Creery, a Risk can't be put—"

  "Yes, a Risk can," Donna Creery contradicted. "Oh, all right. Here, I'll get orders for you," She walked through them to the teletype, calmly pressed the "Interrupt" switch —another gasp swept through the Team—and began to type. In a moment the Machine's answer rattled back:

  Action. Fleemer Team will comply with directive

  of Donna Creery

  "Anything else bothering you?" she demanded.

  "Nothing," croaked General Fleemer. His toad eyes bulged more than ever.

  "All right. Now the rest of you clear out. Ryeland, I want to talk to you."

  Whispering among themselves, but not audibly, the Team filed out of the conference room. Donna Creery stretched and yawned, the Peace Doves fluttering and cooing. "That's better," she said drowsily. "What are you doing?"

  Ryeland coughed. "There seems to be a message coming in for you, Miss Creery," he said.

  "There always is," she sighed. She stood behind him, one arm casually on his shoulder, reading:

  Information. Planner Creery en route from Mombasa to Capetown. Information. Donna Creery personal rocket refueled and serviced. Information. London Philharmonic acknowledges receipt of opening season program instructions. Action. Request choice of soloist Beethoven piano concerto. Information. Moon colony Alpha-Six requests presence Donna Creery 25th anniversary celebration. Information.

  "The usual run of thing," the girl said absently. "It can wait." She looked around. "This place depresses me. Haven't you got a room of your own? Let's go there." She didn't wait for an answer; she got up and beckoned Rye-land to follow.

  He was not surprised to find that she knew the way. There seemed to be very little this girl didn't know!

  But the situation was getting out of hand.

  This girl was giving orders to an entire Research Team. It wasn't her place to do that. Everybody knew that! Under the Plan of Man it was the Machine that gave orders. Human beings—even Planner's daughters—were supposed to do their own job (perfectly) and nobody else's. That was plain logic, the logic of the Plan.

  He stood stiffly holding the door to his room, meditating what to say to her. She walked in, looking curiously about; he followed, leaving the door ajar.

  "Oh, close it," she said impatiently. "Don't you-think my Peace Doves are chaperones enough?" She laughed at the expression on his face, threw herself at full length on 'his bed and lit a cigarette. The dislodged Peace Doves cooed complainingly and found roosts for themselves on the iron headboard.

  Grudgingly Ryeland closed the door. He nodded to the teletype. "Don't you want to check in?"

  "The Machine'll find me," Donna Creery said cheerfully. "You watch." And, sure enough, the words were hardly out of her mouth when the keys began to rattle away:

  Information. Marseilles Planning Council asks Donna Creery give annual Plan Awards. Information. Life Magazine requests permission use photograph Donna Creery on Woman of the Year cover. Information—

  "Someone's always available to tell the Machine where I've gone," the girl told Ryeland seriously. "And if not— well, the Machine can usually make a pretty good guess where I’ll be. It knows me pretty well by now."

  She spoke, Ryeland noticed wonderingly, as though the Machine were an old friend. But she didn't give him much chance to speculate on that; she said abruptly: "You're not much, Steve, but you're better than those others. Can you keep my spaceling alive?"

  "Your spaceling?"

  She laughed. "It's mine because I like it. Everything I like belong
s to me—that's the way I want it." She added seriously: "But I don't know yet whether or not I like you."

  He said, the back of his neck bristling, "I have my duty, Miss Creery. I'm going to do it! I hope it won't mean any further discomfort to the spaceling, but, if it does— Do you see this?" He tugged angrily at his collar. "I want that off! If I have to kill a million spacelings to get it off, I'll do it!"

  She stubbed out her cigarette lazily. 'That isn't what you told Gottling," she observed.

  "How do you know what I told Gottling?" "Oh, I know very many things. Why shouldn't I? The Machine goes everywhere, and my father is practically part of the Machine. And, oh, yes, I like the Machine, and everything I like—" She shrugged winsomely.

  Ryeland stared. She was mocking him. She had to be. It was a joke in terribly bad taste, but surely that was all it was. He said stiffly: "Miss Creery, I don't appreciate that sort of remark about the Machine. I believe in the Plan of Man."

  "That's terribly good of you," she said admiringly. "Blast you," he yelled, pushed a step too far, "don’t make fun of me! The Plan of Man needs the jetless drive, you silly little skirt! If the spaceling has to die so the Plan can discover its secret, what possible difference does that make?"

  She swung her feet to the ground and got up, walking over close to him. Her face was relaxed and sympathetic. She looked at him for a second.

  Then she said suddenly: "Do you still love that girl?" It caught him off balance. "What—what girl?" "Angela Zwick," she said patiently. "The daughter of Stefan Zwick. The blond, twenty years old, five feet four and a quarter, with green eyes, who became your teletype operator late one afternoon and made you kiss her that very night. The one who turned you in. Do you still love her?"

  Ryeland's eyes popped. "I—I know you've got special sources of information," he managed, "but, really, I had no idea—"

  "Answer the question," she said impatiently. He took a deep breath and considered. "Why, I don't know," he said at last. "Perhaps I do." Donna Creery nodded. "I thought so," she said. "All right, Steve. I thought for a moment—But, no, it wouldn't work out, would it? But I admire your spirit."

  Ryeland took a deep breath again. This girl, she had a talent for confusing him. It wasn't possible for him to keep up with her, he decided, it was only possible for him to cling to the basic facts of his existence. He said stiffly: "It doesn't take spirit to defend the Plan of Man. If the Plan needs to learn the secret of the jetless drive, that's my plain duty."

  She nodded and sat again on his bed, the Peace Doves settling gently on her shoulders. "Tell me, Steve, do you know why the Plan of Man requires this information?"

  "Why—no, not exactly. I suppose—"

  "Don't suppose. It's to explore the reefs of space. Do you know what the Plan wants in the reefs?"

  "No, I can't say that—"

  "It wants Ron Donderevo, Steve."

  "Ron?" He frowned.

  "The man who got out of his iron collar, Steve," the girl said, nodding. A man you might like to know again. That booby-trapped, tamper-proof collar, that nobody can possibly get off until the Machine authorizes it—the Machine wants to talk to Donderevo about it, very badly. Because he took his collar off, all by himself."

  Ryeland stared at her.

  She nodded. "And Donderevo is out in the reefs now," she said, "and the Machine wants to do something about it. It might simply destroy the reefs. I understand you are working on some such project. But if it can't do that, it wants to send someone out there to find him.

  "Someone with a radar gun, Steve! To kill him! And that's why the Machine wants the secret of the jetless drive!"

  Chapter 7

  Ryeland's new authority as leader of the Attack Team did nothing to endear him to his colleagues.

  He didn't care. He had work enough to keep him busy. Oddball Oporto made himself useful. The little man's talent for lightning computing saved Ryeland a good deal of time. Not that Oporto was faster than a computer. He wasn't; but Oporto had a distinct advantage over the binary digital types in that problems didn't have to be encoded and taped, then decoded.

  Still, in the final analysis there were not too many problems to compute. In fact, that was the big problem: Rye-land could find no handle by which to grasp the question of the jetless drive.

  But Oporto made himself useful hi other ways as well.

  He had a prying nose for news, for example, which kept Ryeland informed of what was going on in the Team Project. "Fleemer's got the sulks," he reported one day. "Holed up in his room, doesn't come out."

  "All right," said Ryeland absently. "Say, where's my Physical Constants of Steady-State Equations?"

  "It's indexed under 603.811," Oporto said patiently. "The word is that Fleemer is having an argument with the Machine. Messages are going back and forth, back and forth, all the time."

  "What?" Ryeland looked up, momentarily diverted from the task of scribbling out a library requisition for the book he needed. "Nobody can argue with the Machine!"

  Oporto shrugged. "I don't know what you'd call it, then."

  "General Fleemer is filing reports," Ryeland said firmly. He beckoned to Faith, brooding in a corner. The Togetherness girl came eagerly forward, saw the slip, looked glum, shrugged and went off to get me book.

  "Sure," said Oporto. "Say, have you heard anything from Donna Creery?"

  Ryeland shook his head.

  "I hear she's in Port Canaveral."

  Ryeland snapped: "That's her problem. No doubt the Planner's daughter has plenty of occasions for off-Earth trips."

  "No doubt," agreed Oporto, "but—"

  "But you could mind your business," said Ryeland, closing the discussion.

  Faith came back with the book. Ryeland verified a couple of figures and turned a sheet of calculations over to Oporto. "Here, solve these for me. It'll give you something to do," he said. He stood up, looking absently around the room. This was his A Section, devoted to the Hoyle Effect. He had a whole sub-Team of workers going here. Still, he thought, it was a waste of time.

  "No sweat," said Oporto cheerfully, handing back the completed equations.

  "Thanks." Ryeland glanced at them, then dumped them on the desk of one of the other workers. There wasn't much to be done but routine; he could leave it to the others now. That was why it was a waste of time. All the prior art was in hand and digested, it was only a matter of checking out the math now. Then he could answer the Machine's questions—but in fact, he knew, he could pretty well answer them now. Under what conditions could hydrogen growth occur? That was easy. Basic theory gave most of the answer; an analysis of the data from Lescure's expedition in the Cristobal Colon gave a clue to the rest. And what was the possibility of halting or reversing the formation? That was easy too. Humans could have-little control over the processes that could build stars. With finite equipment, in finite time, the probability was zero.

  But it was a measure of the Machine's—desperation? Was that a word you could apply to the Machine—a measure of the Machine's, well, urgency that it could even ask such questions as these,Ryeland said uncomfortably: "Come on, Oporto. Let's go take a look at the spaceling."

  And that was B Section, and it was going badly indeed.

  Jetless drive! It was impossible, that was all. If Ryeland hadn't had the maddening spectacle of the spaceling right there before him, he would have sworn that the laws were right.

  For every action, Newton had stated centuries before, there is an equal and opposite reaction. That law of motion accounted for every movement of every creature on Earth. The cilia of the first swimming paramecium propelled the creature forward by propelling an equal mass of water backward. It was the same with the thrust of a propeller, in water or in air. Rockets thrust forward by reaction, as the mass of the ejected jet's hot molecules went one way, the vessel the rockets drove went another. Action and reaction!

  It was an equation that was easy to write—Mass times Acceleration equals Mass-prime times Acceleration-
prime —and it was an equation that was hard to doubt.

  But it did not happen to be true. The evidence of the dazed little creature from space made a liar out of Newton. The spaceling's trick of floating without visible reaction confounded the greatest genius the world has ever known.

  The spaceling showed no reaction mass at all.

  Whatever it was that permitted the spaceling to hover, it (call it "X") did not:

  Disturb the currents of the air; affect plumb-bobs hung all about; register on photographic film; discharge a gold-leaf electroscope; disturb a compass; produce a measurable electric, magnetic or electronic field; add to the weight of the cage when the entire structure was supported on a scale; make any audible sound; affect the basal metabolism of the spaceling itself; or produce a discoverable track in a cloud chamber.

  "X" did, on the other hand, do a few things.

  It affected the "brain waves" of the spaceling; there was a distinctive trace on the EEG.

  It seemed to have a worrisome effect on certain other mammals. This was noticed by chance when a cat happened to wander into the rocket pit; when the spaceling lifted itself the cat was "spooked", leaping about stifflegged, fur bristling, eyes aglare.

  And finally, it worked. Whatever "X" was, it lifted the spaceling with great ease.

  They even wrapped the spaceling in chains once, more than six hundred pounds of them. And as if amused the spaceling floated with all six hundred pounds for an hour, purring to itself.

  It was maddening.

  Still, thought Ryeland, though the comfort was small— at least the thing seemed healthier. The wounds were healing. The small symbiotic animals that were left seemed to survive. The spaceling showed life and energy.

  Donna Creery would be pleased.

  Nobody else seemed very pleased with Ryeland, though. General Fleemer stayed in his room, venturing forth only occasionally to make sardonic comments and get in the way. The other high brass of the Team didn't have Fleemer's ready escape, since they had specific tasks; but they made sure to be as unpleasant to Ryeland as they could manage.