by Mike Ashley
It was no great feat to locate the images I particularly needed to see: the white-and-gold liner captain’s uniforms stood out brilliantly among the more dingy jumpsuits and coveralls on either side. Liner captain. In charge of a fully equipped, fully modernized ship; treated with the respect and admiration such a position brought. It could have been – should have been. And to make things worse, I knew the precise decision that had lost it to me.
It had been eight years now since the uniforms had appeared among my cascade images; ten since the day I’d thrown Lord Hendrik’s son off the bridge of the training ship and simultaneously guaranteed myself a black-balling with every major company in the business. Could I have handled the situation differently? Probably. Should I have? Given the state of the art then, no. A man who, after three training missions, still went borderline claustrophobic every time he had to stay awake through a cascade point had no business aboard a ship, let alone on its bridge. Hendrik might have forgiven me once he thought things through. The kid, who was forced into a ground position with the firm, never did. Eventually, of course, he took over the business.
I had no way of knowing that four years later the Aker-Ming Autotorque would eliminate the need for anyone to stay awake through cascade maneuvers. I doubt seriously the kid appreciated the irony of it all.
In the eight years since the liner captain uniforms had appeared they had been gradually moving away from me along all four arms of the cross. Five more years, I estimated, and they would be far enough down the line to disappear into the mass of images crowded together out there. Whether my reaction to that event would be relief or sadness I didn’t yet know, but there was no doubt in my mind that it would in some way be the end of a chapter in my life. I gazed at the figures for another minute . . . and then, with my ritual squeezing of the bruise accomplished, I let my eyes drift up and down the rest of the line.
They were unremarkable, for the most part: minor variations in my appearance or clothing. The handful that had once showed me in some non-spacing job had long since vanished toward infinity; I’d been out here a long time. Perhaps too long . . . a thought the half-dozen or so gaps in each arm of the pattern underlined with unnecessary force. I’d told Bradley that ships like the Dancer rarely crashed, a perfectly true statement; but what I hadn’t mentioned was that the chances of simply disappearing en route were something rather higher. None of us liked to think about that, especially during critical operations like cascade point maneuvers. But the gaps in the image pattern were a continual reminder that people still died in space. In six possible realities, apparently, I’d made a decision that killed me.
Taking another deep breath, I forced all of that as far from my mind as I could and activated the Dancer’s flywheel.
Even on the bridge the hum was audible as the massive chunk of metal began to spin. A minute later it had reached its top speed . . . and the entire ship’s counterrotation began to register on the gyroscope set behind glass in the ceiling above my head. The device looked out of place, a decided anachronism among the modern instruments, control circuits, and readouts filling the bridge. But it was the only way a ship our size could find its way safely through a cascade point. The enhanced electron tunneling effect that fouled up electronic instrument performance was well understood; what was still needed was a way to predict the precise effect a given cascade point rotation would generate. Without such predictability, readings couldn’t even be given adjustment factors. Cascade navigation thus had to fall back on gross electrical and purely mechanical systems: flywheel, physical gyroscope, simple on-off controls, and a nonelectronic decision-maker. Me.
Slowly, the long needle above me crept around its dial. I watched its reflection carefuly in the magnifying mirror, a system that allowed me to see the indicator without having to break my back looking up over my shoulder. Around me, the cascade images did their own low dance, a strange kaleidoscopic thing that moved the images and gaps around within each branch of the cross, while the branches themselves remained stationary relative to me. The effect was unexplained; but then, Colloton field theory left a lot of things unexplained. Mathematically, the basic idea was relatively straightforward: the space we were in right now could be described by a type of bilinear conformal mapping – specifically, a conjugate inversion that maps lines into circles. From that point it was all downhill, the details tangling into a soup of singularities, branch points, and confluent Riemann surfaces; but what it all eventually boiled down to was that a yaw rotation of the ship here would become a linear translation when I shut down the field generator and reentered normal space. The Dancer’s rotation was coming up on two degrees now, which for the particular configuration we were in meant we were already about half a light-year closer to our destination. Another – I checked the print-out – one point three six and I would shut down the flywheel, letting the Dancer’s momentum carry her an extra point two degree for a grand total of eight light-years.
The needle crept to the mark, and I threw the flywheel switch, simultaneously giving my full attention over to the gyro. Theoretically, over- or undershooting the mark could be corrected during the next cascade point – or by fiddling the flywheel back and forth now – but it was simpler not to have to correct at all. The need to make sure we were stationary was another matter entirely; if the Dancer were still rotating when I threw the field switch we would wind up strung out along a million kilometers or more of space. I thought of the gaps in my cascade image pattern and shivered.
But that was all the closer death was going to get to me, at least this time. The delicately balanced spin lock worked exactly as it was supposed to, freezing the field switch in place until the ship’s rotation was as close to zero as made no difference. I shut off the field and watched my duplicates disappear in reverse order, waiting until the last four vanished before confirming the stars were once again visible through the bridge’s tiny viewport. I sighed; and fighting the black depression that always seized me at this point, I turned the Dancer’s systems back on and set the computer to figuring our exact position. Someday, I thought, I’d be able to afford to buy Aker-Ming Autotorques and never, never have to go through this again.
And someday I’d swim the Pacific Ocean, too.
Slumping back in my chair, I waited for the computer to finish its job and allowed the tears to flow.
Crying, for me, has always been the simplest and fastest way of draining off tension, and I’ve always felt a little sorry for men who weren’t able to appreciate its advantages. This time was no exception, and I was feeling almost back to normal by the time the computer produced its location figures. I was still poring over them twenty minutes later when Alana returned to the bridge, “Another cascade point successfully hurdled, I see,” she commented tiredly. “Hurray for our side.”
“I thought you were supposed to be taking a real nap, not just a sleeper’s worth,” I growled at her over my shoulder.
“I woke up and decided to take a walk,” she answered, her voice suddenly businesslike. “What’s wrong?”
I handed her a print-out, pointed to the underlined numbers. “The gyroscope reading says we’re theoretically dead on position. The stars say we’re short.”
“Wumph!” Frowning intently at the paper, she kicked around the other chair and sat down. “Twenty light-days. That’s what, twice the expected error for this point? Great. You double-checked everything, of course?”
“Triple-checked. The computer confirmed the gyro reading, and the astrogate program’s got positive ident on twenty stars. Margin of error’s no greater than ten light-minutes on either of those.”
“Yeah.” She eyed me over the pages. “Anything funny in the cargo?”
I gestured to the manifest in front of me. “We’ve got three boxes of technical equipment that include Ming metal,” I said. “All three are in the shield. I checked that before we lifted.”
“Maybe the shield’s sprung a leak,” she suggested doubtfully.
“It�
��s supposed to take a hell of a break before the stuff inside can affect cascade point configuration.”
“I can go check if you’d like.”
“No, don’t bother. There’s no rush now, and Wilkinson’s had more experience with shield boxes. He can take a look when he wakes up. I’d rather you stay here and help me do a complete programming check. Unless you’d like to obey orders and go back to bed.”
She smiled faintly. “No, thanks; I’ll stay. Um . . . I could even start things alone if you’d like to go to the lounge for a while.”
“I’m fine,” I growled, irritated by the suggestion.
“I know,” she said. “But Lanton was down there alone when I passed by on my way here.”
I’d completely forgotten about Lanton and Bradley, and it took a couple of beats for me to catch on. Cross-examining a man in the middle of cascade depression wasn’t a terrifically nice thing to do, but I wasn’t feeling terrifically nice at the moment. “Start with the astrogate program,” I told Alana, getting to my feet. “Give me a shout if you find anything.”
Lanton was still alone in the lounge when I arrived. “Doctor,” I nodded to him as I sat down in the chair across from his. “How are you feeling?” The question was more for politeness than information; the four empty glasses on the end table beside him and the half-full one in his hand showed how he’d chosen to deal with his depression. I’d learned long ago that crying was easier on the liver.
He managed a weak smile. “Better, Captain; much better. I was starting to think I was the only one left on the ship.”
“You’re not even the only one awake,” I said. “The other passengers will probably be wandering in shortly – you people get a higher-dose sleeper than the crew takes.”
He shook his head. “Lord, but that was weird. No wonder you want everyone to sleep through it. I can’t remember the last time I felt this rotten.”
“It’ll pass,” I assured him. “How did Mr Bradley take it?”
“Oh, fine. Much better than I did, though he fell apart just as badly when it was over. I gave him a sedative – the coward’s way out, but I wasn’t up to more demanding therapy at the moment.”
So Bradley wasn’t going to be walking in on us any time soon. Good. “Speaking of therapy, Doctor, I think you owe me a little more information about what you’re doing.”
He nodded and took a swallow from his glass. “Beginning, I suppose, with what exactly Rik is suffering from?”
“That would be nice,” I said, vaguely surprised at how civil I was being. Somehow, the sight of Lanton huddled miserably with his liquor had taken all the starch out of my fire-and-brimstone mood. Alana was clearly having a bad effect on me.
“Okay. Well, first and foremost, he is not in any way dangerous, either to himself or other people. He has no tendencies even remotely suicidal or homicidal. He’s simply . . . permanently disoriented, I suppose, is one way to think of it. His personality seems to slide around in strange ways, generating odd fluctuations in behavior and perception.”
Explaining psychiatric concepts in layman’s terms obviously wasn’t Lanton’s forte. “You mean he’s schizophrenic? Or paranoid?” I added, remembering our launch field conversation.
“Yes and no. He shows some of the symptoms of both – along with those of five or six other maladies – but he doesn’t demonstrate the proper biochemical syndrome for any known mental disease. He’s a fascinating, scientifically annoying anomaly. I’ve got whole bubble-packs of data on him, taken over the past five years, and I’m convinced I’m teetering on the edge of a breakthrough. But I’ve already exhausted all the standard ways of probing a patient’s subconscious, and I had to come up with something new.” He gestured around him. “This is it.”
“This is what? A new form of shock therapy?”
“No, no – you’re missing the point. I’m studying Rik’s cascade images.”
I stared at him for a long moment. Then, getting to my feet, I went to the autobar and drew myself a lager. “With all due respect,” I said as I sat down again, “I think you’re out of your mind. First of all, the images aren’t a product of the deep subconscious or whatever; they’re reflections of universes that might have been.”
“Perhaps. There is some argument about that.” He held up a hand as I started to object. “But either way, you have to admit that your conscious or unconscious mind must have an influence on them. Invariably, the images that appear show the results of major decisions or events in one’s life; never the plethora of insignificant choices we all make. Whether the subconscious is choosing among actual images or generating them by itself, it is involved with them and therefore can be studied through them.”
He seemed to settle slightly in his chair, and I got the feeling this wasn’t the first time he’d made that speech. “Even if I grant you all that,” I said, “which I’m not sure I do, I think you’re running an incredibly stupid risk that the cascade point effects will give Bradley a shove straight over the edge. They’re hard enough on those of us who haven’t got psychological problems – what am I telling you this for? You saw what it was like, damn it. The last thing I want on my ship is someone who’s going to need either complete sedation or a restraint couch all the way to Taimyr!”
I stopped short, suddenly aware that my volume had been steadily increasing. “Sorry,” I muttered, draining half of my lager. “Like I said, cascade points are hard on all of us.”
He frowned. “What do you mean? You were asleep with everyone else, weren’t you?”
“Somebody’s got to be awake to handle the maneuver,” I said.
“But . . . I thought there were autopilots for cascade points now.”
“Sure – the Aker-Ming Autotorque. But they cost nearly twenty-two thousand apiece and have to be replaced every hundred cascade points or so. The big liners and freighters can afford luxuries like that; tramp starmers can’t.”
“I’m sorry – I didn’t know.” His expression suggested he was also sorry he hadn’t investigated the matter more thoroughly before booking aboard the Dancer.
I’d seen that look on people before, and I always hated it. “Don’t worry; you’re perfectly safe. The manual method’s been used for nearly two centuries, and my crew and I know what we’re doing.”
His mind was obviously still a half kilometer back. “But how can it be that expensive? I mean, Ming metal’s an exotic alloy, sure, but it’s only selenium with a little bit of rhenium, after all. You can buy psy-test equipment with Ming metal parts for a fraction of the cost you quoted.”
“And we’ve got an entire box made of the stuff in our number one cargo hold,” I countered. “But making a consistent-property rotation gauge is a good deal harder than rolling sheets or whatever. Anyway, you’re evading my question. What are you going to do if Bradley can’t take the strain?”
He shrugged, but I could see he didn’t take the possibility seriously. “If worse comes to worse, I suppose I could let him sleep while I stayed awake to observe his images. They do show up even in your sleep, don’t they?”
“So I’ve heard.” I didn’t add that I’d feel like a voyeur doing something like that. Psychiatrists, accustomed to poking into other people’s minds, clearly had different standards than I did.
“Good. Though that would add another variable,” he added thoughtfully. “Well . . . I think Rik can handle it. We’ll do it conscious as long as we can.”
“And what’s going to be your clue that he’s not handling it? The first time he tries to strangle one of his images? Or maybe when he goes catatonic?”
He gave me an irritated look. “Captain, I am a psychiatrist. I’m perfectly capable of reading my patient and picking up any signs of trouble before they become serious. Rik is going to be all right; let’s just leave it at that.”
I had no intention of leaving it at that: but just then two more of the passengers wandered into the lounge, so I nodded to Lanton and left. We had five days before the next cascade
point, and there would be other opportunities in that time to discuss the issue. If necessary, I would manufacture them.
Alana had only negatives for me when I got back to the bridge. “The astrogate’s clean,” she told me. “I’ve pulled a hard copy of the program to check, but the odds that a glitch developed that just happened to look reasonable enough to fool the diagnostic are essentially nil.” She waved at the long gyroscope needle above us. “Computer further says the vacuum in the gyro chamber stayed hard throughout the maneuver and that there was no malfunction of the mag-bearing fields.”
So the gyroscope hadn’t been jinxed by friction into giving a false reading. Combined with the results on the astrogate program, that left damn few places to look. “Has Wilkinson checked in?”
“Yes, and I’ve got him testing the shield for breaks.”
“Good. I’ll go down and give him a hand. Have you had time to check out our current course?”
“Not in detail, but the settings look all right to me.”
“They did to me, too, but if there’s any chance the computer’s developed problems we can’t take anything for granted. I don’t want to be in the wrong position when it’s time for the next point.”
“Yeah. Well, Pascal’s due up here in ten minutes; I guess the astrogate deep-check can wait until then. What did you find out from Lanton?”
With an effort I switched gears. “According to him, Bradley’s not going to be any trouble. He sounds more neurotic than psychotic, from Lanton’s description, at least at the moment. Unfortunately, Lanton’s got this great plan to use cascade images as a research tool, and intends to keep Bradley awake through every point between here and Taimyr.”
“He what? I don’t suppose he’s bothered to consider what that might do to Bradley’s problems.”
“That’s what I wanted to know. I never did get an acceptable answer.” I moved to the bridge door, poked the release. “Don’t worry, we’ll pound some sense into him before the next point. See you later.”
