by Mike Ashley
Wilkinson and Sarojis were both in the number one hold when I arrived, Sarojis offering minor assistance and lots of suggestions as Wilkinson crawled over the shimmery metal box that took up the forward third of the narrow space. Looking down at me as I threaded my way between the other boxes cramming the hold, he shook his head. “Nothing wrong here, Cap’n,” he said. “The shield’s structurally sound; there’s no way the Ming metal inside could affect our configuration.”
“No chance of hairline cracks?” I asked.
He held up the detector he’d been using. “I’m checking, but nothing that small would do anything.”
I nodded acknowledgment and spent a moment frowning at the box. Ming metal had a number of unique properties inside cascade points, properties that made it both a blessing and a curse to those of us who had to fly with it. Its unique blessing, of course, was that its electrical, magnetic, and thermodynamic properties were affected only by the absolute angle the ship rotated through, and not by any of the hundred or so other variables in a given cascade maneuver. It was this predictability that finally had made it possible for a cascade point autodrive mechanism to be developed. Of more concern to smaller ships like mine, though, was that Ming metal drastically changed a ship’s “configuration” – the size, shape, velocity profile, and so on from which the relation between rotation angle and distance traveled on a given maneuver could be computed. Fortunately, the effect was somewhat analogous to air resistance, in that if one piece of Ming metal were completely enclosed in another, only the outer container’s shape, size, and mass would affect the configuration. Hence, the shield. But if it hadn’t been breached, then the cargo inside it couldn’t have fouled us up . . .
“What are the chances,” I asked Wilkinson, “that one of these other boxes contains Ming metal?”
“Without listing it on the manifest?” Sarojis piped up indignantly. He was a dark, intense little man who always seemed loudly astonished whenever anyone did something either unjust or stupid. Most everyone on the Dancer OD’d periodically on his chatter and spent every third day or so avoiding him. Alana and Wilkinson were the only exceptions I knew of, and even Alana got tired of him every so often. “They couldn’t do that,” Sarojis continued before I could respond. “We could sue them into bankruptcy.”
“Only if we make it to Taimyr,” I said briefly, my eyes on Wilkinson.
“One way to find out,” he returned. Dropping lightly off the shield, he replaced his detector in the open tool box lying on the deck and withdrew a wand-like gadget.
It took two hours to run the wand over every crate in the Dancer’s three holds, and we came up with precisely nothing. “Maybe one of the passengers brought some aboard,” Sarojis suggested.
“You’ve got to be richer than any of our customers to buy cases with Ming-metal buckles.” Wilkinson shook his head. “Cap’n, it’s got to be a computer fault, or else something in the gyro.”
“Um,” I said noncommittally. I hadn’t yet told them that I’d checked with Alana midway through all the cargo testing and that she and Pascal had found nothing wrong in their deep-checks of both systems. There was no point in worrying them more than necessary.
I returned to the bridge to find Pascal there alone, slouching in the helm chair and gazing at the displays with a dreamy sort of expression on his face. “Where’s Alana?” I asked him, dropping into the other chair and eyeing the pile of diagnostic print-outs they’d thoughtfully left for me. “Finally gone to bed?”
“She said she was going to stop by the dining room first and have some dinner,” Pascal said, the dreamy expression fading somewhat. “Something about meeting the passengers.”
I glanced at my watch, realizing with a start that it was indeed dinnertime. “Maybe I’ll go on down, too. Any problems here, first?”
He shook his head. “I have a theory about the cascade point error,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I’d rather not say what it is, though, until I’ve had more time to think about it.”
“Sure,” I said, and left. Pascal fancied himself a great scientific detective and was always coming up with complex and wholly unrealistic theories in areas far outside his field, with predictable results. Still, nothing he’d ever come up with had been actually dangerous, and there was always the chance he would someday hit on something useful. I hoped this would be that day.
The Dancer’s compact dining room was surprisingly crowded for so soon after the first cascade point, but a quick scan of the faces showed me why. Only nine of our twelve passengers had made it out of bed after their first experience with sleepers, but their absence was more than made up by the six crewers who had opted to eat here tonight instead of in the duty mess. The entire off-duty contingent . . . and it wasn’t hard to figure out why.
Bradley, seated between Lanton and Tobbar at one of the two tables, was speaking earnestly as I slipped through the door. “. . . less symbolic than it was an attempt to portray the world from a truly alien viewpoint, a viewpoint he would change every few years. Thus A Midsummer Wedding has both the slight fish-eye distortion and the color shifts you might get from a water-dwelling creature; also the subtleties of posture and expression that such an alien wouldn’t understand and might therefore not get right.”
“But isn’t strange sensory expression one of the basic foundations of art?” That was Tobbar – so glib on any topic that you were never quite sure whether he actually knew anything about it or not. “Drawing both eyes on one side of the head, putting nudes at otherwise normal picnics – that sort of thing.”
“True, but you mustn’t confuse weirdness for its own sake with the consistent, scientifically accurate variations Meyerhäus used.”
There was more, but just then Alana caught my eye from her place at the other table and indicated the empty seat next to her. I went over and sat down, losing the train of Bradley’s monologue in the process. “Anything?” she whispered to me.
“A very flat zero,” I told her.
She nodded once but didn’t say anything, and I noticed her gaze drift back to Bradley. “Knows a lot about art, I see,” I commented, oddly irritated by her shift in attention.
“You missed his talk on history,” she said. “He got quite a discussion going over there – that mathematician, Dr Chileogu, also seems to be a history buff. First time I’ve ever seen Tobbar completely frozen out of a discussion. He certainly seems normal enough.”
“Tobbar?”
“Bradley.”
“Oh.” I looked over at Bradley, who was now listening intently to someone holding forth from the other end of his table. Permanently disoriented, Lanton had described him. Was he envisioning himself a professor of art or something right now? Or were his delusions that complete? I didn’t know; and at the moment I didn’t care. “Well, good for him. Now if you’d care to bring your mind back to ship’s business, we still have a problem on our hands.”
Alana turned back to me, a slight furrow across her forehead. “I’m open to suggestions,” she said. “I was under the impression that we were stuck for the moment.”
I clenched my jaw tightly over the retort that wanted to come out. We were stuck; and until someone else came up with an idea there really wasn’t any reason why Alana shouldn’t be down here relaxing. “Yeah,” I growled, getting to my feet. “Well, keep thinking about it.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I’ll get something later in the duty mess,” I said.
I paused at the door and glanced back. Already her attention was back on Bradley. Heading back upstairs to the duty mess, I programmed myself an unimaginative meal that went down like so much wet cardboard. Afterwards, I went back to my cabin and pulled a tape on cascade point theory.
I was still paging through it two hours later when I fell asleep.
I tried several times in the next five days to run into Lanton on his own, but it seemed that every time I saw him Bradley was tagging along like a well-behaved cocker spa
niel. Eventually, I was forced to accept Alana’s suggestion that she and Tobbar offer Bradley a tour of the ship, giving me a chance to waylay Lanton in the corridor outside his cabin. The psychiatrist seemed preoccupied and a little annoyed at being so accosted, but I didn’t let it bother me.
“No, of course there’s no progress yet,” he said in response to my question. “I also didn’t expect any. The first cascade point observations were my baseline. I’ll be asking questions during the next one, and after that I’ll start introducing various treatment techniques and observing Rik’s reactions to them.”
He started to sidle past me, but I moved to block him. “Treatment? You never said anything about treatment.”
“I didn’t think I had to. I am legally authorized to administer drugs and such, after all.”
“Maybe on the ground,” I told him stiffly. “But out here the ship’s doctor is the final medical authority. You will not give Bradley any drugs or electronic treatment without first clearing it with Dr Epstein.” Something tugged at my mind, but I couldn’t be bothered with tracking it down. “As a matter of fact, I want you to give her a complete list of all drugs you’ve brought aboard before the next cascade point. Anything addictive or potentially dangerous is to be turned over to her for storage in the sleeper cabinet. Understand?”
Lanton’s expression stuck somewhere between irritated and stunned. “Oh, come on, Captain, be reasonable – practically every medicine in the book can be dangerous if taken in excessive doses.” His face seemed to recover, settling into a bland sort of neutral as his voice similarly adjusted to match it. “Why do you object so strongly to what I’m trying to do for Rik?”
“I’d hurry with that list, Doctor – the next point’s scheduled for tomorrow. Good day.” Spinning on my heel, I turned and stalked away.
I called back to Kate Epstein as soon as I reached my cabin and told her about the list Lanton would be delivering to her. I got the impression that she, too, thought I was overreacting, but she nevertheless agreed to cooperate. I extracted a promise to keep me informed on what Lanton’s work involved, then signed off and returned once more to the Colloton theory tapes that had occupied the bulk of my time the past four days.
But despite the urgency I was feeling – we had less than twenty hours to the next cascade point – the words on my reader screen refused to coalesce into anything that made sense. I gritted my teeth and kept at it until I discovered myself reading the same paragraph for the fourth time and still not getting a word of it. Snapping off the reader in disgust, I stretched out on my bed and tried to track down the source of my distraction.
Obviously, my irritation at Lanton was a good fraction of it. Along with the high-handed way he treated the whole business of Bradley, he’d now added the insult of talking to me in a tone of voice that implied I needed his professional services – and for nothing worse than insisting on my rights as captain of the Dancer. I wished to hell I’d paid more attention to the passenger manifest before I’d let the two of them aboard. Next time I’d know better.
Still . . . I had to admit that maybe I had overreacted a bit. But it wasn’t as if I was being short-tempered without reason. I had plenty of reasons to be worried: Lanton’s game of cascade image tag and its possible effects on Bradley, the still unexplained discrepancy in the last point’s maneuvers, the changes I was seeing in Alana –
Alana. Up until that moment I hadn’t consciously admitted to myself that she was behaving any differently than usual. But I hadn’t flown with her for four years without knowing all of her moods and tendencies, and it was abundantly clear to me that she was slowly getting involved with Bradley.
My anger over such an unexpected turn of events was not in any way motivated by jealousy. Alana was her own woman, and any part of her life not directly related to her duties was none of my business. But I knew that, in this case, her involvement was more than likely her old affinity for broken wings, rising like the Phoenix – except that the burning would come afterwards instead of beforehand. I didn’t want to see Alana go through that again, especially with someone whose presence I felt responsible for. There was, of course, little I could do directly without risking Alana’s notice and probable anger; but I could let Lanton know how I felt by continuing to make things as difficult for him as possible. And I would.
And with that settled, I managed to push it aside and return to my studies. It is, I suppose, revealing that it never occurred to me at the time how inconsistent my conclusion and proposed course of action really were. After all, the faster Lanton cured Bradley, the faster the broken-wing attraction would disappear and – presumably – the easier Alana would be able to extricate herself. Perhaps, even then, I was secretly starting to wonder if her attraction to him was something more than altruistic.
“Two minutes,” Alana said crisply from my right, her tone almost but not quite covering the tension I knew she must be feeling. “Gyro checks out perfectly.”
I made a minor adjustment in my mirror, confirmed that the long needle was set dead on zero. Behind the mirror, the displays stared blankly at me from the control board, their systems having long since been shut down. I looked at the computer’s print-out, the field generator control cover, my own hands – anything to keep from looking at Alana. Like me, she was unaccustomed to company during a cascade point, and I was determined to give her what little privacy I could.
“One minute,” she said. “You sure we made up enough distance for this to be safe?”
“Positive. The only possible trouble could have come from Epsilon Eridani, and we’ve made up enough lateral distance to put it the requisite six degrees off our path.”
“Do you suppose that could have been the trouble last time? Could we have come too close to something – a black dwarf, maybe, that drifted into our corridor?”
I shrugged, eyes on the clock. “Not according to the charts. Ships have been going to Taimyr a long time, you know, and the whole route’s been pretty thoroughly checked out. Even black dwarfs have to come from somewhere.” Gritting my teeth, I flipped the cover off the knob. “Brace yourself; here we go.”
Doing a cascade point alone invites introspection, memories of times long past, and melancholy. Doing it with someone else adds instant vertigo and claustrophobia to the list. Alana’s images and mine still appeared in the usual horizontal cross shape, but since we weren’t seated facing exactly the same direction, they didn’t overlap. The result was a suffocatingly crowded bridge – crowded, to make things worse, with images that were no longer tied to your own motions, but would twitch and jerk apparently on their own.
For me, the disadvantages far outweighed the single benefit of having someone there to talk to, but in this case I had had little choice. Alana had steadfastly refused to let me take over from her on two points in a row, and I’d been equally insistent on being awake to watch the proceedings. It was a lousy compromise, but I’d known better than to order Alana off the bridge. She had her pride, too.
“Activating flywheel.”
Alana’s voice brought my mind back to business. I checked the print-out one last time, then turned my full attention to the gyro needle. A moment later it began its slow creep, and the dual set of cascade images started into their own convoluted dances. Swallowing hard, I gave my stomach stern orders and held on.
It seemed at times to be lasting forever, but finally it was over. The Dancer had been rotated, had been brought to a stop, and had successfully made the transition to real space. I slumped in my seat, feeling a mixture of cascade depression and only marginally decreased tension. The astrogate program’s verdict, after all, was still to come.
But I was spared the ordeal of waiting with twiddled thumbs for the computer. Alana had barely gotten the ship’s systems going again when the intercom bleeped at me. “Bridge,” I answered.
“This is Dr Lanton,” the tight response came. “There’s something very wrong with the power supply to my cabin – one of my instruments just
burned out on me.”
“Is it on fire?” I asked sharply, eyes flicking to the status display. Nothing there indicated any problem.
“Oh, no – there was just a little smoke and that’s gone now. But the thing’s ruined.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Doctor,” I said, trying to sound like I meant it. “But I can’t be responsible for damage to electronics that are left running through a cascade point. Even something as simple as an AC power line can show small voltage fluc – oh, damn it!”
Alana jerked at my exclamation. “What – ”
“Lanton!” I snapped, already halfway out of my seat. “Stay put and don’t touch anything. I’m coming down.”
His reply was more question than acknowledgment, but I ignored it. “Alana,” I called to her, “call Wilkinson and have him meet me at Lanton’s cabin – and tell him to bring a Ming metal detector.”
I caught just a glimpse of her suddenly horrified expression before the door slid shut and I went running down the corridor. There was no reason to run, but I did so anyway.
It was there, of course: a nice, neat Ming-metal dual crossover coil, smack in the center of the ruined neural tracer. At least it had been neat; now it was stained with a sticky goo that had dripped onto it from the blackened circuit board above. “Make sure none of it melted off onto something else,” I told Wilkinson as he carefully removed the coil. “If it has we’ll either have to gut the machine or find a way to squeeze it inside the shield.” He nodded and I stepped over to where Lanton was sitting, the white-hot anger inside me completely overriding my usual depression. “What the hell did you think you were doing, bringing that damn thing aboard?” I thundered, dimly aware that the freshly sedated Bradley might hear me from the next cabin but not giving a damn.
His voice, when he answered, was low and artificially calm – whether in stunned reaction to my rage or simply a reflexive habit I didn’t know. “I’m very sorry, Captain, but I swear I didn’t know the tracer had any Ming metal in it.”
