The Black Hole

  THE GHOST SHIP

  For five years the crew of the Palomino

  had ranged through deep space,

  searching for evidence of alien life

  —with no result. Then, their mission almost

  at a end, they discovered a giant

  collapsar—the largest black hole ever

  encountered—and, drifting

  perilously near it, was the long-lost

  legendary starship Cygnus.

  Incredibly, the ship was not a lifeless hulk.

  Its commander, the genius who had

  designed the Cygnus and planned its epic

  voyage, still survived, served by a

  horde of mechanical slaves. But Commander

  Reinhardt had no desire to be rescued.

  He had a rendezvous with the

  incredibly hellish forces of the collapsar—

  and he planned to take the Palomino's

  crew along on his doomed adventure.

  A Del Rey Book

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Copyright © 1979 Walt Disney Productions

  Worldwide Rights Reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada, Limited, Toronto, Canada.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  ISBN 0-345-28538-7

  Cover art courtesy of Walt Disney Productions

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  THE BLACK HOLE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  For Unca Walt, who made it all possible,

  For Joshua Meador, Bill Tytla and Carl Barks,

  For Unca Scrooge, who made it square,

  For the Junior Woodchucks of the World and their guidebook and reservoir of inexhaustible knowledge,

  And for their most illustrious threesome: Huey, Dewey, and Louie, who could read microscopic print with the naked eye and who would have enjoyed this book . . .

  "There are more things in Heaven and Earth,

  Horatio,

  Than are dreamt of in your philoosophy."

  —Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

  "Stars with trains of fire and dews of blood,

  Disasters in the sun."

  —Horatio, Soldier of Denmark

  The universe bubbled and seethed to overflowing with paradoxes, Harry Booth knew. One of the most ironic was that the mere observation of its wonders made a man feel older than his time, when, instead, it should have made him feel young, filled with the desire for exploration.

  Take himself, for example. He was an inhabitant of the years euphemistically called "middle age." Mentally the label meant nothing. His body felt as limber and healthy as when he had graduated from the university, though his mind had adopted the outlook of a wizened centenarian—a centenarian who had seen too much.

  C'mon, Harry, he admonished himself. Cut it out. That's wishful thinking. You want to sound like the all-knowing old sage of space. Your problem is you still have the perception as well as the physical sense of well-being of a university student. Imagine yourself the inheritor of the skills of Swift and Voltaire, if you must, but you know darn well you'll never write anything that makes you worthy of sharpening the pencils of such giants. Be satisfied with what you are: a reasonably competent, very lucky journalist.

  Lucky indeed, he reminded himself. Half the reporters of Earth would have permanently relinquished use of their thirty favorite invectives for a chance to travel with one of the deep-space life-search ships. How you, Harry Booth, ended up on the Palomino when far better men and women languished behind merely to report its departure from Earth orbit is a mystery for the muses. Count your lucky stars.

  Glancing out the port of the laboratory cabin, he tried to do just that. But there were far too many, and none that could unequivocally be deemed lucky.

  Although he had pleasant company in the room, he felt sad and lonely. Lonely because he had been away from home too long, sad because their mission had turned up nothing.

  He forced himself to stand a little straighter. So you consider yourself a fortunate man. So stop complaining and do what you're designed to do. Report. He raised the tiny, pen-shaped recorder to his lips, continuing to stare out the port as he spoke.

  "December twenty-four. Aboard the deep-space research vessel Palomino. Harry Booth reporting.

  "Ship and personnel are tired and discouraged, but both are still functioning as planned. Man's long search for life in this section of our galaxy is drawing to a close."

  Pausing, he glanced back into the lab to study his companions. A tense, slim man tapped a stylus nervously on a light-pad and looked back up at Booth. He wore an expression of perpetual uncertainty and looked much younger than the reporter, though they were not so different in age. The uncertainty and nervousness were mitigated by an occasionally elfin sense of humor, a wry outlook on the cosmos. The man executed a small, condescending bow toward Booth; the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

  Behind him stood a softly beautiful woman whose face and figure were more graphically elfin than the man's sense of humor. Her mind, however, was as complex as the whorls in her hair. Both scientists were more serious than any Booth was used to working with, a touch too dedicated for his taste. He might never truly get to know them, but he had respected them from the first day out. They were cordial toward the lone layman in their midst, and he reciprocated as best he could.

  She was feeding information into the lab computer. As always, the sight had an unnerving effect on Booth. It reminded him of a mother feeding her baby. Where Katherine McCrae was concerned, the analogy was not as bizarre as it might have been if applied to another woman. There was a particular reason why one would view her association with machines as unusually intimate.

  Booth returned to his dictation. "Based upon five years of research involving stars holding planets theoretically likely to support life, by the fair-haired boy of the scientific world, Dr. Alex Durant"—the man who had bowed now grinned playfully back at him—"this expedition has concluded eighteen months of extensive exploration and netted, as with all previous expeditions of a similar nature and purpose, nothing. Not a single alien civilization, not a vertebrate, nothing higher than a few inconsequential and unremarkable microbes, plus evidence of a few peculiar chemical reactions on several scattered worlds."

  Booth clicked off the recorder and continued staring at Durant. "That about sum it up, Alex?"

  Repeated disappointment had purged Durant of the need to react defensively to such observations. "Unnecessarily flip, perhaps, but you know I can't argue with the facts, Harry."

  "I'm never unnecessarily flip, Alex." Booth slipped the recorder back into a tunic pocket. "You know that I'm as disappointed in the results as you are. Probably more so. You can go back with the ship's banks full of valuable data on new worlds, new phenomena, stellar spectra and all kinds of info that'll have the research teams back on Earth singing hosannas to you for years." He looked glum.

  "Sure, we've missed the big prize: finding substantial alien life. But you have your astrophysical esoterica to fall back on. For me and my news service, though, it's eighteen months down a transspatial drain. He thought a moment, then added, "December twenty-fourth. Not quite the way we'd expected to celebrate Christmas Eve, is it?" He turned again, looked back out the port.

  "We need reindeer and a fat man in a red suit. That would do for a report on extrat
errestrial life, wouldn't it?" He grunted. "Christmas Eve."

  Durant forced a wider smile. "Beats fighting the mobs of last-minute shoppers. You couldn't order a thing about now. Order channels to the outlets would be saturated." Nearby, McCrae flipped a control on the computer panel, concluded her programming, then laughed.

  "You can both hang your stockings back by the engines. Maybe Santa will leave you something unexpected."

  Booth eyed her challengingly. "Can you fit an alien civilization into a sock?"

  "I'd settle for anything non-terran with more backbone than a semi-permeable membrane." Durant's smile melted his melancholy. "Or some stick chocolate," he added cheerfully. "I never will understand why the galley can't synthesize decent chocolate."

  "I'll threaten it." McCrae started toward the lab exit. "Maybe that'll produce results. I'm going back to Power."

  "Be back by Christmas." Durant watched her depart, glanced down at the calculations he had been doodling with and spoke without looking across at Booth. "Wonder what Holland would say if I asked him to extend the mission another two months. By widening our return parabola, we could check out two additional systems, according to my figures."

  "I don't think you'll get much sympathy for that idea from our pilot, Alex." Booth's gaze had returned to the stiff but always fascinating ocean of stars outside the port. "Privately, he'd probably enjoy spending another year exploring. But he wasn't picked to command this expedition because of a penchant to indulge himself in personal pleasures.

  "Schedule says we return by such and such a date. He'll move heaven and earths to dock in terran orbit on or before that date. Pizer, now . . . he'd steer us through a star if you could guarantee him a fifty-fifty chance of making the run. But he's only first officer, not commander. He still smells of the audacity of youth. And the foolishness." Booth looked resigned.

  "Life is ruled by such subtleties, Alex. Commander or first officer, experienced or brash and challenging. If there's one thing I've learned in three decades of reporting on developments in science, it's that the actions of people and subatomic particles aren't as different as most folks would think."

  "If you want my real opinion, I'd rather have Vincent in charge than either of them."

  "Me, too," Durant agreed. "Of course, that's impossible. Even though they're supposed to select the best people for each position."

  "True," said Booth. "The problem is whether Vincent qualifies as people.

  He certainly doesn't fit the physical specifications for a command pilot."

  At the moment the subject of their conversation was up forward in command with Charles Pizer. Vincent's multiple arms were folded neatly back against his hovering, barrel-shaped body. Monitor indicators winked on or off as internal functions directed.

  His optical scanners were focused on the first officer. Pizer was slumped on one of the pilot lounges, staring at the main screen. He took no notice of Vincent. That the robot was not a man was obvious. But the suggestion that he might not qualify as a person was one Pizer would have taken immediate exception to.

  Hands manipulated controls. Constellations and other star patterns slid viscously around on the screen. Suns shifted against a background of pale, lambent green, that color being easier on the eyes—and, according to the psychologists, less depressing—than a more realistic black would have been. It was all the same to the robot.

  The first officer's thoughts were drifting like the representations of stars and nebulae, though not in harmony with them.

  "What does that remind you of, Vincent?"

  "Presuming you to be referring to the holographic stellar display, Mr. Pizer," the machine responded smoothly, "I would say that it reminds me strongly of a holographic stellar display."

  "Not me. To me it looks like multipea soup." Pizer raised up in the lounge, the chair humming as it matched the movement of his body. "I'm starving . . ."

  Lights flashed in sequence on the robot's flanks, visual indication that the machine was preparing to respond. "What else is new?"

  "Mechanical sarcasm is a feature the cyberneticists could damn well have left in the hypothetical stage." Pizer gave the robot a sharp look. "Nothing sitting loose in the galley, I expect. What's on the menu for today?"

  "Dehydrated turkey. A special treat, Lieutenant, since it's Christmas Eve. Also dehydrated cranberry sauce, dehydrated gravy and giblets, de—"

  Pizer cut him off. "Save me from a full list of the special treats." The vision of dehydrated giblets had quashed whatever rising surge of hunger he had been experiencing.

  "Vincent, I envy you."

  "That's not surprising, but why, Lieutenant?"

  "No taste buds." He leaned back into the lounge. Servos whined, adjusting to fit material properly against his back. He slipped his hands behind his head and stared longingly at the ceiling.

  "Now, if I were home, I'd sit down to a feast. A real one, with the right amount of water already in the food, not waiting to be added. Roast turkey with oyster stuffing, sweet potatoes in orange sauce, vegetables, salad, mince pie . . ." Remembering made him appear even younger than he was.

  He drifted happily along on the illusion of caloric ephemera until Vincent had to add, ". . . bicarbonate of soda . . ."

  Pizer swung out of his chair and moved toward the doorway, shoving the robot with mock belligerence. "You'll never know one way or the other. Anyway, I'll be eating the real thing soon enough. Eighteen months. It's the twenty-fourth. Time to start back, as you well know. Back to real turkey and real dressing. Back to real life. Take her home, Heart o' Steel."

  Actually, there was very little steel in Vincent's body, the robot having been constructed of far more durable and exotic alloys and metals. But he was still capable of recognizing and accepting an affectionate nickname such as the one Pizer had just bestowed on him. He did not offer metallurgical correction as he drifted toward the consoles, plugged the correct armature into the board and began to prepare for the incipient change of course.

  "Home for you, Mr. Pizer. But out here's the only home I know." One free limb gestured at the swath of star-speckled blackness that filled the port above the consoles.

  Pizer had already left the room.

  Kate McCrae broke the magnetic contact between her shoes and the deck and drifted back toward the Palomino's power center, trying hard to block out the air of disappointment she had left back in the lab.

  Booth's personal pessimism she could dismiss easily enough. His interest in the mission stemmed from cruder needs than hers or Alex's. The reporter would be mentally translating the most significant of their discoveries into credit points with his service, disparaging them by the process which transmuted the advancement of science into monetary terms.

  It was in her nature, however, to see the best in everyone. Personal relationships were one area where she neglected to apply scientific methodology. So she made excuses for Harry Booth. If nothing else, by being less than fervently involved in the problems of science, he kept the journey in proper perspective.

  If they were less downcast by their failure to find life than they might have been, it could be attributed to Booth's vision of science only in terms of monumental discoveries. He was a more accurate representative of mankind's hopes and expectations than anyone else on the ship, she reminded herself. As such, his disappointment would fade faster when they returned home. As would that of the general public.

  And who was she to condemn Harry Booth's view of the cosmos? Columbus sailed west not to advance science or knowledge as much as to find gold, gems and spices. Da Gama went to India for pepper and nutmeg and cloves, not because he was intensely curious about the Indians.

  The motivations of such men did not diminish the magnitude of their discoveries. Maybe the Harry Booths were as necessary to mankind's opening of the Universe as were the Alex Durants.

  At least the reporter was good company. She had been around many journalists in her career. Others had tried to exploit her peculiar abili
ties. Not Booth. They could have done a lot worse than the crusty old veteran.

  A feeling of power sifted through her as she worked her way around the vast chamber of the center. Engines snored steadily, shoving them past space—as opposed to through it—at a rapid pace. They were presently traveling at a comparative crawl, having gone sublight preparatory to changing their course for home.

  At one time man had believed faster-than-light travel impossible. She smiled at the thought. If man had learned anything since stepping out past the atmospheric bubble that enclosed his world, it was that the only immutability of the Universe lay in its infinite bounty of contradictions. On the cosmic docket, the laws of nature seemed perpetually subject to challenge by the scientific court of appeals.

  Holland was working in the monitoring complex, his gray uniform blending in with the colors of the tubes and metallic constructions surrounding him. The warmth that coursed through her at the sight was not wholly a result of the radiant heat from the engines.

  She moved next to him. Though he still didn't look up from his work, she knew he had been aware of her presence from the instant she entered the center.

  "Think it'll hold together long enough to get us home?"

  He smiled affectionately over at her. "How can you have any doubts with Super-Pilot at the controls?"

  "Humility is one of your most endearing qualities."

  "After eighteen months, it's nice to see that you've learned some." He paused, then looked momentarily somber. "I've been concerned about suggestions of metal fatigue in the propulsion unit's inner chambers. I know they're designed to handle this kind of steady thrust, but eighteen months, with only an occasional brief rest, is a long time to ask even the densest alloys to function without showing some kind of wear." The smile returned.

  "I think we'll be okay, though." He adjusted one slide control slightly, watching with satisfaction as two nearby readouts shifted in response.