The Black Hole Read online

  No doubt he was wasting valuable time anyway. His fancies were running away with him. But the object on the platform had looked so manlike. So did the humanoid robots escorting it, but if the thing on the gurney was a non-functioning mechanical, then why the concealing cloth? And why six escorts when one or two would have been sufficient to guide the ailing, cloaked machine to repair?

  Such imponderables gave rise to flighty speculations that no doubt were nothing more than that, but he wouldn't feel comfortable until he knew for certain.

  Holland did his best to lock the controls of the little car so that it would remain where he left it, awaiting his return. Then he hurried after the departed group. He turned the corner around which they had disappeared and was confronted by a long, bare corridor. A single closed door was nearby.

  Careful, now, he told himself. He knew these machines of Reinhardt's were personally programmed by him and realized they might have been imbued with personalities akin to Maximillian's. They haven't bothered you yet, but they may not appreciate being interrupted or spied upon, and Reinhardt's not around to countermand any violent impulses you might trigger. So . . . watch it.

  He tried the door, ready to run, fight or talk fast, as the occasion demanded. It opened easily. The long room inside was deserted. That is, the people were absent but their memories lay thick.

  "Crew quarters," Holland muttered softly to himself as he walked through the room. Bunks were stacked three high. They had the appearance of having been moved and rearranged. He wondered at the cramped space. On a ship the size of the Cygnus, the crew's living quarters should have been more spacious. Even the Palomino offered more privacy.

  He couldn't recall such details from twenty years ago. Maybe the builders of the Cygnus had felt that this kind of dormitory-type existence would promote conviviality among the crew. Or perhaps, after many years in free space, the crew had chosen to make such alterations themselves, a small band of humanity drawing closer together for psychological warmth against the vast, impersonal coldness surrounding them.

  There were other possible explanations, but he didn't dwell on them. Names from the past jumped out at him from where they appeared on lockers and cases. Occasional bits of individuality shone startlingly from the walls in the form of a pinup or solido. Some of the old-fashioned pictures were printed on plastic.

  The room ended in another door. This one opened reluctantly, cranky with an air of disuse. It reminded him of the atmosphere down in Maintenance and Stores. Inside were row on row of old, musty uniforms. All appeared to be in good condition. Now his supply of ready rationalizations started to run thin. If the crew had brought casual clothing on the journey with them, he guessed they might have grown tired of their official uniforms and had chosen to try to return to Earth in less formal garb. How could he imagine their collective state of mind preparatory to embarking on such a lonely attempt? It was conceivable that prior to departing they might have voted to leave behind anything that would remind them of the Cygnus, including uniforms.

  But he was less sure of that reasoning than he had been about the bunk arrangement.

  Another door opened off the room from the far side. It opened as easily as the first, but he was less prepared for what it revealed.

  Beyond stretched a vaulted chamber like a small cathedral. At the far end he could see the cluster of robots busy around the gurney. They removed the object from it and placed it, covering and all, into a tubelike canister. The canister was built into the skin of the ship. Holland still couldn't identify the object. Nor could he place the design or function of the otherwise empty room, but he recognized the purpose of the canister readily enough.

  His identification was soon confirmed by a faint puffing sound. A surge of frustration went through him. The canister was a disposal lock. Now he would never know what the object on the platform had been. It was outside the Cygnus. Soon it would pass beyond the protective field enveloping the ship, to be captured and dragged down to oblivion by the pull of the black hole.

  While he could not assign specifics to everything he had observed so far, together they added up to a puzzle whose outlines he was beginning to perceive. If anything, he was shying away from consideration of those outlines. They framed an ominous possibility . . .

  The door behind him was jerked violently aside. Maximillian hovered there over him, threatening and intimidating even while motionless. Despite his carefully rehearsed excuses, the unexpected and sudden confrontation had left him momentarily speechless. He stared at the dull red machine. As near as he could tell, it was examining him with equal intentness.

  His wits returned, and with them his voice. He smiled with difficulty. "Must've made a wrong turn. Guess my sense of direction's not as sharp as I thought. I'll be able to find the ship now, though."

  Maximillian gave no sign that this explanation impressed him, that he believed it, or that anything save Reinhardt's explicit orders kept him from shredding Holland on the spot. The feeling it gave Holland was that this machine had been designed to distrust everyone and everything save its single human master.

  He held the smile, though he had seen nothing to indicate that Maximillian could perceive and interpret expressions, and edged past the robot. Fear chilled him as he touched both wall and machine while squeezing by.

  Maximillian's gaze had shifted momentarily to the robots now filing out of the far end of the room. Then it turned to study Holland as the captain walked with a carefully measured stride back up toward the corridor. Holland forced himself not to look back. Behind him, the colossus slowly closed the door leading into the vaulted chamber.

  The room was high-ceilinged and domed with some translucent material stronger than glass that had a refractive effect. It was a bubble within a far larger expanse. The larger, sealed-in section was a vast, diversified garden. Vegetables and fruit trees grew within the enclosure.

  Harry Booth wandered into this inner chamber, his gaze held by the greenery and ripening fruits. For an instant he was able to forget he was dozens of light-years from Earth. He was back in midwestern North America, doing a report for his network on the coming crop year.

  Yet the plants and trees he was seeing were growing in artificial soil. Some grew in no soil at all. They were kept alive and flourishing by the carefully regulated influx of specialized nutrients and fertilizers. He had seen more extensive hydroponic gardens, and denser vegetation, but none so efficient.

  Their extent did not surprise him. A crew the size of the Cygnus's would require corresponding food sources. The smaller the proportion of recycled or concentrated foods, the healthier the crew would be. As large as it was, this was probably only one of several such artificial farms on board the great ship.

  One of the mirror-faced humanoid machines stood before the main console, patiently monitoring readouts. Occasionally it would adjust a control. The trees and ranks of ripening vegetables growing outside the control bubble derived their nourishment from injections and modulated circulation of premixed chemicals. From the central console the watchful robot could alter their diet, their water supply, even their weather.

  "Hello." The mechanical did not respond. Not that Booth expected it would. That would have meant deviating from its programming. It might not, as its brethren in the control tower, be equipped to reply.

  Instead, an arm moved, fingers stiffly turning a dial. A buzzing sound caused Booth to turn, look back into the artificially maintained undergrowth.

  A swarm of tiny machines was flitting through the plants. The buzzing sound came not from the beat of tiny wings but from miniature engines and navigation systems. Booth moved toward the transparent wall, stared at the minute robots in amazement. They traveled efficiently, accurately, from one plant to the next. After a moment of delighted contemplation he turned back to the figure standing before the console.

  "Quite a layout. More elaborate than necessary, but they had time for aesthetics in the old days. They have simpler methods of artificial pollin
ation now, but none so . . . well, charming. Did Reinhardt design them also? If so, I like his pollinators a helluva lot better than that overbearing bodyguard of his."

  None of this appeared to interest the figure. Booth leaned close, fascinated and yet repelled by the reflective, featureless face of the mechanical. He wondered if it was equipped to perceive the world around it via less familiar senses. Sophisticated sonar scanning, maybe. Or perhaps the smooth, egg-shaped metal face was a specialized polarizing shield and the robot's true optics lay behind it, seeing the world on wavelengths different from Harry Booth's.

  It continued at its tasks as if the reporter were not present, let alone less than a meter from its face.

  "Not programmed to speak, huh? Well, I suppose speech would make you a little too human. But then Reinhardt's a man who enjoys playing God, isn't he? Maximillian and the sentries aren't human-looking enough. He said he wanted, needed, companions, so he caused them to be built. I guess you and your kind are as close as he could come to making himself some human buddies."

  As anticipated, the mechanical did not respond. Its assignment apparently completed, it turned to leave the room.

  Booth ignored it, disappointed at its lack of response. He started to return his attention to the quaint tableaux provided by the pollinating machines, when something about the robot's movements caught his eye. In disbelief and confusion he stared after it, waiting and watching to make certain he hadn't imagined it Then he was positive. His eyes grew wide.

  The robot limped.

  "Hey . . . wait a minute—" Waving, trying to attract the receding figure's attention, he started around the console. "You there—wait!"

  The door closed behind the robot. Booth was seconds behind. A moment of terrible frustration when the door refused to respond for him, then it was clear and he rushed out into an empty corridor.

  His gaze swept up the passage, then down. Empty. No distant sounds, nothing save a memory that tantalized and wouldn't leave him—that and a horrible thought or two.

  Vincent extended a third limb. One was already disassembling sections of the shattered regenerator feed line. The other was sizing the replacements brought back from the Cygnus's stores. Visual calipers built into his optical system measured the new unit to within a tenth of a millimeter. He decided that the slight divergence in diameter was not critical enough to prevent the replacement from being utilized. It could be adjusted to the necessary tolerance. The difference could be filled by a judicious application of a thin film of liquid polymer.

  While he concentrated on the task at hand, he let his aural receptors remain attuned to the conversation continuing nearby.

  "Charlie, I know what I saw." A more-contemplative-than-usual Holland was helping his first officer reseal several of the line breaks.

  Pizer sounded half distressed, half amused by this admission of gullibility on the part of his friend and superior. "Dan, nobody buries a robot. If they're beyond repair, then they're cannibalized for spare parts, or deactivated and stored against the time when repair becomes possible. The only reason I can possibly think of for chucking one out into space would be if the ship needed the extra room. And no ship ever built had as much surplus space as the Cygnus. So that doesn't make sense either. You just don't bury robots."

  "I didn't say it was a robot. I said it could've been a robot. But I didn't get a good enough look at it to be able to say for sure, and now we never will."

  Pizer paused at his work. "If it wasn't a mechanical, then what? It's plain silly, Dan."

  "I don't know what it was they shot out into space," Holland said, "but they did it with all the ceremony and reverence of a human funeral. A simple disposal operation wouldn't require the presence of six attendants. That's a waste of energy, whether it's being performed by man or by machine. No machine is intentionally wasteful of energy. Neither, I'd bet, is Reinhardt."

  "Maybe Reinhardt lied." Pizer grew thoughtful. Holland had certainly witnessed something. And he was so positive. If anything, the captain of the Palomino tended to the unimaginative. He did not invent data to accord with his observations.

  Then . . . what had he seen?

  "Maybe," the first officer continued speculatively, "there are other survivors on board. You could have stumbled onto the funeral of one of the last of them. If you did see a real funeral, then what's the reason for the secrecy on Reinhardt's part? What's he been up to? What's he trying to hide?"

  Holland sealed a weld angrily. "Wish I knew. I haven't a clue, Charlie. I wouldn't put much past him. I just can't figure the man. His dedication to his work is all-consuming, but he seems genuinely interested in expanding our knowledge of the Universe and the physical forces that operate within it for the benefit of mankind. It's hard to condemn someone for zealous execution of his duty. Certainly we can't, without more evidence than a few glimpses of some maybe-funeral for an unknown subject."

  "Well, whatever he's up to," Pizer observed, he seems sincere enough about helping us repair our ship. If he was running something sinister here, the best way to cover himself would be to prevent us from leaving." He gestured at the large collection of spare parts they had hauled aboard.

  "None of these are booby-trapped. Checked out every piece myself. Everything's functional."

  "Would that be the best way?" Holland wondered. "Or would it be better for him if we left safely, to return to Earth to repeat only his version of the events of the last twenty years?"

  "A wolf remains a wolf, even if it has not eaten your sheep." Vincent sounded disapproving.

  "Who asked you, big ears?"

  "Vincent's right." Holland was nodding in agreement. "Just because Reinhardt hasn't tried anything yet doesn't mean he isn't thinking about it. One thing we can be pretty sure of: our appearance here was a genuine surprise to him. I don't care how much mechanical help you have; running a ship like this without additional human assistance is a round-the-clock task. He may be stalling for time, trying to decide just what he wants to do with us.

  "The sooner we leave here, the better. It's not a good idea to give a fanatic like Reinhardt too much time to think."

  Pizer could not agree totally. "If you excuse our treatment on arrival, he's been polite enough so far."

  "So far. Courtesy would be instinctive in someone like our host. Careful manipulation of guests comes later, after he's had time to size us up."

  "Whatever you say." Pizer shrugged. "In any case, the sooner we finish this, the sooner our options will be increased. Let's snap it up, Vincent."

  "A pint cannot hold a quart, Mr. Pizer," the robot replied. "If it holds a pint, it's doing the best it can."

  Pizer scowled at the machine. "Lay off the snide homilies. And don't think you can muddle me with archaic units of measurement. I know my ancient statistics as well as you."

  "The two of you will work faster," said Holland sternly, "if you'll quit sniping at each other."

  Reinhardt stared angrily at the readout. He touched several controls and was not pleased with the results they provided him. "Get that communication re-established at once."

  Maximillian extended a limb and plugged himself into a console. Man and machine studied the flat expanse of the control center's main screen. Alive with the death of plasma and other matter, the black hole filled the screen. The projected hues colored Reinhardt's face like a watercolor wash. His attention shifted from screen to instrumentation, switching rapidly from one to another. Both hands danced over controls, causing figures and complex word-trains to appear on multiple gauges. He would note these perfunctorily, adjust other instruments accordingly.

  Maximillian hovered nearby, a sentient extension of the ship's instruments. Physically he became a part of the Cygnus. Spiritually he remained plugged into Reinhardt.

  Durant and McCrae strolled over to watch. Their attention was divided between the image of the roiling black hole and the intense, rapid work of Reinhardt—both awesome forces of nature.

  "Fascinating . . ." Durant
's reverent appraisal left some doubt as to whether he was referring to the vision of the collapsar or to its nearby human dissector.

  "Only from a distance," McCrae commented with equal ambivalence.

  Reinhardt finished his immediate work, turned to face them. "Are you interested in black holes, Dr. Durant?"

  Durant smiled. "That's like asking a sculptor if he'd be challenged by attempting to chisel a portrait from the face of the Moon. How could anyone, scientist or layman, not be fascinated by the deadliest force in the Universe?

  "I've studied collapsars all my life, Doctor. The most amazing thing about them is how little we've actually been able to learn about them since their discovery in the late twentieth century. Of course, the problem is the same now as it was then. How do you study something that swallows up your instrument probes as soon as they get near enough to learn anything new? It's like trying to study a man who's invisible and can destroy anything that comes within a light-year of him. Under such conditions, study is impossible and all attempts at scientific analysis are reduced to guesswork."

  "The long, dark tunnel to nowhere," said McCrae dispassionately. "That's what they are."

  "Or to somewhere." Reinhardt spoke casually. "Those are the possibilities yet to be explored. Here Dr. Durant has just admirably elucidated why our knowledge of such stellar phenomena is so slim, and nonetheless you proceed to offer a conclusion on the basis of imagination rather than fact. Not a very professional judgment, Dr. McCrae. I would expect better of you."

  "I was being poetic, not analytical."

  Durant spoke before Reinhardt could reply. By this time the younger man's admiration knew no limits. "Yet you've defied the power of that black hole with your null-g field, sir. A stunning achievement."