Alan Foster: Dark Star

After all, they’d blame the entire crew of the Dark Star , and Talby couldn’t drag the others down to an ignominious future no matter what he saw as fit for himself.

So he swung about in the chair, touched several buttons, and prepared to do his duty—for Doolittle, Pinback, Boiler, and Powell, and not for some faraway abstracted humanity.

The eyepiece to the deep-space telescope dipped neatly down in front of him. He edged close to it, and took a visual sighting. A rapidly diminishing bright spot was all that showed in the now considerable distance. Quick cross-check of charts revealed it was indeed something in the vicinity of the star they had just left. He addressed the intercom.

“Lieutenant Doolittle, it just exploded. Ah, the planet just exploded, sir. Lieutenant?”

Well, if Doolittle didn’t even care … Talby flipped the intercom off, morosely contemplated the heavens.

But it wasn’t Doolittle’s fault. The intercom, like so many things on the Dark Star lately, was merely malfunctioning again.

Down in the control room, with the bomb run no doubt successful and the destruction sequence completed, Pinback, Doolittle, and Boiler were taking a stretch, shifting about in their seats like so many old cats.

“Computer’s late again,” observed Boiler. “That computer’s beginning to worry me, Doolittle. Sometimes I think I hear it singing to itself.”

“I know it’s late, Boiler,” the lieutenant replied. “Don’t let that bother you. It’s about the only instrument on this ship that’s still performing up to par.” There was a cessation of the muted hum that always came over the speakers, and Doolittle smiled slightly. “See, there it is now.”

“Attention, attention,” the mechanical, mildly feminine machine voice said. “Ship’s computer to all personnel. The hyperdrive sequence is now terminated, and I am happy to report that the target planet is destroyed.”

“Whoopee,” muttered Boiler, making a little circle in the air with one finger.

“You may now relax and take a stretch if you so desire, gentlemen.”

“Unlock fail-safe,” ordered Doolittle, ignoring the voice. It didn’t do to listen too long to those mildly erotic tones.

Pinback was doing something at an overhead panel. “Fail-safe unlocked.”

“The sector just visited,” the computer continued, “is now cleared for colonization. You have successfully eliminated the only unstable world in the system. Congratulations on another successful bomb run, boys.”

“Gosharootie, thanks, computer,” Doolittle said sardonically. “Tell me, honey, what are you doing after the cataclysm tonight?’

“Operating the ship, as usual, Lieutenant Doolittle.” There was a pause, then the voice continued in a slightly reproving fashion, “I must remind you again, Lieutenant, that these mental conceptualizations you have of me as a smooth-skinned, pliant, and heavy-breathing female humanoid are neither healthy nor conducive to the smooth operation of the ship. I must ask you to discontinue them.”

“Oh, go discontinue yourself,” Doolittle blurted curtly. “Stop panting, Pinback… you’re fogging up your instruments.” Pinbadc looked abashed and started to pout again.

The computer didn’t reply to Doollttle’s advice, recognizing either the frustration in the lieutenant’s voice or else the impossibility of complying with the suggestion—or maybe both.

The thought left a sour taste in Doolittle’s mind. He always got like this when a bomb run had been completed and they were faced once more with long days of nothing to do. Post-coital letdown, he thought disgustedly.

Irritated, nervous—he felt they had to hurry and find another system with habitable worlds and an unstable companion. And it was getting worse. The glow of satisfaction, the smooth aura of accomplishment that usually came over him after a successful run had grown shorter and shorter with each successive drop. Now it was practically nonexistent. He could remember when the pleasure of seeing an unstable world dissolved to its component elements had left him feeling good for weeks.

Now, he was empty again.

’What now, Boiler?” he found himself asking. “What have you got for us now?”

“So soon, Lieutenant?” wondered Pinback. “We only just finished a run.” Doolittle ignored the sergeant.

Boiler, quiet and responsive to Doolittle’s moods, was already hard at work with the predictors. “Not much here, Lieutenant. I don’t see any possibilities at all in this sector. Tough.”

Responsive, yes, but insensitive. Damn the man’s insensitivity. Damn his uncommunicativeness and his in ability to enjoy extended, intelligent conversation. Doolittle wondered at himself. He never would figure out why he preferred talking to Boiler instead of Pinback. Maybe it was because the corporal, at least, required nothing of him in return. Doolittle had never been a person to give much of himself. He expected too much from Boiler, and got too much from Pinback. If only Talby were more willing to chat. If only Powell were still around, to give the orders.

“Well, find me something,” he ordered nervously. “I don’t care where it is. Something interesting, anything… we’ve only got one lousy bomb left and then we can go home—I think.”

“Something interesting,” Boiler echoed. “Okay.” He bent to his instrumentation, consulted the charts from under his panel.

“Well, we’re close to the Horsehead Nebula sector. We had reports before we left that there was as much as a ninety-five-percent probability of intelligent life in the southern quadrant of the nebula. Long-distance locators found at least two sol-type stars there showing measure perturbations in their paths, indicative of planets at distances which would place them in the so-called life zones.”

“Don’t give me that kind of bull,” Doolittle complained. “Intelligent life my ass! You oughta know by now, Boiler, that there’s no intelligent life in this universe. None at all.”

Including ourselves, of course, he added to himself. But this was no revelation. They had known that for years, when prediction after prediction had failed to be borne out. They’d visited and mapped dozens of worlds where life should have sprung up independently and flowered, and they’d found nothing but lower forms of plants and animals, the highest being Pinback’s pet amorph, which they’d called the Beachball. A poor response to all their desperate hopes of finding intelligent life.

No, they were alone—alone in a mocking infinity. Only Talby seemed not to be alone

“I know it’s a long shot,” Boiler responded quietly, “but…” He watched the lieutenant carefully, but his guarded optimism had no effect on Doolittle.

“Damned wild goose chase is what it is,” the lieutenant finally commented. He grinned a little. “Remember when Commander Powell found that ‘ninety-nine-plus’ probability of intelligent life in a little system on line with the Magellanic Cloud and for a couple of minutes we all thought he meant we were going there?”

The corporal shook his head. He didn’t remember. A hand indicated a particular readout.

“But there is a possibility this time, according to…” Doolittle ignored him, still reminiscing.

What a shame! What a sad memory! And what a colossal disappointment. It nearly broke Powell’s heart.

“Remember what we found when we did get to that world, Boiler? Remember? Was it a race of giant humanoids waiting to welcome us as members of a world-spanning intergalactic civilization? Or a planet of quiet thinkers waiting for a new, vigorous people like ourselves to unload all the secrets of the universe on? Or even a race of intelligent insects? Or revolting giant slugs?