Connie Willis - Schwarzschild Radius

“Schwarzschild was never even in Russia,” I lie. “He spent the whole winter in hospital in Gottingen. I lied to you. It was nothing but a thought problem.”

He waits, pencil ready.

“You can’t stay here!” I shout. “You have to get away. There is no safe distance from which a fixed observer can watch without being drawn in, and once you are inside the Schwarzschild radius, you can’t get out. Don’t you understand? We are still there!”

We are still there, trapped in the trenches of the Russian front, while the dying star burns itself out, spiraling down into that center where time ceases to exist, where everything ceases to exist except the naked singularity that is somehow Schwarzschild.

Müller tries to dig the wireless out with his crushed arm so he can send a message that nobody can hear—

“Help us! Help us!”—and I struggle to free the hands that in spite of Schwarzschild’s warmth are now so cold I cannot feel them, and in the very center Schwarzschild burns himself out, the black hole at his center imploding him cell by cell, carrying him down into darkness, and us with him.

“It is a trap!” I shout at Travers from the center, and the message struggles to escape and then falls back.

“I wonder how he figured it out,” Travers says, and now I can hear him clearly. “I mean, can you imagine trying to figure out something like the theory of black holes in the middle of a war and while you were suffering from a fatal disease? And just think, when he came up with the theory, he didn’t have any idea that black holes even existed.”