Poul Anderson - Tau Zero

“How long can we live?” Lindgren wondered. She cut Pereira off. “I don’t mean potentially. If you say half a century, I believe you. But I think in a year or two we will stop eating, or cut our throats, or agree to turn the accelerators off.”

“Not if I can help it,” Reymont snapped.

She gave him a dreary look. “Do you mean you would continue — not just barred from man, from living Earth, but from the whole of creation?”

He regarded her steadily in return. His right hand rested on his gun butt. ‘‘Don’t you have that much guts?” he replied.

“Fifty years inside this flying coffin!” she almost screamed. “How many will that be outside?”

“Easy,” Fedoroff warned, and took her around the waist. She clung to him and snatched after air.

Boudreau said, as carefully dry as Telander: “The time relationship appears to be somewhat academic to us, n’est-ce pas? It depends on what course we take. If we let ourselves continue straight outwards, naturally we will encounter a thinner medium. The rate of decrease of tau will grow proportionately smaller as we enter intergalactic space. Contrariwise, if we try for a cyclical path taking us through the densest hydrogen concentrations, we could get a very large inverse tau. We might see billions of years go by. That could be quite wonderful.” His smile was forced, a flash in the spade beard. “We have each other too. A goodly company. I am with Charles. There are better ways to live but also worse ones.”

Lindgren hid against Fedoroff’s breast. He held her, patted her with a clumsy hand. After a while (an hour or so in the history of the stars) she raised her face again.

“I’m sorry,” she gulped. “You’re right. We do have each other.” Her glance went among them, ending at Reymont.

“How shall I tell them?” the captain beseeched.

“I suggest you do not,” Reymont answered. “Have the first officer break the news.”

“What?” Lindgren said.

“You are simpбtico, ” he answered. “I remember.”

She moved from Fedoroff’s loosened grasp, a step toward Reymont.

Abruptly the constable tautened. He stood for a second as if blind, before he whirled from her and confronted the navigator.

“Hoy!” he exclaimed. “I’ve gotten an idea. Do you know—”

“If you think I should—” Lindgren had begun to say.

“Not now,” Reymont told her. “Auguste, come over to the desk. We have a bit of figuring to do … fast!”

The silence went on and on. Ingrid Lindgren stared from the stage, where she stood with Lars Telander, down at her people. They looked back at her. And not a one in that chamber could find words.

Hers had been well chosen. The truth was less savage in her throat than in any man’s. But when she came to her planned midpoint—” We have lost Earth, lost Beta Three, lost the mankind we belonged to. We have left to us courage, love, and and, yes, hope” — she could not continue. She stood with lip caught between teeth, fingers twisted together, and the slow tears flowed from her eyes.

Telander stirred. “Ah … if you will,” he tried. “Kindly pay attention. A means does exist…” The ship jeered at him in her tone of distant lightnings.

Glassgold broke. She did not weep loudly, but her struggle to stop made the sound more dreadful. M’Botu, beside her, attempted consolation. He, though, had clamped such stoicism on himself that he might as well have been a robot. Iwamoto withdrew several paces from them both, from them all; one could see how he pulled his soul into some nirvana with a lock on its door. Williams shook his fist at the overhead and cursed. Another voice, female, started to keen. A woman considered the man with whom she had been keeping company, said, “You, for my whole life?” and stalked from him. He tried to follow her and bumped into a crewman who snarled and offered to fight if he didn’t apologize. A seething went through the entire human mass.

“Listen to me,” Telander said. “Please listen.”

Reymont shook loose the arm which Chi-Yuen Ai-Ling held, where they stood in the first row, and jumped onto the stage. “You’ll never bring them around that way,” he declared sotto voce. “You’re used to disciplined professionals. Let me handle these civilians.” He turned on them. “Quiet, there! “Echoes bounced around his roar. “Shut your hatches. Act like adults for once. We haven’t the personnel to change your diapers for you.”

Williams yelped with resentment. M’Botu bared teeth. Reymont drew his stunner. “Hold your places!” He dropped his vocal volume, but everyone heard him. “The first of you to move gets knocked out. Afterward we’ll court-martial him. I’m the constable of this expedition, and I intend to maintain order and effective cooperation.” He leered. “If you feel I exceed my authority, you’re welcome to file a complaint with the appropriate bureau in Stockholm. For now, you’ll listen!”

His tongue-lashing activated their adrenals. With heightened vigor came self-possession. They glowered but waited alertly.

“Good.” Reymont turned mild and holstered his weapon. “We’ll say no more about this. I realize you’ve had a shock which none of you were prepared psychologically to meet. Nevertheless, we’ve got a problem. And it has a solution, if we can work together. I repeat: if.”

Lindgren had swallowed her weeping. “I think I was supposed to—” she said. He shook his head at her and went on:

“We can’t repair the decelerators because we can’t turn off the accelerators. The reason is, as you’ve been told, at high speeds we must have the force fields of one system or the other to shield us from interstellar gas. So it looks as if we’re bottled in this hull. Well, I don’t like the prospect either, though I believe we could endure it. Medieval monks accepted worse.

“Discussing it in the bridge, however, we got a thought. A possibility of escape, if we have the nerve and determination. Navigation Officer Boudreau ran a preliminary check for me. Afterward we called in Professor Nilsson for an expert opinion.”

The astronomer harrumphed and looked important. Jane Sadler seemed less impressed than others.

“We have a chance of success,” Reymont informed them.

A sound like a wind passed through the assembly. “Don’t make us wait!” cried a young man’s voice.

“I’m glad to see some spirit,” Reymont said. “It’ll have to be kept on a tight rein, though, or we’re finished. To make this as short as I can — afterward Captain Telander and the specialists will go into detail — here’s the idea.”

His delivery might have been used to describe a new method of bookkeeping. “If we can find a region where gas is practically nonexistent, we can safely shut down the fields, and our engineers can go outside and repair the decelerator system. Astronomical data are not as precise as we’d like. However, apparently throughout the galaxy and even in nearby intergalactic space, the medium is too dense. Much thinner out there than here, of course; still, so thick, in terms of atoms struck per second, as to kill us without our protection.

“Now galaxies generally occur in clusters. Our galaxy, the Magellanic Clouds, M31 in Andromeda, and thirteen others, large and small, make up one such group. The volume it occupies is about six million light-years across. Beyond them is an enormously greater distance to the next galactic family. By coincidence, it’s in Virgo too: forty million light-years from here.

“‘In that stretch, we hope, the gas is thin enough for us not to need shielding.”

Babble tried to break out afresh. Reymont lifted both hands. He actually laughed. “Wait, wait!” he called. “Don’t bother. I know what you want to say. Forty million light-years is impossible. We haven’t the tau for it. A ratio of fifty, or a hundred, or a thousand, does us no good. Agreed. But. ”