Barrington Bayley - The Star Virus

“Nothing,” Rodrone answered him simply. “I’ve thought about that. Do you know what I think? I think the Streall have perpetrated an outstanding example of putting the cart before the horse. The galaxy doesn’t have to have the lens controlling it. The lens is a construct, something artificial, extra. Possibly it did kick off the process of life in the first place, I’m not sure about that, but it certainly isn’t vital now. Somehow the Streall came into possession of it millions of years ago and used it to bolster up their own view of the universe, a view which not unnaturally favors them. They used the lens to make themselves the supreme species of the galaxy, while at the same time claiming some kind of divine right.

“There’s another thing, too. I don’t believe in the Streall’s interpretation of the lens. I don’t think it can control a narrow, ordered sequence in the way they prescribe. You wouldn’t be able to make a particular thing happen to a particular person on a particular planet, for instance. I think it deals in probabilities, like endlessly throwing a set of dice. Maybe some of the stories it shows have never happened at all—they merely could have happened.”

“But the war,” Feeldonet objected. “You triggered that off, Captain.”

“I suppose so, but it doesn’t prove anything. It was always a possibility, because there are always points of tension between men and the Streall. Up to now the Streall have always soft-pedaled for reasons of their own. All I did was increase the general tensions until they reached breaking point at some spot or other. You can use the lens to increase the probability of a thing happening, that’s all. In fact,” he added thoughtfully, “ I wonder how many races the Streall have exterminated in the past in order to rectify their own ‘errors of control’?”

While they talked, the other deadliners clustered eagerly around the screen of a space-tensor transceiver. During the short periods each day when it was in operation they were in the habit of phasing through all available frequencies to get an exciting, panoramic view of the holocaust as desperation increased on both sides. Rodrone found that his cynicism had finally broken; the spectacle sickened him. But to the deadliners it was the spice of life.

One thing was becoming clear: the Streall were in retreat. They lacked the flexibility to handle the bewildering variety of techniques that were thrown against them by the far-flung patchwork of human-populated planets, by privateer outfits and all manner of independently operating groups. Surprising, too, was the number of alien races that now appeared in space to add their weight against the ages-old supervisors of existence. For centuries many of these races had been quietly learning human techniques of space travel; but they rarely ventured more than a few light-years from their home suns because the Streall, having learned their lesson from the upstart from the outer districts of the galaxy, kept an efficient police watch on the lookout for a repeat performance.

Rodrone felt empty, drained of any reality in life. Behind him, the space-tensor screen faded as space-strains spanning the light-years rippled and smoothed beyond the possibility of continued communication. The deadliners turned away, wiping their mouths.

After a pause Jermy turned to Rodrone. “When’re we gonna go?”

“Go where?” Rodrone asked.

Jermy moved his shoulder uneasily. “We’ve been hanging about for a month. We’re taking no cargo anywhere, we’re not doing anything. The boys wanna know where we’re going.”

Of course, Rodrone thought. These men, whose lives were one long monotony, felt restless if they were not on the move.

Briefly he considered throwing the lens into a sun. No… he did not trust the largely unmapped complexes of energy inside some stars. There was no saying that they would not produce influences on the lens without destroying it.

There was one other alternative: to lose it where there was little chance of its ever being found again, in the deep space beyond the galaxy.

It would be a long journey and time-dilation would remove them from the present time by hundreds of years— nearly a thousand years. But it would be worth it. He did not want to see anything of this age again.

“Were you with Captain Shone when he went out to the Barrier?” he asked.

“I was,” said Jermy. “Not the others, though.”

“Would you go again?”

“Sure.” Jermy shrugged. “Don’t know why, though. Once you’ve seen it, you’ve seen it.”

“Well that’s where we’re going.”

At one galactic diameter, the sight permitted to few blazed across the sky in a torrent of light.

The straggling wheel of Thiswhirl, seen end-on at only a small angle, was blinding, and gave such an impression of immensity that the mind simply gave up trying to encompass it. On the other side, the spiral majesty of Andromeda floated like a smaller balance wheel. Otherwise, the blackness was dotted only with smudges of light, the distant galaxies, or with occasional hard points that were extragalactic stars.

Whatever had transpired in the struggle of microbes in the Hub of Thiswhirl was now in the past. Centuries in the past, and Rodrone had ceased to think about it. The vision of extragalactic space interested him much more.

The Stator had made good time. Its silent, almost mystic drive unit—which Rodrone now learned not only involved no reaction mass but also involved no expenditure of energy —was bearing them steadily towards the space-time barrier surrounding the galaxy, and beyond which they knew they could not go.

At times all the deadliners, Jermy, Feeldonet, Krat, Pim, Jublow and the others, came together to the control gallery to see Rodrone, but mostly they wandered listlessly through the cold, dismal ship, amusing themselves with childish games. For the duration of the voyage Rodrone had forbidden them to tamper with the nuclear reactor supplying power to the Stator , thus spoiling their favorite pastime, but they obeyed with less grumbling than he had anticipated.

A signal beeped. Feeldonet came through from the drive room.

“We must be getting close to the Barrier, Captain.”

“How do you know?”

“The drive is behaving a little peculiarly.”

This was interesting. Normally the proximity of the Barrier would show first of all on the ranging instruments, in that the distance traveled would not correspond to the drive force expended. So far, the range finder showed little discrepancy.

“Our drive would be unusually sensitive to space-time anomalies, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s true, Captain.”

“Hmm.” The first ships to attempt to cross to Andromeda had bravely forged their way ahead past the point of no return and finally had disintegrated. More cautious followers had turned back when danger threatened before their fuel reserves ran out.

“Keep on going into the Barrier,” he ordered. “Don’t stop until I tell you.”

“Sure thing, Captain.” Feeldonet seemed pleased at the prospect. Perhaps he was becoming proud of the Stator ’s unusual engine and wanted to test it to the full. Or perhaps it was the idea of disintegration that attracted him…

Rodrone cut the connection. Briefly he glanced over the chilly control gallery at the star-display which now showed Thiswhirl and Andromeda together like twin Catherine wheels, and at the mattress and heap of rags in the corner where once Gael Shone—and now he—slept. He had ordered Feeldonet to continue on regardless to see whether the drive would produce any new surprise, but if it came to it, well, disintegration in the wall surrounding the world—why not? Where, he wondered, would that leave the lens?