Stanislaw Lem - The Albatross

With no obstacles to avoid, the Titan had no reason to alter course. But veering off course it was—Pirx no longer had to verify it by the stars, he could feel it in his bones. So confident was he that he could easily have plotted the ship’s trajectory, knowing as he did its velocity, mass, and the rate of stellar displacement.

Something’s up, he thought.

There were no public announcements. Why all the secrecy? A layman when it came to the customs observed aboard luxury liners, he had enough savvy about engine rooms and cockpits to know there were only two courses of action: in the event of an emergency a ship could either maintain its previous velocity… or cut its engines. But the Titan was doing neither…

The whole maneuver lasted a total of four seconds. That meant a forty-five-degree turn. Hm.

The stars once again assumed a stationary position.

They were back on a straight course; yet the cigarette case in Pirx’s hand kept getting heavier.

Steering a straight course and gaining speed at the same time… That cinched it. For a moment he sat perfectly still, then rose to his feet, now feeling the effects of the increased gravitation. The gray-eyed beauty was watching his every move.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing to worry about, ma’am.”

“Something feels different. Do you notice it, too?”

“It’s nothing. Just a little increase in velocity.” Now was his chance to strike up a casual conversation. He gave her the once-over, no longer disturbed by the color of her hair. A real doll.

He shuffled off, leisurely at first, but with each step gradually quickening his pace. She must take me for a mental case, he thought. Colorful wall paintings ran the length of the deck. He passed through a door marked OFF LIMITS and headed down a long, deserted corridor, flooded with a bright electric glare. A row of numbered doors. He kept going, relying more on his sense of hearing. Some stairs brought him out on a landing, face-to-face with a metal door.

STELLAR PERSONNEL ONLY read the sign. Wow, nothing like having fancy names!

No doorknob—by special key only. Which key he lacked. He rubbed his nose in a moment of concentration.

Tap… tap… tatatap… tap… tap…

He waited. The door opened slightly, and a surly, ruddy-complexioned face showed in the crack.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m from Patrol.”

The door opened wide enough to admit him, and he entered what looked to be an auxiliary control room: double row of steering controls, video screens lining the opposite wall, facing which were several vacant chairs. A small, squat-looking unit was monitoring the pulsating dials. Standing on a narrow side table by the wall were some half-empty cups and saucers. The air was redolent of freshly brewed coffee, and of something that smelled vaguely like heated plastic laced with a whiff of ozone. Another door stood slightly ajar, emitting the purring drone of a transformer.

“An SOS?” he inquired of the man who had let him in. Stocky, with a slight swelling on one side of his face: a toothache kind of swelling; headset band creasing the hair; gray, partially unbuttoned Transgalactic uniform emblazoned with lightning insignia. Shirttail hanging out.

“Yes.” A moment’s hesitation. “From Patrol, you say?”

“From the Base. Just back from a two-year tour on the Transuran. I’m a navigator. Pirx is the name.”

A handshake.

“Mindell’s mine. Nucleonics.”

Without exchanging another word, the two moved into the adjoining room. It was the communications room. Very big. Ten or more people were huddled around the main transmitter. Two radiotelegraph operators, each equipped with earphones, wrote continuously against a background of clicking instruments, electrical humming, and an incessant, below-decks whine. Swarms of control lights on every wall: the place looked the inside of a trunk exchange. The two radiomen were almost prostrate over their desks; both in shirt sleeves, both with drenched faces—one pale, the other older and more average-looking, with a head scar plainly visible in the place where the headset band made a parting in his hair. Two men were seated a little distance away, one of whom Pirx recognized as the commander.

They were already mildly acquainted. The commander of the Titan was a short, grizzly-haired man with a small poker face. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, seemingly distracted by one of his shoe tips.

Pirx treaded softly up to the radiomen, craned his whole body, and began reading over the shoulder of the man with the head scar.

“… six-eighteen-point-three proceeding at full thrust time of arrival eight-zero-twelve. Out.”

The radioman slid a blank over with his left hand and kept on writing.

“Luna Base to Albatross-4 Aresluna. Check on-board contamination stop answer in Morse stop too far out of range for radio stop how many hours can you maintain emergency thrust stop estimated drift zero-six-point-twenty-one stop. Over.”

“Dasher-2 Aresterra to Luna Base. Am proceeding at full thrust destination Albatross sector sixty-four have overheated reactor but proceeding on course anyway stop am now six milliparsecs away from designated point of SOS. Out.”

The second operator, the more pallid-looking of the two, let out a muffled groan. Immediately everyone leaned over his shoulder. Mindell, the man who had met Pirx at the door, relayed the recorded messages back to the commander while the operator went on transcribing.

“Albatross-4 to all ships. Am lying in orbit, drift ellipsis T-341 sector sixty-five stop breach in hull widening stop leakage in stern bulkheads stop emergency thrust at 3 g stop reactor going out of control stop multiple damages to main bulkhead stop third-degree on-board contamination and rising in response to emergency thrust stop will attempt to seal leaks am transferring crew to bow. Out.”

As he wrote, the operator’s hands trembled. One of the crew grabbed him by his shirt collar, yanked him to his feet, and rushed him out the door. A short while later he came back—alone—and took the other man’s place.

“He has a brother aboard the Albatross,” he said by way of explanation, addressing no one in particular.

Pirx peered over the older man’s shoulder.

“Luna Base to Albatross-4 Aresluna. The following ships have been dispatched stop Dasher from sector sixty-four Titan from sector sixty-seven Ballistic-8 from sector forty-four Sprite-702 from sector ninety-four stop seal breach in bulkhead stop wear pressure suits behind air locks stop report present course stop.”

“The Albatross!” exclaimed the young operator’s replacement, and everyone craned to read the message:

“Albatross-4 to all ships. Uncontrolled drifting stop leakage in hull stop losing atmosphere stop crew in pressure suits stop engine room flooded with coolant stop screens punctured stop temperature sixty-three degrees in control room stop initial breach in control room sealed stop coolant boiling stop main transmitter flooded stop switching over to radio stop we’ll be waiting for you fellows. Out.”

Practically everyone was smoking, the smoke curling upward in blue ribbons before being sucked out through the vents. Pirx was just rummaging through his pockets, likewise feeling the urge to light up, when someone—he couldn’t tell who—stuck an open pack into his hand. He lit up.

“Mr. Mindell,” said the commander, biting his lip. “Full thrust!”

Mindell registered some momentary astonishment but said nothing.

“Sound the alert?” asked the man seated next to the commander.

“This one’s mine.”

At that, he swung the mike around on its swivel arm and began speaking: