Stanislaw Lem: The Albatross

“Titan Aresterra to Albatross-4. We’re proceeding at full thrust. Presently crossing over into your sector. Arrival time one hour. Advise escaping through emergency hatch. We’ll be alongside you in one hour. Hang in there. Hang in there. Out.”

He pushed the mike away and stood up. Mindell was giving orders into the intercom on the other side of the room.

“Okay, gangfull thrust in five minutes.”

“Aye aye,” came the reply on the other end of the line.

The commander stepped out for a moment, his voice trailing in from the other room.

“Attention all passengers! Attention all passengers! I have an important announcement. Four minutes from now there will be a significant increase in the ship’s velocity. We’ve received a distress call and are responding with all due—”

Someone shut the door. Mindell gave Pirx a friendly nudge on the arm.

“Better brace yourself. We’ll be pushing 2 g or better.”

Pirx nodded. By his standards 2 g was a breeze, but now was not the time to flaunt his physical endurance. Dutifully, therefore, he gripped the armrest of the chair occupied by the older of the two radiomen.

“Albatross-4 to Titan. Won’t last another hour on board stop emergency hatch jammed by exploding bulkheads stop temperature eighty-one degrees in control room stop steaming up fast stop will try to escape by cutting through nose shield. Out.”

Mindell tore the slip of paper out of the operator’s hand and raced out of the room. As he was opening the door, the deck shook slightly and there was an immediate increase in everyone’s bodily weight.

The commander labored into the room, each step costing him obvious physical exertion, and plopped down into a chair. Someone handed him a mike on a cable. In his other hand was the last crumpled radiogram received from the Albatross. The skipper spread it out before him and studied it for a good long while.

“Titan Aresterra to Albatross-4,” he said at last. “We’ll be there in fifty minutes. Approaching on course eighty-four-point-fifteen stop eighty-one-point-two stop abandon ship. Abandon ship. We’ll find you. Hang in there. Out.”

The man sitting in for the younger operator, his tunic now unbuttoned, suddenly sprang to his feet and shot an urgent glance at the commander, who came over on the double. The operator yanked off his earphones, handed them to the skipper, who slipped them on over his head and listened while the other man adjusted the crackling loudspeaker. A split second later, everyone froze.

In that room were veterans of many years’ flight experience, but what they heard now was unprecedented. A voice—barely audible, accompanied by a protracted roar, as if trapped behind a wall of flame—was shouting:

“Albatross… every man… coolant in cockpit… temperature unbearable… crew standing by to the end… so long… all lines… out…”

The voice faded, being gradually overwhelmed by the roar in the background.

Then—only loudspeaker static. It took no small effort to keep on one’s feet—yet all remained standing, hunched over and braced against the metal bulkheads.

“Ballistic-8 to Luna Base,” a voice suddenly piped up, loud and clear. “Am proceeding to Albatross-4. Request clearance through sector sixty-seven. Proceeding at full thrust—will be impossible to carry out any passing maneuvers. Over.”

There was a pause lasting several seconds.

“Luna Base to all ships in sectors sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, ninety-six. All sectors closed. All ships not proceeding at full thrust for Albatross-4 are to stop immediately, place reactors on idling, and switch on navigation lights. Attention, Dasher! Attention, Titan Aresterra! Attention, Ballistic-8! Attention, Sprite-702! I’m giving you a clear field to Albatross-4. All traffic within radius vector of SOS has been halted. Commence braking one milliparsec in advance of SOS point. Be careful to extinguish braking rockets once you have Albatross on video—crew may already have abandoned ship. Good luck. Good luck. Out.”

Dasher was the first to respond—in Morse. Pirx listened closely to the bleeping signals.

“Dasher Aresterra to all rescue ships. Have entered Albatross’s sector. Will be joining her in eighteen minutes stop reactor overheated cooling system damaged stop will need medical assistance following rescue operation stop am commencing braking maneuver at full thrust. Out.”

“The guy’s nuts,” someone muttered, prompting those standing—until now so stock-still they looked more like statues—to search out the culprit with their eyes. An angry murmur passed through the men, then quickly subsided.

“Dasher will be there first,” said Mindell, casting a side glance at the commander, “and forty minutes from now she’ll be radioing for help herself—”

He broke off as a voice filtered through the loudspeaker static.

“Dasher Aresterra to all those answering Albatross’s distress call. I have her on the monitor. She’s drifting on a course approximating ellipsis T-348 and her tail is cherry-red. No trace of any signal lights. SOS ship does not respond. Am shutting down to commence rescue operation. Out.”

Buzzers sounded next door. Mindell and another crew member stepped out of the room. Pirx’s muscles were cable-tense. Gawd, how he’d like to have been out there! A moment later Mindell came back.

“What’s all the ruckus?” inquired the commander.

“The passengers would like to know when they can resume dancing.” Mindell’s reply went unnoticed by Pirx, whose eyes remained riveted to the loudspeaker.

“It won’t be long now,” answered the skipper, calmly and without inflection. “Switch on the monitor; we’re coming within range. In a couple of minutes we should have a sighting. Mr. Mindell, better sound the alert again—we’re about to brake down to overdrive.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Mindell replied, and he left the room.

A voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Luna Base to Titan Aresterra, Sprite-702! Attention! Attention! Attention! Ballistic-8 reports sighting a flash with a luminosity of minus four in the center of sector sixty-five. No response from Dasher or Albatross. Possibility of a reactor explosion aboard Albatross. For reasons of passenger safety, Titan Aresterra is instructed to stop and report immediately. Ballistic-8 and Sprite-702 are to proceed at their own discretion. I repeat: Titan Aresterra is instructed…”

All eyes were on the commander.

“Mr. Mindell, can we stop within a milliparsec?”

Mindell consulted his wristwatch.

“No, sir. We’re coming in on video. I’d need at least 6 g ’s.”

“If we changed course?”

“Even then we’d get only 3 g ’s,” Mindell said.

“Well, that settles it.”

The commander got up and strode over to the microphone.

“Titan Aresterra to Luna Base. Impossible to stop at present velocity. Am altering course with a roll maneuver at half-thrust. Abandoning sector sixty-five for sector sixty-six, on a course of two-hundred-and-two. Clearance requested. Over.”

“Stand by for confirmation,” he said, turning and addressing the man who had been seated next to him earlier. Mindell barked into the intercom, buzzers sounded, lights flickered on the wall panels, and the room seemed to grow darker—a case of “dimout,” caused by a draining of blood from the eyes. Pirx planted his feet squarely on the floor. They were braking and turning at the same time. There were mild vibrations, the long, shrill whine of laboring engines.

“Sit down, all of you!” the commander suddenly yelled. “I don’t need any heroes around here!”

Everyone sat—or rather flopped-down on the floor, which was padded with a thick layer of foam rubber.