Stanislaw Lem: The Test

Could that be it? he wondered, but immediately rejected the idea. You’re crazy. Satellites don’t buzz. But what else could it be? Nothing, that’s what. Or was it something else? A critical malfunction?

Oddly enough, he was not the least bit alarmed. How could there be a critical malfunction when he was cruising with his engine off? Maybe the old crate was falling apart, breaking up. Or could it be a short circuit? Good Lord, a short circuit! Fire Prevention Code, section 3(a): “In Case of Fire in Orbit,” paragraph… Oh, to hell with it! The buzzing was now so loud that it was drowning out the bleeping sounds of distant signals.

It sounds like… a fly trapped in a jar, he thought, somewhat perplexed, and began shifting his gaze from dial to dial.

Then he spotted it.

It was a giant of a fly, one of those ugly, greenish-black brutes specially designed to make life miserable—a pestering, pesky, idiotic, and by the same token shrewd and cunning fly, which had miraculously—and how else?—stowed away in the ship’s control cabin and was now zooming about in the space outside the blister, occasionally ricocheting off the illuminated instrument gauges like a buzzing pellet.

Whenever it took a pass at the computer, it came over his earphones like a four-engine prop plane. Mounted on the computer’s upper frame was a backup microphone, which gave a pilot access to the computer inside the encapsulated seat in the event his on-board phone was disconnected and he found himself without a laryngophone. One of the many backup systems aboard the ship.

He started swearing a blue streak at the microphone, afraid that because of the static he might miss PAL’s signal. The computer was bad enough, but soon the fly began making sorties into other areas of the cabin. As though hypnotized, Pirx let his gaze trail after it until finally he got fed up and said to heck with it.

Too bad he didn’t have a spray gun of DDT handy.

“Cut it out!”

Bzzzzz… He winced; the fly was crawling around on the computer, in the vicinity of the mike. Then nothing, dead silence, as it stopped to preen its wings. You lousy bastard!

Then a faint but steady bleeping came over his earphones: dot-dot-dot-dash-dot-dot-dash-dash-dot-dot-dot-dash. It was PAL.

“Okay, Pirx, now keep your eyes peeled!” he told himself. He raised the couch a little, so as to take in all three video screens at once, checked the sweeping phosphorescent radar beam, and waited. Though nothing showed on the radar screen, he distinctly heard a voice calling:

“A-7 Terraluna, A-7 Terraluna, sector III, course one hundred thirteen, PAL PATHFINDER calling. Request a reading. Over.”

“Oh crap, how am I ever going to hear my two JOs now?”

The buzzing in his earphones suddenly stopped. A second later a shadow fell across his face, from above, much as if a bat had landed on an overhanging lamp. It was the fly, which was crawling across the blister and exploring its interior. The blips were coming with greater frequency now, and it wasn’t long before he sighted the 80-meter-long aluminum cylinder, mounted with an observation spheroid, as it flew over him at a distance of roughly 400 meters, possibly more, and gradually overtook him.

“PAL PATHFINDER to A-7 Terraluna, one-hundred-eighty-point-fourteen, one-hundred-six-point-six. Increasing linear deviation. Out.”

“Albatross-4 Aresterra calling PAL Central, PAL Central. Am coming down for refueling, sector II. Am coming down for refueling, sector II. Running on reserve supply. Over.”

“A-7 Terraluna, calling PAL PATHFINDER…”

The rest was lost in the buzzing. Then silence.

“Central to Albatross-4 Aresterra, refuel quadrant seven, Omega Central, refuel quadrant seven. Out.”

They would pick out this spot to rendezvous, thought Pirx, who was now swimming in his sweat-absorbent underwear. This way I won’t hear a thing.

The fly was describing frenetic circles on the computer’s console, as if hell-bent on catching up with its own shadow.

“Albatross-4 Aresterra, Albatross-4 Aresterra to PAL Central, approaching quadrant seven. Request radio guidance. Out.”

The radio static grew steadily fainter until it was drowned out by the buzzing. But not before he managed to catch the following message:

“JO-2 Terraluna, JO-2 Terraluna, calling AMU-27, AMU-27. Over.”

I wonder who he’s calling? Pirx mused, and he nearly jumped out of his straps.

“AMU—” he wanted to say, but not a sound could he emit from his hoarse throat. His earphones were buzzing. The fly. He closed his eyes.

“AMU-27 to JO-2 Terraluna, position quadrant four, sector PAL, am turning on navigation lights. Over.”

He switched on his navigation lights—two red ones at the side, two green ones on the nose, a blue one aft—and waited. Not a sound except for the fly.

“JO-2 ditto Terraluna, JO-2 Terraluna, calling…” Buzz-buzz, hum-hum…

Does he mean me? Pirx meditated in despair.

“AMU-27 to JO-2 ditto Terraluna, position quadrant four, perimeter sector PAL, all navigation lights on. Over.”

When both JO ships started transmitting at the same time, Pirx switched on the sequence selector, but there was too much interference. The buzzing fly, of course.

“I’ll hang myself!” That such a remedy was out of the question, due to the effects of weightlessness, never occurred to him.

Just then he sighted both ships on the radar screen. They were following him on parallel courses, spaced no more than nine kilometers apart, which was prohibited; as the pilot ship, it was up to him to make them adhere to the prescribed distance of fourteen kilometers. Just as he was checking the location of the blips on the radar screen, his old friend the fly landed on one of them. In a fit of anger he threw his navigation book at it, but it was deflected by the blister’s glass wall, and instead of sliding down, it bumped against the ceiling, where, because of the zero gravity, it fluttered aimlessly about in space. Seemingly unruffled, the fly strolled merrily on its way across the screen.

“AMU-27 Terraluna to JO-2 ditto JO-2. I have you in range. You are hard aboard. Switch over to parallel course with a correction of zero-point-zero one. Stand by on completion of maneuver. Out.”

Gradually the distance between the blips began to widen, all communication being temporarily interrupted by the fly as it embarked on a noisy little promenade around the computer’s microphone. Pirx had run out of things to throw; the flight book was still hovering overhead, lithely flapping its pages.

“PAL Central to AMU-27 Terraluna. Abandon outer quadrant, abandon outer quadrant, am assuming transsolar course. Over.”

He would try to screw things up! Pirx mentally fumed. What the hell do I care about the transsolar? Anyone knows that spaceships flying in group formation have priority. He began shouting in reply, and in this shouting of his there was vented all his impotent fury directed at the fly.

“AMU-27 Terraluna to PAL Central. Negative, am not abandoning outer quadrant, to hell with your transsolar, am flying in tri-formation. AMU-27, JO-2 ditto JO-2, squadron leader AMU-27 Terraluna. Out.”

I didn’t have to say “to hell with your transsolar,” he thought. That’ll cost me a few points for sure. Oh, they can all damn well go to hell! I’ll probably get docked for the fly, too.

It could only have happened to him. A fly! Wow, big deal! He could just see Smiga and Boerst busting a gut when they got wind of that crazy-assed fly. It was the first time since lift-off that he caught himself thinking of Boerst. But right now he didn’t have a moment to lose, because PAL was dropping farther and farther behind. They had been flying in formation for a good five minutes.