Brian Ball - Singularity Station

He could not understand why Liz began to sob uncontrollably until she said: “Tup said the same thing!” Jerkily, she went on: “It was the first time I saw Maran! He said it would be something to tell them about when I got home! And he’s dead!”

“We’re coming,” Buchanan said grimly to the servitor. There was no way to comfort Liz. She would have to learn to live with her own ghosts.

The meal was a parody of a dinner party. The servitors passed around the food and wine with the deferential air of family retainers. Maran headed a table like some patriarch. He ate and drank with gusto, politely attentive at all times to Liz, and complimentary to Buchanan on the excellence of his judgment in selecting appetizing meal-programs. He would not allow a discussion of their future until the robots deftly flicked away the last of the dishes.

“Coffee, Miss Deffant?” he inquired. “And try some of Mr. Buchanan’s brandy. Excellent!” he added, sipping the fine liqueur. “You’ll appreciate that I have not been able to enjoy the pleasures of the table in recent months. The Enforcement Service have a puritanical approach to refreshment. Their attitude is a hangover from less enlightened times than our own.”

Buchanan cautioned himself against an outburst. Maran’s treatment of them had been utterly correct. There had been no threats, no demands. And though he had taken over the station, he had treated Liz and himself as honored guests. What could one do in the face of such unjatronizing confidence?

“No doubt you will be thinking of the time when the Service again has me in its charge?” Maran inquired, uncannily picking up Buchanan’s unspoken retort.

“I can’t see how you can evade the cruisers,” Buchanan answered. “The station has a limited capacity for life-support. The cruisers can keep on patrol in relays. As soon as the station tries to leave the peripheries of the Singularity, it can be picked up by force-screens. Your escape is temporary, Maran.” Liz Deffant looked from one man to the other. Both were impressive, both resolute and determined. She had no doubt which would triumph in any contest. Maran’s single-mindedness would be supreme. She could only be a spectator now.

Maran exerted his personality when he spoke again to Buchanan. “I have told Miss Deffant that I have the feeling that you, she, and I were predetermined to meet, Buchanan.”

“So we’ve met,” said Buchanan tightly.

Maran smiled. “Buchanan, I know the conditioning you Galactic Service personnel receive. But try to break out of it for a few moments—forget what you have heard of Maran the monster. Think of what you see before you—look!”

And Maran was a smiling, easy host, glass in hand and relaxed smile creasing his big, broad face. Liz Deffant saw the deep, hypnotic eyes and wondered at the strange influence he had over her. Since he had first explained his tormented vision, she had been unable to summon up a jot of resolution or courage. Looking at Maran was like being faced with some stupendous force of nature.

“I heard what you did,” said Buchanan. “You can’t be allowed to rip the minds from any more men and women. Even though they are willing.”

Maran nodded slowly. “My machines are crude. They are not yet ready for the delicate work oi examining the cells which carry an imprint of man’s evolutionary processes. They harm, they maim, and, regrettably, they destroy. I won’t pretend that Maran has not brought misery and death to the noble spirits who followed him. But, Buchanan, there has to be a start! We must examine the deep centers that alone carry the impression of that moment of transition that made us what we are! One day, Buchanan, cell-surgery will be a commonplace—but only if a start is made! And Maran has made the start!

And Maran will find a way through the mists of time and isolate that moment of change. Miss Deffant,” he said, turning to Liz. “You believe that Maran can do it?”

Buchanan saw the answering gleam in Liz’s eyes.

She said nothing, but he knew that she was Maran’s.

“It isn’t my decision,” Buchanan said. “But if it were, I’d stop you. And send you out to the Rim.” He paused. “If I had to, Maran, I’d destroy you.”

As he said it, he knew that, if he felt a bitter antagonism toward Maran, it was not for his treatment of those who had volunteered to take part in his strange experiments. It was more simple, more basic, than that. Maran had woven a spell on the woman Buchanan wanted more than anything in the Universe. Jealousy, he recognized. He was jealous of Maran!

“Would you?” asked Liz quietly. “Would you, Al?”

He turned away from the hurt in the golden eyes.

“Al—you couldn’t. I know,” she said. “You just haven’t got the hate in you, Al.”

“A fruitless conversation,” sighed Maran. “I had hoped for better things.” Buchanan felt choked by his conflicting emotions. There was a need for violent action very near the surface of his mind; yet the robots hovered close, ready to react with instant speed. Patience, he warned himself. Maran had not yet spoken of what he intended to do. The station had a considerable capacity for life-support, but that capacity had to be divided by three now that Maran and Liz were aboard. Maran could do simple equations too.

Liz asked the question that dominated Buchanan’s thoughts: “Well, what do you intend to do, Maran?

Al’s right—the cruisers can’t let you escape. Commander Lientand can sit outside the Singularity until you’re ready to give up. There’s no way out.”

“I think Buchanan knows,” said Maran.

Buchanan said nothing, did not, allow a movement of his face to betray his thoughts.

“Al?” asked Liz.

“I checked the reports, Buchanan,” said Maran. “All the readings.”

“I expected that,” agreed Buchanan.

Yet what could Maran do, even if he persuaded the machines that what was clearly impossible might be reached?

“Al?” asked Liz again.

“Buchanan feels it his duty not to discuss the object of his search,” said Maran.

“You said you wouldn’t—”

“Don’t!” Buchanan said harshly.

“Buchanan, I know!” Maran said decisively. “Yes, Miss Deffant. I told you I felt a sense of predestination about your involvement with my escape from the ES 110. Our paths coincide.”

“The ship?” she said, trembling.

“Yes, Miss Deffant. I shall invite Commander Buchanan to return with me to his former command. I have instructed the machines to take us to the Altair Star.”

Liz gasped. Buchanan’s fist clenched around the stem of the glass. The slender stem snapped in his hand, and brandy made a spreading stain. A servitor had the cloth cleared and the brandy mopped away within seconds.

“When?” asked Buchanan.

“Why, when you have finished your drink,” said Maran, as the robot placed another glass before Buchanan.

Liz Deffant saw the massive, serpentine coils enveloping the station and gripped Buchanan’s arm until the nails bit into the flesh; an unreasoning panic blotted out all other thoughts. Buchanan swayed too, knowing that no matter how many times he ventured within the deeper reaches of the bizarre space-time enigma he could never become accustomed to the appalling blank otherness at the center. He saw that Maran was stunned by the violence of the descent into the Singularity.

And there was nothing he could do, for the slender tentacles of the couch held him firm. The station shuddered, engines howling, as the drive built force-screens to ease the station through a vicious conjunction of energies. The big screen showed the coils giving way to a whirling blackness shot through with emerald whorls. From the black pit, reinforcing bands of power emerged to investigate the nugget of human technology which had invaded the Singularity.