Philip Dick - The Science Fiction Anthology

“I am,” Rajcik said icily. “And if I computed my courses the way you maintain your engines, we’d be plowing through Australia now.”

“Why, you little company toady! At least I got my job legitimately, not by marrying—”

“That’s enough!” Captain Somers cut in.

Watkins, his face a mottled red, his mustache bristling, looked like a walrus about to charge. And Rajcik, eyes glittering, was waiting hopefully.

“No more of this,” Somers said. “I give the orders here.”

“Then give some!” Watkins snapped. “Tell him to plot a return curve. This is life or death!”

“All the more reason for remaining cool. Mr. Rajcik, can you plot such a course?”

“First thing I tried,” Rajcik said. “Not a chance, on the fuel we have left. We can turn a degree or two, but it won’t help.”

Watkins said, “Of course it will! We’ll curve back into the Solar System!”

“Sure, but the best curve we can make will take a few thousand years for us to complete.”

“Perhaps a landfall on some other planet—Neptune, Uranus—”

Rajcik shook his head. “Even if an outer planet were in the right place at the right time, we’d need fuel—a lot of fuel—to get into a braking orbit. And if we could, who’d come get us? No ship has gone past Mars yet.”

“At least we’d have a chance,” Watkins said.

“Maybe,” Rajcik agreed indifferently. “But we can’t swing it. I’m afraid you’ll have to kiss the Solar System good-by.”

Captain Somers wiped his forehead and tried to think of a plan. He found it difficult to concentrate. There was too great a discrepancy between his knowledge of the situation and its appearance. He knew—intellectually—that his ship was traveling out of the Solar System at a tremendous rate of speed. But in appearance they were stationary, hung in the abyss, three men trapped in a small, hot room, breathing the smell of hot metal and perspiration.

“What shall we do, Captain?” Watkins asked.

SOMERS frowned at the engineer. Did the man expect him to pull a solution out of the air? How was he even supposed to concentrate on the problem? He had to slow the ship, turn it. But his senses told him that the ship was not moving. How, then, could speed constitute a problem?

He couldn’t help but feel that the real problem was to get away from these high-strung, squabbling men, to escape from this hot, smelly little room.

“Captain! You must have some idea!”

Somers tried to shake his feeling of unreality. The problem, the real problem, he told himself, was how to stop the ship.

He looked around the fixed cabin and out the porthole at the unmoving stars. We are moving very rapidly , he thought, unconvinced.

Rajcik said disgustedly, “Our noble captain can’t face the situation.”

“Of course I can,” Somers objected, feeling very light-headed and unreal. “I can pilot any course you lay down. That’s my only real responsibility. Plot us a course to Mars!”

“Sure!” Rajcik said, laughing. “I can! I will! Engineer, I’m going to need plenty of fuel for this course—about ten tons! See that I get it!”

“Right you are,” said Watkins. “Captain, I’d like to put in a requisition for ten tons of fuel.”

“Requisition granted,” Somers said. “All right, gentlemen, responsibility is inevitably circular. Let’s get a grip on ourselves. Mr. Rajcik, suppose you radio Mars.”

When contact had been established, Somers took the microphone and stated their situation. The company official at the other end seemed to have trouble grasping it.

“But can’t you turn the ship?” he asked bewilderedly. “Any kind of an orbit—”

“No. I’ve just explained that.”

“Then what do you propose to do, Captain?”

“That’s exactly what I’m asking you.”

There was a babble of voices from the loudspeaker, punctuated by bursts of static. The lights flickered and reception began to fade. Rajcik, working frantically, managed to re-establish the contact.

“Captain,” the official on Mars said, “we can’t think of a thing. If you could swing into any sort of an orbit—”

“I can’t!”

“Under the circumstances, you have the right to try anything at all. Anything, Captain!”

Somers groaned. “Listen, I can think of just one thing. We could bail out in spacesuits as near Mars as possible. Link ourselves together, take the portable transmitter. It wouldn’t give much of a signal, but you’d know our approximate position. Everything would have to be figured pretty closely—those suits just carry twelve hours’ air—but it’s a chance.”

THERE was a confusion of voices from the other end. Then the official said, “I’m sorry, Captain.”

“What? I’m telling you it’s our one chance!”

“Captain, the only ship on Mars now is the Diana . Her engines are being overhauled.”

“How long before she can be spaceborne?”

“Three weeks, at least. And a ship from Earth would take too long. Captain, I wish we could think of something. About the only thing we can suggest—”

The reception suddenly failed again.

Rajcik cursed frustratedly as he worked over the radio. Watkins gnawed at his mustache. Somers glanced out a porthole and looked hurriedly away, for the stars, their destination, were impossibly distant.

They heard static again, faintly now.

“I can’t get much more,” Rajcik said. “This damned reception.... What could they have been suggesting?”

“Whatever it was,” said Watkins, “they didn’t think it would work.”

“What the hell does that matter?” Rajcik asked, annoyed. “It’d give us something to do.”

They heard the official’s voice, a whisper across space.

“Can you hear ... Suggest ...”

At full amplification, the voice faded, then returned. “Can only suggest ... most unlikely ... but try ... calculator ... try ...”

The voice was gone. And then even the static was gone.

“That does it,” Rajcik said. “The calculator? Did he mean the Fahrensen Computer in our hold?”

“I see what he meant,” said Captain Somers. “The Fahrensen is a very advanced job. No one knows the limits of its potential. He suggests we present our problem to it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Watkins snorted. “This problem has no solution.”

“It doesn’t seem to,” Somers agreed. “But the big computers have solved other apparently impossible problems. We can’t lose anything by trying.”

“No,” said Rajcik, “as long as we don’t pin any hopes on it.”

“That’s right. We don’t dare hope. Mr. Watkins, I believe this is your department.”

“Oh, what’s the use?” Watkins asked. “You say don’t hope—but both of you are hoping anyhow! You think the big electronic god is going to save your lives. Well, it’s not!”

“We have to try,” Somers told him.

“We don’t! I wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of turning us down!”

THEY stared at him in vacant astonishment.

“Now you’re implying that machines think,” said Rajcik.

“Of course I am,” Watkins said. “Because they do! No, I’m not out of my head. Any engineer will tell you that a complex machine has a personality all its own. Do you know what that personality is like? Cold, withdrawn, uncaring, unfeeling. A machine’s only purpose is to frustrate desire and produce two problems for every one it solves. And do you know why a machine feels this way?”

“You’re hysterical,” Somers told him.

“I am not. A machine feels this way because it knows it is an unnatural creation in nature’s domain. Therefore it wishes to reach entropy and cease—a mechanical death wish.”