PLATINUM POHL (63 page)

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Authors: Frederik Pohl

The two men smiled at each other, their minds racing. Then Moore said, “What about the ‘Today’ show? That’d be a great place to start, if you can get in.”
Boccanegra pursed his lips. Thank heaven he’d sweetened the receptionist; she’d let him in, probably, and then he could just walk in on the booking woman; then it would just be a matter of how fast he could talk. “At least fifty-fifty,” he estimated, “if I get back to NBC before the offices close.”
“And I’ll go right down to the library and start looking up caves,” Moore said. “And we don’t want to be seen too much together, so what do you say we just get together for a minute later on tonight, say about seven?”
“Lobby of the Grand Hyatt,” Boccanegra agreed. He clapped his hands imperiously at the waitress, sulking by the kitchen door. She came over and dropped the check in front of him.
“I’ll get the tip,” Moore offered, pulling out a handful of silver. Boccanegra, back in character, merely inclined his head in silent agreement, although inside he was marking up the mental ledger: $9.50 for the pastrami sandwiches, and only five quarters for the tip; next time they would eat in a better place and
he
would take care of the tip. As he waited for the cashier to fill out the slip on the one remaining valid credit card he possessed, Boccanegra said suddenly, “My cane!” He hurried back to the table before the waitress got there and picked up two of the quarters. Then he rejoined Anthony Makepeace Moore at the door and the two prophets went out into the world they were about to conquer.
Anyone who was old enough to understand the politics that ended NASA’s lunar program is quite aware of the constant tug-of-war between those who have a desperate desire to explore the unknown and those who feel that exploring the unknown is a waste of time and money.
“The Gold at the Starbow’s End” is about many things. It is at least partly about the conflict between the needs of science and the exigencies of balancing a budget, but that’s just the beginning. Here is wild adventure of a most unexpected kind and irony piled upon irony.
A finalist for both the Hugo and Nebula Awards when first published in 1972, this extravagantly original novella remains as remarkable and poignant today as it was when it first appeared.
LOG OF LT.-COL. SHEFFIELD N. JACKMAN, U.S.A.F., commanding U.S. Starship
Constitution,
Day 40.
All’s well, friends. Thanks to Mission Control for the batch of personal messages. We enjoyed the concert you beamed us, in fact we recorded most of it so we can play it over again when communication gets hairy.
We are now approaching the six-week point in our expedition to Alpha Centauri, Planet Aleph, and now that we’ve passed the farthest previous manned distance from Earth we’re really beginning to feel as if we’re on our way. Our latest navigation check confirms Mission Control’s plot, and we estimate we should be crossing the orbit of Pluto at approximately 1631 hours, ship time, of Day 40, which is today. Letski has been keeping track of the time dilation effect, which is beginning to be significant now that we are traveling about some 6 percent of the speed of light, and says this would make it approximately a quarter of two in the morning your time, Mission Control. We voted to consider that the “coastal waters” mark. From then on we will have left the solar system behind and thus will be the first human beings to enter upon the deeps of interstellar space. We plan to have a ceremony. Letski and Ann Becklund have made up an American flag for jettisoning at that point, which we will do through the Number Three survey port, along with the prepared stainless-steel plaque containing the president’s commissioning speech. We are also throwing in some private articles for each of us. I am contributing my Air Academy class ring.
Little change since previous reports. We are settling down nicely to our routine. We finished up all our post-launch checks weeks ago, and as Dr. Knefhausen predicted we began to find time hanging heavy on our hands. There won’t be much to keep us busy between now and when we arrive at the planet Alpha-Aleph that is really essential to the operating of the spaceship. So we went along with Kneffie’s proposed recreational schedule, using the worksheets prepared by the NASA Division of Flight Training and Personnel Management. At first (I think the boys back in Indianapolis are big enough to know this!) it met with what you might call a cool reception. The general consensus was that this business of learning number theory and the calculus of statement, which is what they handed us for openers, was for the birds. We figured we weren’t quite desperate enough for that yet, so we fooled around with other things. Ann and Will Becklund played a lot of chess. Dot Letski began writing a verse adaptation of
War and Peace.
The rest of us hacked around with the equipment, and making astronomical observations and gabbing. But all that began to get tiresome pretty fast, just as Kneffie said it would at the briefings. We talked about his idea that the best way to pass time in a spaceship was learning to get interested in mathematical problems—no mass to transport, no competitive element to get tempers up and all that. It began to make sense. So now Letski is in his tenth day of trying to find a formula for primes, and my own dear Flo is trying to prove Goldbach’s Conjecture by means of the theory of congruences. (This is the girl who two months ago couldn’t add up a laundry list!) It certainly passes the time.
Medically, we are all fit. I will append the detailed data on our blood pressures, pulses, etc., as well as the tape from the rocket and navigating systems readouts. I’ll report again as scheduled. Take care of Earth for us—we’re looking forward to seeing it again, in a few years!
There was a lull in the urban guerrilla war in Washington that week. The chopper was able to float right in to the South Lawn of the White House—no sniper fire, no heat-seeking missiles, not even rock-throwing. Dr. Dieter von Knefhausen stared suspiciously at the knot of weary-looking pickets in their permitted fifty yards of space along the perimeter. They didn’t look militant, probably Gay Lib or, who knew what, maybe nature-food or single-tax; at any rate no rocks came from them, only a little disorganized booing as the helicopter landed. Knefhausen bowed to
Herr Omnes
sardonically, hopped nimbly out of the chopper and got out of the way as it took off again, which it did at once. He didn’t trouble to run to the White House. He strolled. He did not fear these simple people, even if the helicopter pilot did. Also he was not really eager to keep his appointment with the President.
The ADC who frisked him did not smile. The orderly who conducted him to the West Terrace did not salute. No one relieved him of the dispatch case with his slides and papers, although it was heavy. You could tell right away when you were in the doghouse, he thought, ducking his head from the rotor blast as the pilot circled the White House to gain altitude before venturing back across the spread-out city.
It had been a lot different in the old days, he thought with some nostalgia. He could remember every minute of those old days. It was right here, this portico, where he had stood before the world’s press and photographers to tell them about the Alpha Aleph
Project. He had seen his picture next to the president’s on all the front pages, watched himself on the TV newscasts, talking about the New Earth that would give America an entire colonizable planet four light-years away. He remembered the launch at the Cape, with a million and a half invited guests from all over the world: foreign statesmen and scientists eating their hearts out with envy, American leaders jovial with pride. The orderlies saluted then, all right. His lecture fees had gone clear out of sight. There was even talk of making him the vice presidential candidate in the next election—and it could have happened, too, if the election had been right then, and if there hadn’t been the problem of his being born in another country.
Now it was all different. He was taken up in the service elevator. It wasn’t so much that Knefhausen minded for his own sake, he told himself, but how did the word get out that there was trouble? Was it only the newspaper stories? Was there a leak?
The Marine orderly knocked once on the big door of the Cabinet room, and it was opened from inside.
Knefhausen entered.
No “Come in, Dieter, boy, pull up a pew.” No vice president jumping up to grab his arm and slap his back. His greeting was thirty silent faces turned toward him, some reserved, some frankly hostile. The full Cabinet was there, along with half a dozen department heads and the president’s personal action staff, and the most hostile face around the big oval table was the president’s own.
Knefhausen bowed. An atavistic hankering for lyceum-cadet jokes made him think of clicking his heels and adjusting a monocle, but he didn’t have a monocle and didn’t yield to impulses like that. He merely took his place standing at the foot of the table and, when the president nodded, said, “Good morning, gentlemen, and ladies. I assume you want to see me about the stupid lies the Russians are spreading about the Alpha-Aleph program.”
Roobarooba,
they muttered to each other. The president said in his sharp tenor, “So you think they are just lies?”
“Lies or mistakes, Mr. President, what’s the difference? We are right and they are wrong, that’s all.”
Roobaroobarooba.
The secretary of state looked inquiringly at the president, got a nod and said: “Dr. Knefhausen, you know I’ve been on your team a long time and I don’ want to disagree with any statement you care to make, but are you so sure about that? They’s some mighty persuasive figures comin’ out of the Russians.”
“They are false, Mr. Secretary.”
“Ah, well, Dr. Knefhausen. I might be inclined to take your word for it, but they’s others might not. Not cranks or malcontents, Dr. Knefhausen, but good, decent people. Do you have any evidence for such as them?”
“With your permission, Mr. President?” The president nodded again, and Knefhausen unlocked his dispatch case and drew out a slim sheaf of slides. He handed them to a major of Marines, who looked to the president for approval and then did what Knefhausen told him. The room lights went down and, after some fiddling with the focus, the first slide was projected over Knefhausen’s head. It showed a huge array of Y-shaped metal posts, stretching away into the distance of a bleak, powdery-looking landscape.
“This picture is our radio telescope on Farside, the Moon,” he said. “It is never visible from the Earth, because that portion of the Moon’s surface is permanently turned away
from us, for which reason we selected it for the site of the telescope. There is no electrical interference of any kind. The instrument is made up of thirty-three million separate dipole elements, aligned with an accuracy of one part in several million. Its actual size is an approximate circle eighteen miles across, but by virtue of the careful positioning its performance is effectively equal to a telescope with a diameter of some twenty-six miles. Next slide, please.”
Click.
The picture of the huge RT display swept away and was replaced by another similar—but visibly smaller and shabbier—construction.
“This is the Russian instrument, gentlemen. And ladies. It is approximately one quarter the size of ours in diameter. It has less than one-tenth as many elements, and our reports—they are classified, but I am informed this gathering is cleared to receive this material? Yes—our reports indicate the alignment is very crude. Even terrible, you could say.
“The difference between the two instruments in information-gathering capacity is roughly a hundred to one, in our favor. Lights, please.
“What this means,” he went on smoothly, smiling at each of the persons around the table in turn as he spoke, “is that if the Russians say ‘no’ and we say ‘yes,’ bet on ‘yes.’ Our radio telescope can be trusted. Theirs cannot.”
The meeting shifted uneasily in its chairs. They were as anxious to believe Knefhausen as he was to convince them, but they were not sure.
Representative Belden, the chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee, spoke for all of them. “Nobody doubts the quality of your equipment. Especially,” he added, “since we still have bruises from the job of paying for it. But the Russians made a flat statement. They said that Alpha Centauri can’t have a planet larger than one thousand miles in diameter, or nearer than half a billion miles to the star. I have a copy of the Tass release here. It admits that their equipment is inferior to our own, but they have a statement signed by twenty-two academicians that says their equipment could not miss on any object larger or nearer than what I have said, or on any body of any kind which would be large enough to afford a landing place for our astronauts. Are you familiar with this statement?”
“Yes, of course, I have read it—”
“Then you know that they state positively that the planet you call ‘Alpha-Aleph’ does not exist.”
“Yes, that is what they state.”
“Moreover, statements from authorities at the Paris Observatory and the UNESCO Astrophysical Center at Trieste, and from England’s Astronomer Royal, all say that they have checked and confirmed their figures.”
Knefhausen nodded cheerfully. “That is correct, Representative Belden. They confirm that if the observations are as stated, then the conclusions drawn by the Soviet installation at Novy Brezhnevgrad on Farside naturally follow. I don’t question the arithmetic. I only say that the observations are made with inadequate equipment, and thus the Soviet astronomers have come to a false conclusion. But I do not want to burden your patience with an unsupported statement,” he added hastily as the congressman opened his mouth to speak again, “so I will tell you all there is to tell. What the Russians say is theory. What I have to counter is not merely better theory, but also objective fact. I know Alpha-Aleph is there because I have seen it! Lights again, Major! And the next slide, if you please.”
The screen lit up and showed glaring bare white with a sprinkling of black spots, like dust. A large one appeared in the exact center of the screen, with a dozen lesser ones sprinkled around it. Knefhausen picked up a flash pointer and aimed its little arrowhead of light at the central dot.
“This is a photographic negative,” he said, “which is to say that it is black where the actual scene is white and vice versa. Those objects are astronomical. It was taken from our Briareus Twelve satellite near the orbit of Jupiter, on its way out to Neptune fourteen months ago. The central object is the star Alpha Centauri. It was photographed with a special instrument which filters out most of the light from the star itself, electronic in nature and something like the coronascope which is used for photographing prominences on our own Sun. We hoped that by this means we might be able actually to photograph the planet Alpha-Aleph. We were successful, as you can see.” The flash pointer laid its little arrow next to the nearest small dot to the central star. “That, gentlemen, and ladies, is Alpha-Aleph. It is precisely where we predicted it from radio-telescope data.”
There was another buzz from the table. In the dark it was louder than before. The secretary of state cried sharply, “Mr. President! Can’t we release this photograph?”
“We will release it immediately after this meeting,” said the president.
Roobarooba.
Then the committee chairman: “Mr. President, I’m sure if you say that’s the planet we want, then it’s the planet. But others outside this country may wonder, for indeed all those dots look about alike to me. I wonder if Knefhausen could satisfy a layman’s curiosity.
How
do we know that’s Alpha-Aleph?”
“Slide Number Four, please—and keep Number Three in the carriage.” The same scene, subtly different. “Note that in this picture, gentlemen, that one object, there, is in a different position. It has moved. You know that the stars show no discernible motion, of course. It has moved because this photograph was taken eight months later, as Briareus Twelve was returning from the Neptune flyby, and the planet Alpha-Aleph had revolved in its orbit. This is not theory, it is evidence; and I add that the original tapes from which the photoprint was made are stored in Goldstone, so there is no question that arises of foolishness.”
Roobarooba,
but in a higher and excited key. Gratified, Knefhausen nailed down his point. “So, Major, if you will now return to Slide Three, yes—And if you will flip back and forth, between Three and Four, as fast as you can—Thank you.” The little black dot called Alpha-Aleph bounced back and forth like a tennis ball, while all the other star points remained motionless. “This is what is called the blink comparator process, you see. I point out that if what you are looking at is not a planet, it is, excuse me, Mr. President, the damnedest funniest star you ever saw. Also it is exactly at the distance and exactly with the orbital period we specified based on the RT data. Now, are there any more questions?”
“No, sir!” “That’s great, Kneffie!” “Clear as a cow’s ass to the stud bull.” “I think that wraps it up.” “That’ll show the Commies.”
The president’s voice overrode them all.
“I think we can have the lights on now, Major Merton,” he said. “Dr. Knefhausen, thank you. I’d appreciate it if you would remain nearby for a few minutes, so you can join Murray and myself in the study to check over the text of our announcement before we release these pictures.” He nodded sober dismissal to his chief science adviser and then, reminded by the happy faces of his cabinet, remembered to smile with pleasure.

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