The Black Hole (17 page)

"Vincent, I'm always cognizant of your usefulness. You're indispensable, old pot." He smiled. "There's nothing wrong with our communicators. If anything unexpected starts, you'll be the first to know.

"Now, go on in there, try to take it easy, and have a good time. You deserve it, if only for the amount of work you put in on the regenerator system."

"Merely doing my duty, Captain. I am not programmed to function on the service-reward system."

"That should make the rewards all the more enjoyable when they come." Holland patted the robot on the back. Surface receptors immediately noted the contact, converted it into a stream of electrical impulses that were transported to the interpretive section of Vincent's brain. There they were identified, correlated with such additional related elements as Holland's tone of voice, the context of the conversation and his facial expression.

Not so very different from the way a human would have processed identical stimuli.

Vincent moved into the noisy room. Pizer had been keeping an eye on the sentries. Now that Vincent had been allowed to enter the recreation area without challenge, Holland and he could continue on their way.

One sentry seemed to be singling out the first officer for special scrutiny.

Pizer flipped him a jaunty salute. "As you were . . ."

The sentry did not respond, but continued to stare after him until the two men had disappeared around a bend in the main corridor. A simple-minded mechanical programmed for few functions, it had by then forgotten all about the non-
Cygnian
robot now cavorting in the recreation room with other members of the ship's mechanized crew.

Vincent regarded the shifting metal assembly with apparent indifference. He wandered through the crowd, seemingly oblivious to the outright stares of some of the other robots. None ventured to engage him in conversation, however, and he didn't yet attempt to draw them out.

He was hunting for a subject likely to be inclined to garrulousness if properly motivated. But it was difficult to distinguish one robotic type from another. The lights made visual identification difficult, despite the acuity of his optics. Furthermore, Reinhardt's machines reflected his personal rather than a standard cybernetic vision. The presence of this large number of hybrids and modified types further confused the matter. It was for such reasons that the human crew members of the
Palomino
seemed to regard Reinhardt as nothing if not a scientific genius, despite their suspicion of him.

Vincent held a somewhat lower opinion of the commander of the
Cygnus
. To him, the perpetrator of these and who knew how many other forms of mechanical destandardization was more a Dr. Moreau than an Einstein.

Doubtless most of the mechanicals in the room held their master in high esteem. So Vincent kept his critical opinions to himself. For the time being, anyway.

He was searching for a robot designed to interact closely with humans: a Calvin series twenty, if he was lucky. Such a machine could converse with subtlety and would be more likely to talk freely than other, less loquacious types. There were none in sight, however.

What he spotted instead was a machine he had already encountered. Likely he would get nothing from it, as he had—or rather, hadn't—previously. But it was of the same general style as himself. It might empathize properly if he could break through its enforced reserve. And the inelegant monster Maximillian was not around to intimidate the other this time. So he floated over to the old-fashioned pool table, hovering for a moment in the background to watch.

The aged B.O.B. unit utilized a pressure-sensitive cue to match the adjustable arms of the more humanoid machines, but he still missed the shot badly. Vincent analyzed the miss automatically, calculating the pressure to distance ratio involved, and came to the conclusion that the older robot's internal-velocity calculations module needed tuning or replacement. Or else he was simply a lousy pool player.

The surrounding robots, more of Reinhardt's cybernetic mutants, appeared to enjoy the miss. It was unusual to see one robot taunting or deliberately conspiring to humiliate another, but apparently the old B.O.B. unit regularly received such abuse. Vincent was disgusted; the machines were behaving in an almost human fashion.

He drifted forward, monitoring the sequencing of his external lights so as not to betray his true feelings, and opened cheerfully. "It appears you are in need of some help."

The B.O.B. unit did not respond, but Vincent was not to be put off so quickly this time.

"Vincent is my name," he announced. "Pool is my game." He took the power cue from Bob, inspected it with the air of a machine designed not to use such devices but to manufacture them. Extending a set of fine manipulators, he began making adjustments to the cue's trigger-and-fire mechanism.

Other robots around the room paused in their activities to watch. Several tried without success to identify the electronic tune of the V.I.N.CENT model was humming via his internal synthesizer. They failed, not having his human-interaction library.

Within the control tower all was silent save for the steady blips and pops from the multitude of computer readouts. Humanoid robots stood or sat at their posts, attending to individually assigned functions.

Maximillian hovered before the command console. Occasionally the massive head would shift to take in a distant screen or gauge. A tiny spot of light appeared on one screen. The massive mechanical turned to study it quietly. A dial was turned, contact controls carefully attuned. The spot of light grew brighter, defining itself against the intentionally muted background of the black hole and its swirling halo of captured, radiating mass.

The light continued to travel steadily
out
from the Pit.

The table was not an antique, though it had the look of one. So did the matching chairs and the crystal chandelier above, and much of the silverware and other accouterments of a graciously set table. All were reproductions. They had been carefully crafted in the
Cygnus
's repair shops to Reinhardt's specifications. Three-dimensional history tapes from the ship's library provided the models. Only the huge painting of the
Cygnus
itself, which dominated one wall, was not an echo of man's past, though the frame that held it was.

Tastefully aligned drapes framed the expansive window that dominated the opposite wall. The window had the appearance of those once used in old wooden homes, the glass crisscrossed with thin hardwood braces. But the transparent material was far stronger than glass; the wood, decoration instead of support; and the view beyond, one only a few humans had ever set eyes upon. It looked out onto the illuminated length of the
Cygnus
and the gravity devil in the sky.

Holland and Pizer entered the room. The rest of the human crew of the
Palomino
were already present. The captain's attention was drawn now not by the distant maelstrom of the collapsar but by the table, set with
fresh
fruits,
fresh
vegetables, salads and covered silver dishes from which rose wonderfully aromatic steam. It was all very different from the fare they had lived on during their eighteen months on the
Palomino
.

Two humanoid robots served wine from a real bottle, another reproduction. It would have tasted the same if it had been poured from a modern decanter, but that would have spoiled the effect. Holland knew that the commander of the
Cygnus
was not one to spoil an effect.

The room and the lavish meal laid before them was shocking, not for their elaborateness, but because they gave the impression of being exactly the opposite. There was nothing to indicate that any special preparations had been made for them, beyond cooking more food than normal. Holland had the feeling that Reinhardt dined like this all the time. For a few seconds he found himself envying his counterpart.

That instant of envy vanished quickly. Fresh asparagus was a poor substitute for human companionship, an orange no match for sympathy from a fellow creature. Despite the opulent display, Reinhardt was more to be pitied than envied.

There was no reason he should stint on his meals, not with the resources of a vessel designed to feed hundreds devoted to satisfying his needs alone. Holland decided that Reinhardt was entitled to any compensations he could muster.

But for some reason the setting still disturbed him.

Bookcases leaned against other walls. Some held books made with real paper. Antique star maps decorated real wood paneling. The room was a mixture of the old and the new, traits which seemed more and more to characterize Reinhardt himself.

The commander of the
Cygnus
had risen to greet them as they entered. He did not comment on the absence of Vincent, though Holland knew it had been noted. Instead, after greeting the newcomers, he turned his attention back to McCrae.

"What a pleasant experience to dine once more with a lovely woman. That is an effect quite beyond the most elaborate programming."

McCrae nodded ever so slightly. "Thank you."

Reinhardt now looked back at Holland, who had moved to stand alongside Harry Booth. "A great many experiments are in progress aboard the
Cygnus
, gentlemen. Some of them are dangerous. In the interests of your own safety, I suggest that there are no more unescorted excursions for the duration of your stay."

Holland thought the gentle admonition was intended for himself and Pizer. As yet he knew nothing of Booth's solitary exploration of numerous corridors, nor of his singular encounter with the peculiar robot in hydroponics. But since Reinhardt appeared willing to let the matter drop with the simple warning, he wasn't about to pursue it. Nor was Booth.

Reinhardt indicated they should be seated, moved quickly to hold a chair for McCrae.

"Please . . ."

She accepted the seat. The physical proximity of the commander made her nervous for reasons she couldn't define. Durant took the chair opposite her, and Reinhardt, as expected, sat at the head of the table between them.

Durant found himself eying the painting of the
Cygnus
that dominated one wall and wondering who had painted it. Reinhardt himself, or one of the since-departed crew? Or had it been on the
Cygnus
originally? Maybe one of Reinhardt's machines had executed the work. He inspected the crystal goblet on the table near his plate. It was a replica of nineteenth-century English. All the other table settings had been made by machines. Why not the painting also?

Why did it disturb him to think that?

"We begin with fresh mushroom soup. Prepared from my own personal garden." Several of the humanoid robots were already dispensing the thick potage. They moved and worked with a fluidity unmatched by the average mechanical.

"Mushrooms grow especially well on the
Cygnus
," Reinhardt continued. "Considering the dark and cold of their immediate surroundings, it somehow seems appropriate that they should do so well."

Pizer was already downing the soup from the silver bowl before him. "This is the kind of Christmas dinner I've been dreaming about for months." He spooned another mouthful, swallowed, his eyes closing from the sheer pleasure of it. "Delicious."

"Thank you. I am afraid the spices, the white pepper and the butter substitute are from the
Cygnus
's store of preserved condiments, but the parsley you see is also fresh, as is the wine in the soup. I have enjoyed reprogramming and experimenting with the machines that do the cooking. I have had ample time to develop an interest in such hobbies without having to neglect my serious work."

Booth had barely sampled his soup, was staring down at it with a peculiar expression. "I remember writing about the extensive hydroponics system back when everyone was doing features on the
Cygnus
's construction. Large enough to support the needs of the entire crew, wasn't it?"

Reinhardt nodded agreeably. "These days it's tiny, only large enough to supply my personal needs. Most of the cultivated areas have been allowed to lie dormant."

"Naturally. Be a waste of energy and material to maintain them for no reason at all." A robot refilled the reporter's wineglass. Booth was disappointed that his carefully phrased appraisal had failed to provoke some kind of reaction from Reinhardt.

"Our spare parts and our wine are vintage, Captain. I hope they all prove satisfactory." Reinhardt savored the bouquet from his own glass, sipped delicately.

"We're modifying a few of them, Doctor, but we should be able to make everything work." Holland chewed his food, swallowed and spoke while slicing another portion of meat. "The changes that have taken place in the past twenty years have been primarily in the fields of guidance and navigation, life-support maintenance and automatics.

"Atmospheric regeneration systemology has remained fairly basic over that period. There's only so much you can do with air. The replacements you've provided us with were machined a little differently, and some of the alloys are different. Nothing that can't be adjusted to work on the
Palomino
. We'll be finished with our repairs by tomorrow, and ready to leave."

Durant took immediate exception to that. "Speak for yourself, Dan. I, for one, still have a great deal to learn from Dr. Reinhardt."

"Our mission's finished, Alex. It's time for us to start home. All of us."

Durant opened his mouth to reply, but their attention was diverted by the sudden entry of Maximillian. The machine was a brutal reminder of the realities which held sway beyond the fairy-tale ambiance of the dining room. Reinhardt listened sagely to the rapid-paced spew of electronics from the robot, clearly understanding everything. Whatever the content of the message, it produced an immediate change in the commander's attitude. His mood turned from merely pleasant to downright buoyant.

"Thank you, Maximillian. Inform me in time to congratulate him formally."

A last series of beeps issued from the machine. Then it pivoted on its repeller units and departed. Reinhardt dwelled in some other dimension for an instant, then remembered his guests. Lifting his wineglass as he rose, he addressed them all. His particular attention was reserved for the expectant Durant.