New Writings in SF 10 - [Anthology] Read online

  “Effectively, yes. What do you suggest we do?”

  “Turn the receivers off. Kill the signal.”

  “First let’s consider what that’s going to achieve. If the time constant has any bearing on the size of this ship, what happens if we cut adrift from it? We will lose our very last point of congruence with the universe. We’re already adrift in the three physical dimensions. If we lose congruence with time also, our chances of ever getting back would appear to be remarkably slight.”

  “Something’s controlling our size,” said Brevis. “And the computer’s proved it’s no casual relationship. But that controlling factor has caused us to become about four light years longer than we started out. I would guess that somehow our size is attempting to compensate for an untenable time constant to which we are tied regardless of velocity. As I see it, our only hope is to break every possible link so that our size determinator is a purely arbitrary factor. Then we have a chance to do some research into instituting our own control.”

  “I think it’s a hell of a risk, Eric. Better the devil we know than the one we don’t.”

  “How much do we know about this devil called time Paul?”

  Porter considered this in silence. “Very well! I’m turning the receivers off now. But I wish to hell I knew what you had in mind. I know there’s something buzzing in that brain of yours.”

  “Perhaps. I’m wondering whether to take a gamble, based on something I saw in the vaults of Tau Research. When you can show that our size determinator is arbitrary I’d like to set up an experiment which I think might work. I think it stands a chance because I suspect that it was tried by somebody once before. Somebody who finished up one and a quarter inches tall.”

  There was silence for a long second. “At this stage, Eric, any idea is better than none. How do we set about it?”

  “I need to tidy up a few details first. So I’ll give you the proposition in its final form. And Paul . . . !”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself for a while. You understand why.”

  “Sure, Eric. The whole situation’s a psychological bomb.”

  “Check! Get those receivers off and have Sigmund watch the computer to see if the linking factor is broken. When you’re sure the time correlation has gone let me know—but quietly. Hullo, Paul, are you still there?”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking. I wonder what it’s like to be one and a quarter inches tall?”

  As he cut the connection Brevis noted that his own hands were shaking. The scheme which had formed in his mind in the course of the conversation was one born of desperation, and would involve the type of risk that only desperation could justify. That the idea had sprung from his own mind was a fascinating insight into the pressure of the fear which lay in his own subconscious. And, despite his words, it was not something he could discuss with either Porter or Grus. In fact, there was only one other person aboard likely to be able to follow his reasoning and appreciate the nature of the experiment.

  Slowly his considerations formed into a practical plan of action. Some of the steps he was loath to take, but again the sense of desperation forced the conclusion that there was no other course. He knew now what drugs he could use and to what purpose.

  Then he reached the point of decision, and moved swiftly. From the automatic kitchen he removed the coffee dispenser and doctored the first two charges of coffee concentrate. From the surgery he took a couple of pre-sterilized hypodermic syringes and two ampoules, which he concealed carefully in his pocket. And all the while he was watching the clock, knowing the shipboard habit pattern with such certainty that he could afford to let affairs take their own course up to a point where his active intervention was necessary.

  The only new factor to be added was Porter on the intercom, his voice ragged and near hysteria.

  “Eric, the time link factor’s been broken. But we should never have switched off the receivers.”

  “Why, what the devil’s happened?”

  “It’s the stars, Eric. My God, what have we done?”

  “What’s the matter with the stars?”

  “I thought the instruments were broken, but it isn’t that. I’ve checked. But the stars have all gone out.”

  Brevis verbally strove to quell the rising panic, playing for time. To ensure that the coffee reached its intended destination he collected it himself and took it to Grus and Porter, and stood for a moment while they tried to coax the computer to handle mathematical concepts of infinity for which no programmes would ever be available. The unmistakable smell of fear was heavy in the air. Brevis estimated that the knockout drug in the coffee would be effective in about five minutes, and was somewhat apprehensive when Porter decided to consult the micro-reader in his own cabin just before this time. He followed Porter discreetly, to be on hand in case he should fall on the stairs. But Porter continued safely almost to the cabin before he fell unconscious in the corridor.

  Brevis caught the fallen figure under the armpits and dragged it in to the bunk. Baring an arm, he prepared a hypodermic syringe and made an injection. Then he stopped and looked about him. The ship seemed curiously still. Only the whispered rustle of the automatics and the slight sound of the air conditioning system broke the silence. There was no drive operating, not even for routine attitude or spin correction. Even the power hum had fallen to an inaudible level, and the Rorsch generator, working in such tenuity, had long since ceased to voice its characteristic harmonics. In these conditions he imagined he could hear the molecules in the walls around him creaking as they strained to find some controlling principle which would set their absolute as well as their relative size.

  He went out into the corridor and then back up to the computer room looking for Sigmund Grus. The physicist was already asleep, his head resting on the console. Brevis moved him to the floor and gave him an injection as he had done with Porter. Then, satisfied, he left Grus at rest, and headed for Driscoll’s cabin.

  Driscoll woke up at his entry and propped himself sleepily up in the bunk, an unspoken question on his lips. Brevis seized his wrist and checked his pulse impatiently. Then nodded.

  “Get up! We’ve got work to do.”

  Driscoll scowled at the abruptness of the address, but complied nevertheless, swinging into his working jeans, all the time his deep eyes trying to wrest information from Brevis’ impatient face.

  “Now what? What’s going on?” Even waking from sleep Driscoll took it as axiomatic that something unusual was in progress.

  “We’re going into the blister. Paul’s welded the door shut, so get a cutting torch and join me there.”

  “But Paul’ll never . . .”

  “Paul can’t stop us. Nor Sigmund. I’ve got them both under sedation. Now I’ve got some work to do in the blister and I need your help. What’s the matter—don’t you dare?”

  “You know how much I’d dare to get back in there.” Driscoll’s intelligence shone through the perspiration on his brow. “But God, Brevis, I hope you know what you’re doing! Was it you who got me out?”

  “Yes. That’s how I know how much of it I can stand and how much you can stand. It should have killed you, but it didn’t.”

  “After a while you learn to come to terms with it. The effect of Tau imagery is essentially akin to a drug experience. When it’s as strong as we found it in the blister it can combine mescalin fantasy with opiate addiction. And there’s a limit to what you can take and still retain your own volition. But you can prolong your tolerance by repeated exposure.”

  “This time,” said Brevis, “there’ll be no question of even trying to retain your own volition. We may have to go well beyond that point. The best we can hope for is that one of us can retain sufficient objectivity to complete the job.”

  “What job?”

  “Getting the ship back into congruence with the universe from which it started.”

  Driscoll watched him narrowly for a moment or two. “I know yo
u’re not mad, Brevis,” he said, “so you must have some idea behind what you’re saying.”

  “It’s more of a hunch than an idea. In the vaults of Tau Research I saw a probe vessel twenty-two inches long with a pilot to match. What intrigued me was not so much that he finished up at such a size, but why he happened to finish up at that particular size. I wonder now if I’m beginning to see an answer.”

  “Go on.”

  “My theory is this. His probe vessel, like ourselves, probably broke dimensional congruity with the universe due to some Tau phenomenon when passing through the light barrier. And like ourselves, by accident or design, he established that his size determinator was an arbitrary factor.”

  “Is ours?”

  “It is now. We were apparently maintaining time congruency with the universe due to our dependence on Tau Research timing pulses. This link we’ve now broken. So we should have access to the same sort of control which I think the probe pilot used to correct the size of his ship.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Imagination. Tau-psychic interaction is something we can prove to exist even though we don’t yet understand it. The Tau hallucinations in the blister are part of it. An area of the brain, apparently located near the so-called pineal eye, responds directly to unshielded Tau influence, and there is evidence that certain aspects of Tau are mutually responsive to strong psychic states. I suggest that having realized the size determinator of his probe was arbitrary, the pilot went into the blister and attempted to mentally correct the size of his ship by reference to the Tau image. He literally thought his way back into near congruence. Unfortunately he overshot the mark, but when you consider through how many orders of magnitude he probably descended, it was a feat of genius.”

  “My God, Brevis!” Driscoll was standing now, his eyes alight with comprehension. “I was in Control when that probe came in. You couldn’t have known this, but the pilot was in the blister when it arrived. I got him out with a spatula and my thumb. I’ve had nightmares about it ever since.”

  “I guessed as much. But are you willing to attempt the same thing?”

  “Of course. We don’t have anything to lose, after all. And if it worked for him it should work for me. But I’m not too certain about you. After certain minimal exposure to Tau hallucination one tends to become . . . ‘wedded’, as we pilots say. But the honeymoon period is a pretty harrowing affair. I suggest you stay outside the blister and leave the manipulation to me.”

  “I would, but for one thing,” Brevis said. “When you’re pitting your own psyche against the truly infinite it takes a rare degree of dissociation to establish your own status accurately. The probe pilot underestimated himself with disastrous results. You’re an outstanding introvert. Any error in your judgment will necessitate the use of a microscope to extricate us from this ship. Conversely, I have insufficient experience of Tau imagery to drop us through even one order of magnitude. But I do have enough training in psychological balance to correct us to approximately the right endpoint. As a composite we have a chance of bringing the size of the ship to a point where Paul and Sigmund may usefully survive.”

  Driscoll accepted the point without comment. “When do we start?”

  “The sooner the better. The others will be out for about three hours, and the less imaginations we have working at once the more likely we are to succeed.”

  “Is that why you put them out?”

  “I despaired of ever trying to convince them of the scheme which you have accepted almost without hesitation. That’s why I approached you alone. I also put them out as a humane precaution which I cannot extend to either of us.”

  “Which is?”

  “At our present size we could include a whole galaxy in the ship and never notice it. But when we start to descend through a few orders of magnitude you can imagine our predicament if we happen to include within the ship’s structure even one solitary expanding star.”

  SIX

  Seeing his unfamiliarity with the tool, Driscoll took the cutting torch away from him and cut deeply into the metal, causing a shower of burning metal droplets to cascade to the floor. Then he levered the still white-hot metal open with a bar, and forced the door back with his foot. But despite his exertions, the sweat that beaded his brow was of emotional rather than physical origin. He stood aside for Brevis to enter.

  After their last desperate emergence very few of the screens remained standing, and the extremities of the unshielded Tau emanation seemed to burn off every angle and projection with an intensity which was almost audible. Brevis did not need to enter far to know that the savagery of the raw Tau influence was considerably greater than it had been even when he had almost succumbed while getting Driscoll out. Both his hope and his determination drained as the force of the situation hit him. Driscoll, coming up behind him, stopped abruptly, appalled at the intensity of the effect.

  “Jesus! That will eat us alive. We could never function in there.”

  “You don’t think we could stand it?”

  “We might stay conscious, but it wouldn’t be possible to think. It would be almost a complete mental wipeout with that degree of activity.”

  “Let’s get outside again,” Brevis said, “and see if we can find another angle on this.”

  Back in the corridor they closed the damaged door and leaned against it, thankful for the respite.

  “We’ve not much time, Eric. The level’s rising all the while. Whatever we decide will have to be done soon. If it gets much stronger it’ll strip us senseless before we can get through the screens.”

  “Can you think of anything at all which might give us a lead?”

  “Given some sort of focal point or target on which to concentrate, it might just be possible to remain objective. But you’d never handle abstractions against that level of interference.”

  “Tell me something,” said Brevis. “When I went into the blister to get you out, I put on the light at the door side of the screens. There was some Tau emanation leaking past the screens, and the interaction nearly blacked me out. Is this usual?”

  “No.” Driscoll’s eyes were shrewd with their dark intelligence. “It isn’t usual, but it happens sometimes. Occasionally in terrestrial Tau work the ship breaks from real time into the Tau temporal analogue. Under Tau emanation in a blister the light attempts to make the real-to-analogue transition and you get the same impression twice—once visually and once via the Tau hallucination. But the two signals are out of phase and set up a ringing pattern in the brain.”

  “I see,” said Brevis. “That accounts for the patterning of the image.”

  “Probably. But it has its uses. The ringing sets up something similar to a mental moire fringe interference pattern from which an experienced man can read the time differential with almost micrometer accuracy. Using a narrow-band light source with controllable illumination, it makes a useful research tool.”

  “Have we got such a source?”

  “We’ve got a mono-isotope krypton 86 discharge lamp in the blister. That’s about the best available. With it you could detect an analogue-to-real time displacement of less than two milliseconds. Does that help?”

  “It just might,” Brevis said, “if you could use the lamp as your focal point and concentrate on correcting only the time differential.”

  “How would that help?”

  “Since we broke the link with the Tau Research timing pulses, the ship analogue time has adapted itself to fit the same controlling constant as ship size.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Porter told me the stars had all gone out. This suggests there has been a time shift from real to analogue time. Our time scale is now so vast that normal light frequencies just don’t register with us. It’s too much of a coincidence that the stars disappeared just after the receivers were turned off. I surmise that if we can get one dimension back into congruity, the others will follow. After all, they’re all now tied to the same controlling constant. Alter o
ne dimension and the others must modify themselves to balance the equation.”

  Driscoll pulled his lip. “The whole theory’s based on far too many assumptions.”

  “We don’t have time to re-examine the data. Unless you’ve anything better to offer I suggest we go back in there and try it.”

  “You’re right, of course. At this stage even a bad theory is better than none. And if we’re going to die anyway, I know where I’d prefer to be.”

  Driscoll opened the door and walked towards the blister. Brevis followed, hiding his face in the shadow of Driscoll’s fading silhouette—a shadow made surrealistic by the polychromatic fuzz which made nonsense of the outline. The crackling lure of the bright imagery seized his mind and drained his volition. He followed like an automaton, with his eyes fixed on a narrowing area of darkness which was the small of Driscoll’s back. And in his mind there nestled an even smaller and more rapidly reducing area of objectivity.