"This is Linus Brein. We have more of their language analogued."
"I'll be right over." To his second officers Viggon said, "Want to come
along? This may be interesting."
Naylo shook his head. "We've a bit of a problem to haggle over. We'll
be over to Brein's bailiwick later."
"You might be missing something, but it's your decision."
* * * * *
As soon as the door was closed behind Viggon, Naylo said, "I wonder if
he is getting chicken."
"Don't let him hear you say that."
"I won't. But haven't you wondered?"
"Maybe," said Twill. "But it figures. Viggon Sarri has had a long and
successful career. He has expanded our realm more than any other one
man in history. He will go down in history as a valiant hero. He does
not care to spoil a good record."
"Hah! You agree, then."
Twill nodded soberly. He sneered, "Valiant! Hero! Sarri, the
Victorious! Eyewash. What's so glorious about conquering races that
fight back with slings and spears? What's so heroic about mowing down
a flight of airplanes or turning A-heads back on the senders? But now
that we have come upon a race that really has space travel developed to
a fine art--even though they have not exploited it much--Viggon wants
to wait. He's been pushing over children. Now that he's come up against
a half-baked adolescent, he's afraid."
"What do you suggest?"
Twill eyed Naylo soberly. "One of us is due to succeed the great Viggon
Sarri," he said flatly. "It may be you and it may be me. It will,
however, be the one who decides properly how to handle this race."
"All right, then," Naylo grunted. "But it may be neither of us." He
scowled. "Unless you or I can talk the venerable gentleman into action
at once."
"Right. Let's get started."
Naylo grinned. "I hope you won't mind working as my second officer,
Faren."
"You should see the day, Regin. I'll have you reporting to me before
we get home."
But beneath the banter was an undertone of dead seriousness....
Commodore Ted Wilson eyed the search grid unhappily. Out of the center
one thin hexagonal hole had been taken. It left such a lot of space to
be combed.
The infrawave receiver in the Information Center was alive, and
chattering with data and information and orders. Finally came a call
for Wilson, from Flight Commander Hugh Weston from Castor.
"Weston here, Ted. How's it coming?"
"We've completed our first crossing. Nothing but a comet and a rather
insignificant gas cloud."
"We're approaching you. Any suggestions?"
"Let's make contact and carry this out together instead of running at
cross-purposes."
"Meaning?"
"No independent searching."
"I think you're wrong," said Weston.
"But we can do a better job of coverage if we combine all forces into
one big comb."
"We could," replied Weston. "But do you realize that you'll probably
leave huge holes in your search grid?"
"That's the point. I know we will. After about the fourth pass, we'll
not be too sure of where we are. God, how I wish we had some method of
pinpointing this absolute nothing! I wish the infrawave could be used
as detecting and ranging."
"Make that double. But since we haven't got it, I suggest that we form
behind you. There'll be a third squadron from Pollux as soon as Wally
Wainright can get into space with his gang. I expect there'll be more,
too. We'll need 'em all. Out in this featureless void, we don't really
know where we are to any degree of accuracy. At least not the kind of
accuracy needed to find a thing as small as a spacecraft."
"Lifeship."
"Lifeship, spacecraft, both Godawful minute when lost in a few cubic
light years of space."
"I still say we should combine."
"I still think you should clean out one channel and let us take the
next."
"Can't see it, Weston."
"Okay, Ted. You're running this exercise. You're the boss. We combine.
We'll meet you where you are and reform before we make the return pass.
Right?"
"Right, Hugh. I don't want to argue, but our master computer feels
we've a better chance at the laws of probability if we all comb along
the same line than if each takes a different course and we try to
correlate our positions by sheer stellar astrogation."
* * * * *
Poised in space, Wilson and his squadron waited. While they waited,
the astro-techs made star sightings and the computer mulled over
their readings and delivered opinions of several probable enclosures
of position. These volumes were horribly vast compared with the mote
of a spacecraft. They were spherical, indicating the margin of error
in precision-pinpointing their position in deep space. And as the
astro-techs delivered more and more angle sightings on the known stars,
the computer delivered smaller and smaller enclosures as their true
position.
The problem was a matter of parallax, a matter of angular measurement
against the more distant, or "fixed" stars. Now, it may seem an easy
job to measure the angle of a star with respect to another star. But it
must be remembered that the parallax of the nearer stars, as measured
across the orbit of the earth, is a matter of seconds of arc.
Parallax is not measured directly with a protractor. It is measured
by comparing the position of the star on a plate against a similar
photograph taken six months ago, using the fixed stars as the frame of
reference.
In deep space, position is pinpointed by solid triangulation. This
can be represented by a pyramid suspended in space, the corners of
which end at the fixed stars. Take a pyramid of certain solid angles,
depended by points in space, and the apex can be satisfied for only one
spacial position. Repeat these solid-angle measurements and there are
several pyramids pointing their apexes toward the true position.
But if the orbit of the Earth produces only a second or so of
parallax-arc, any error in angular measurement of such magnitude
produces an error of a thousand light seconds. And the greater the
error in measurement, the larger is the volume of uncertain position.
This, then, was their problem. To cover, like a blanket, a volume of
space so vast as completely to defy description. All that can be said
of it is in comparison with a number of cubic light years. And who can
grasp the fathomless distance of a light year? It is just a meaningless
statement.
Eventually the second squadron came up and the ships milled around
until a larger space pattern was formed. Then the two squadrons began
to return along the search grid, on a line overlapping that area
covered in the first pass along the computed line of flight....
Alice Hemingway woke up from a fitful doze at the noise of the
infrawave receiver. Charles Andrews was listening to the rapid chatter
back and forth from one squadron to the next. He looked around, and
when he caught her eyes, he said cheerfully, "They're really out
looking for us."
"I heard," she murmured.
"Three squadrons, now. And a fourth is just heading out from Procyon.
We'll be picked up--"
Jock Norton came awake with a cry. "Shut that damned thing off!" he
roared.
"Why?" demanded Andrews belligerently.
"It's a waste of power."
"This thing?" sneered Andrews.
"That thing. It draws one point three kilowatts. That's plenty
important for a lifeship."
"Look," suggested Andrews, "why don't we call back and have 'em pick us
up?"
"Because nobody has ever found any directional quality about the
infrawaves. That's why we can't use 'em for detecting, ranging, and
locating. If they echoed, we might be able to use 'em somehow. But
they're not even directional, let alone echoing. Not only that, but
they are instantaneous in transmission, so even if they did echo they
couldn't be used for ranging. So we'll not waste power howling for more
help. We spend a bit every hour, because we want to let 'em know we're
still alive. But let's not waste any more than we have to."
Andrews shut off the infrawave receiver. "It was interesting," he said.
"But I suppose we can always assume that they are on the search." He
shivered. "Is it getting cold in here, or am I getting exhausted?"
* * * * *
Norton smiled thinly. "Probably both. This space can isn't collecting
any heat. We're too far from any sun. And there aren't enough people in
it to keep it hot."
"Huh?"
"The average human puts out an average of about a thousand B.T.U. per
hour over a twenty-four hour day. It rises in activity and falls with
relaxing. But this can needs about five people to keep up the heat
against the black body radiation from the hull."
"What do we do? Freeze?"
"One thing we can do. We can use the pedal generator."
"For what?"
"Two things. One is to charge up the energy cells. The other is that a
human body in vigorous work can deliver as high as two thousand B.T.U.
per hour. Although I doubt if any human body can keep up that kind of
vigor for a full hour. If you're cold, you can easily warm up, Andrews."
"Why doesn't this tin can have a small pile?"
"Why doesn't a steamship lifeboat have a turbine?"
"I've seen some very small piles and generating gear."
Norton shook his head. "A lifeship is aimed at providing the maximum
protection for a maximum number of people, under a minimum of luxury.
Stop whining. We're still alive, I keep telling you."
"At," sneered Andrews, "a hundred bucks an hour."
"Are you going to argue, or do you want to try some vigor for that bad
temper of yours?"
"We've got some power left over from the bank," suggested Andrews.
"Let's use that."
"Not on your life. That's reserve. Sooner or later we're going to use
it for radio pulses."
"Radio pulses?"
"For fine control direction-finding and locating."
Andrews snorted. "How are they going to pick up radio pulses when
they're going thirty or forty parsecs an hour?"
"They use gravitic mass detectors. As soon as someone gets a register,
they send one of the scouts out to drop below light and listen for
radio pulses. If he hears any, then the whole search squadron stops and
starts really to comb the neighborhood with radar."
Andrews shivered again. "I'll try that generator," he said. "Could we
pedal enough juice to run the drivers?"
Norton laughed. "Sure. Like you could row a battleship with a rusty
broom handle. Have you got the remotest idea of how far we are from
anything?"
"No."
"Neither have I."
"All right. Where's your damned exercising machine?"
"Below. I'll show you. I want to cut the paragrav generator by half,
anyway."
"Paragrav?"
"Pseudo-gravity," said Norton crisply. "You've noticed there's still an
up and down? That's it. But the damned thing radiates heat like mad,
along with producing its gravitic field. I want to conserve all the
heat we can. With a full complement of survivors, this space can stay
more than comfortably warm. But with only three, it radiates more than
is comfortable. Come on, Andrews. I'll show you this crate, too."
Alice felt the gravitic pull diminish, and then Norton was back in the
main room of the lifeship. He came over and sat down beside her.
"Cold, kid?"