The Black Hole (13 page)

"This doesn't appear to be the crippled ship you described to us, Doctor. For one that supposedly suffered such extensive damage . . ."

"We repaired it, and it became operable again," Reinhardt told him firmly. "Much of the work was accomplished before the decision was made by the rest of the crew to try to return to Earth in the survey craft. The final difficulties with the engines defeated them.

"Subsequent repair and maintenance have been performed by my mechanical companions, under my supervision. A ship like the
Cygnus
must necessarily carry a large contingent of repair robots. My assistance is needed only on rare occasions now, to interpret highly unorthodox problems. I had time to do nothing but work on the problems with the engines, you must remember.

"By now the
Cygnus
and her machines run themselves quite nicely, repairing one another, caring for one another, maintaining one another."

"But always subject to your directives."

Reinhardt executed a slight bow. "I sometimes feel that I am only another cog in the
Cygnus
machine, Dr. Durant. I am the repair unit of last recourse, the one who interprets what cannot be predicted. In that respect, the mechanicals flatter me. They are programmed to serve the crew. As I am the sole surviving member of that crew, they obey me. The fact that I am the ship's commander enhances that obedience. I do not command them. They serve me. There is a difference."

Gallantly taking McCrae's arm, he turned and led the three of them toward another elevator.

"So you repaired the destruction as best you could, including your receiving and monitoring equipment but not your broadcast facilities." Booth was speaking as much for the benefit of his recorder as for himself. "But you never acknowledged any of the subsequent orders to return to Earth."

"The crew made that choice. As to myself . . . be fair now, Mr. Booth. It was the
Cygnus
the authorities wanted back. Not me. As I've said, the
Cygnus
was incapable of returning."

"But she isn't any more? You spoke about your work on her engines."

"It's hard to say. The machines have managed to repair much of the damage caused by the particle storm, thanks to new discoveries we've made subsequent to the departure of the crew. Frank McCrae was largely responsible for many of them." He smiled pleasantly at McCrae.

"Assuming I could return the
Cygnus
to Earth in a reasonable time, Mr. Booth, there are considerations that prevent me from doing so. Other worlds are yet to be explored. There are life dreams unrealized."

"If this ship is now able to make it back to Earth and you refuse to obey orders by not making every effort to comply"—Booth hesitated only an instant—"the authorities would consider that an act of piracy, Doctor."

The reporter had a way of breaking through Reinhardt's Spartan exterior. One hand clenched convulsively, relaxing only slightly as the doctor spoke.

"You do have a way with words, Mr. Booth. I had thought I was immune to such petty criticisms and response-active words. Years of solitude have apparently weakened my armor. You should be proud of your talents."

"Thanks," Booth said dryly. "They usually enable me to dig out the truth."

"One day you may dig too deep, Mr. Booth. You run the risk of cave-in."

"I'll take my chances. What about my analysis?"

"Certain shortsighted individuals have often interpreted the pursuit of great discoveries as piracy. I am about to prove to you that the ends of science justify the means of science. To be what we are, to become what we are capable of becoming, is the only end in life. I am risking only my own life to prove that. Without purpose this great craft is nothing, a free-floating junkyard, reworked metal ores and as purposeless as the ores still wasting away in the ground.
With
purpose it becomes an instrument of man. With purpose, I can call myself a man. Those men unwilling to commit themselves to a high purpose are only shadows of men, as the ores are but hints of the refined metals they may one day become."

Durant nodded knowingly at this little speech, his attitude that of an acolyte preparatory to being ordained. McCrae acted noncommittal.

This is a dangerous man
, Harry Booth thought to himself. He knew well that throughout history any human being who had ever adhered publicly to the principle that "the end justified the means" had proved himself dangerous. It was a law as immutable as the energy-mass equations, and about as explosive.

The elevator had carried Holland, Pizer and Vincent below the level of the cross-ship air-car corridor that had brought them to the command tower. Now they were in the depths of the vast city-ship, traveling on foot down a much narrower passageway.

Looking around, Holland saw transparent ports and cylinders, part of the superstructure of the great ship. He recalled many years ago the appellation some eager reporter had hung on the
Cygnus:
the bridge of glass. The bridge to the stars.

Mankind had since learned that small bridges would serve its designs as well as great ones. Reinhardt had been right about one thing, though. They were not as pretty.

Holland shrugged. People had starved themselves before in order to honor properly their gods, had gone without food to decorate their temples. The
Cygnus
was a monument to another god, a faster-than-light temple of another kind.

With Reinhardt, he mused, as the High Priest. Reinhardt would be remembered as master of two disciplines: science and salesmanship. Holland was willing to regard him as a friend, assuming the commander of the
Cygnus
was telling the truth and would truly help them to repair the
Palomino
.

Despite the fact that Reinhardt seemed to be the only human aboard, the ports they passed showed evidence of considerable activity. Intership air cars and other transports raced back and forth, carrying robots of varying size and shape to unknown destinations for unrevealed purposes.

Ahead, a group of small maintenance robots appeared and sped by, clinging to a vehicle that itself possessed a simple mechanical brain.

Holland watched them vanish down the corridor behind them. The whine of their transport receded into the distance, echoing in their wake like the last drops of a fading spring shower.

Pizer noted all the activity, too. He glanced up at the alloyed mastodon convoying them. "Pretty busy around here, aren't you, Max? Awful lot of activity for a ship that doesn't seem to be going anywhere, and I know old Reinhardt doesn't require
this
much service. What are you gearing up for? Expecting some more company, maybe? Or afraid of it?"

Maximillian trundled onward without responding. The first officer looked away. "Loquacious chap, ain't he, Dan? You know, they say that machines incapable of communicating via human speech are degraded, simple brain types, incapable of performing anything beyond the most menial functions."

Still Maximillian did not react. Perhaps he was programmed against such provocations. Perhaps he felt beyond such pitiful attempts. More likely he was just adhering to his designer's orders that the new visitors be treated as guests.

"Don't bait him," Holland ordered. "Reinhardt's control over him may not be as absolute as he'd like us to believe."

"Oh, I think it is." Pizer looked back up at Maximillian. "Max here's just the doc's errand boy and number one foot-wiper, ain't you, Max?"

Still the colossus refused to respond. Pizer gave up trying to provoke it.

Before long they reached another bend in the corridor, turned right into it. Maximillian moved ahead of them, extended a limb to key a sealed doorway. It opened with a clang, incongruous compared with the smooth functioning of the other doors they had passed through.

This initial impression that they were entering a rarely visited area was magnified by the state of the interior of the chamber. Rows and rows of shelving and compact crates and containers stared silently back at the visitors. There was nothing as plebian as a cobweb hanging about, and electrostatic repellers kept the dust off, but they still had the feeling they were the first people to enter the storage area in some time.

Stationed behind the desk was a robot. Its head was canted to one side in fair imitation of a human asleep on the job. For all they knew, the mechanical might have been waiting there behind its desk in that identical, unvarying position for a dozen years. He looked much like Vincent and gave the impression of having been used hard with minimal repair.

Maximillian moved forward and swung a thick arm, knocking the quiescent robot to the floor. Its lights blinked on slowly at first, then with the impetus of increasing awareness, it rose to an unsteady hover. Its optics took in Holland, Pizer, Vincent, then settled inevitably on the ominous maroon form of Maximillian. It started to back away.

"Vincent," stated the humans' mechanical associate quickly. "Vital Information Necessary Centralized. Labor force, human interactive. The Three Ninety-sixth. Latest model, new 'eighty-nine biomechanical neuronics, floating synapses, heightened initiative-and-awareness circuitry."

Maximillian glowered down at Vincent as he concluded his terse introduction and self-description. But though the older machine behind the desk stared with interest at its visitors, it did not respond to Vincent's sally with an identification of itself. The older machine did not acknowledge in any fashion.

At first Vincent was hurt. That rapidly gave way to worry and concern. But he added nothing to his initial words, continued to eye the other machine with puzzlement.

"Tell you what, Charlie. I'll head back to the
Palomino
and start breaking down that busted regenerator. Looks like they'll have everything we need here." Holland turned to leave. Maximillian immediately pivoted preparatory to blocking the captain's exit.

"I'm sure our host will take good care of us," said Pizer hastily, guessing what Holland was up to. "After all, the good doctor indicated he wanted his guests properly treated."

"Don't worry about me." Holland spoke confidently to the threatening mass of Maximillian. "I'll find my way. Be back soon, Charlie. Make sure you get everything we might need."

"Will do." Pizer reached up and boldly tugged at one of the giant's arms, an arm which could have lifted half a dozen men off the deck without effort. It did not move. Pizer didn't expect that it would, but Maximillian would note the gesture.

"We need primary and secondary demand oxygen pressure valves, with attached microputer units. And a decent ECS proportion flow controller."

Holland was out the door and turning up the corridor they had come down, walking with the easy air of a man who had all the time in the world. But he was sweating.

Maximillian moved half a meter toward the door, then stopped, obviously confused as to how he should proceed.

"Max, Dr. Reinhardt told you to requisition the parts for us. Let's get cracking. I'm as anxious as you are to get out of here."

Still moving uncertainly, the huge mechanical turned away from the door. Extending a limb, he plugged himself into the inventory. Lights flashed on the arm. Corresponding lights began to blink on within the rows of shelving. A drawer popped open, then a second, each occurrence matched by a distinctive musical tone.

" 'Way to go, Max. 'Way to go." Pizer managed to conceal his relief.

While Pizer busied Maximillian with the long list of parts requests, Vincent sidled off to one side, hovered near the desk. "I see by your markings that you're from the old Two-Eight. General Services, right? Where you originate from on Earth . . . Amsterdam? Kuala Lumpur? All the factory jobs from Lumpur called their serial run the
tin cans
, and proud of it. How about you?"

It was as if the older robot simply didn't have audio-reception capability. From its markings and body style Vincent knew that was absurd. But it continued to act as if it were completely deaf. It whined away down the nearest aisle of shelving, attending to chores which doubtless included maintaining the room and its functions. Lights flashed erratically on Vincent's torso, the nearest he could come to non-verbally expressing frustration.

What in the Unitary was wrong with the old cousin
. . . ?

The air car had transported them rapidly down the length of the
Cygnus
, far past the dock where the
Palomino
lay berthed in emptiness.

They emerged into a corridor, left the car. Reinhardt led them into a large chamber filled with the most complex instrumentation McCrae had yet seen on the ship. A steady hum came from somewhere nearby, a whisper of great forces and energies held in check.

The consoles lining the walls were of a peculiar design. In places she clearly recognized units that were outmoded on Earth by the twenty years that had passed. Elsewhere were components and devices whose purpose she could not decipher. And then there were hybrid instruments that combined very old, discarded aspects of space-going technology with a sophistication superior to anything she had ever seen.

The entire room was a mixture of the outdated and the ultramodern. It looked like a witch doctor's hut lined with masks and dead animals on one side and a unitized, free-state diagnostic computer on the other.