Charles Sheffield - The Compleat McAndrew

VIP免费

2024-12-07 0 0 603.69KB 189 页 5.9玖币

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/New%20Folder/Charles%20Sheffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt

THE BRAIN OF AN EINSTEIN --

THE MIND OF AN ENGINEER

Presenting the space adventures of Arthur Morton McAndrew, space-time expert and scientist

extraordinaire, and his long-suffering companion, spaceship skipper Jeanie Roker. Jeanie first met

McAndrew on a routine run to Titan and quickly learned he was a genius of the caliber of Newton or

Einstein. When McAndrew invented a space drive that let frail humans survive hundreds of gravities

of acceleration, he disappeared while testing it, and Jeanie had to find him, using a trail of

cryptic messages he had left behind.

That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, in spite of the gray hairs that Jeanie began

accumulating as a result of McAndrew's impractical nature and his talent for getting himself into

trouble with much more practical villains, such as ...

A mass-murderer of several million people

A highly-placed government official whose life McAndrew saved,

but in an embarrassing way, and who consequently wants to kill

both him and Jeanie

The ruler of a slower-than-light spaceship that left Earth a long time ago, giving it time to

develop some very strange customs by the time McAndrew and Jeanie visited it. And there are still

more adventures of this spacegoing odd couple in The Compleat McAndrew.

UNSUITABLE ENVIRONMENT

"McAndrew and Roker." Kleeman's voice came from the speakers, calm and superior. "There will be

punishment unless you return at once."

I was at last at the airlock. McAndrew and Wicklund were there. Without speaking, McAndrew turned

and pointed towards the wall of the lock. I looked, and felt a sudden sickness. The wall where the

line of spacesuits should be hanging was empty.

"No suits?" I said stupidly.

He nodded. "Kleeman has been thinking a move ahead of you." There was a long and terrible pause.

"I looked out," he said at last. "Through the viewport there. The ship's capsule is still where we

left it."

"You're willing to chance it?" I looked at Wicklund, who stood there not following our

conversation at all.

Mac nodded. "I am. But what about him?"

I walked forward and stood in front of Wicklund. "Do you still want to go with us? Leave the Ark

forever?"

Wicklund licked his lips, then nodded.

"Into the lock." We moved forward together and I closed the inner door.

"Do not be foolish." It was Kleeman's voice, with a new expression of alarm. "There is nothing to

be served by sacrificing yourselves to space. McAndrew, you are a rational man. Come back and we

will discuss this together."

Mac swung open the outer airlock door. The air was gone in a puff of ice vapor. I saw the capsule

at the top of the landing tower. To reach it we had to traverse sixth meters of the interstellar

vacuum.

Title: The Compleat McAndrews

Author: Charles Sheffield

ISBN: 0-671-57857-X

Publisher: Baen Books <http://www.baen.com/>

Introduction

A glance at the copyright dates on the stories in this book shows that McAndrew has been with me

for almost as long as I have been writing fiction. My own manuscript notes make that point even

more clearly: the first piece of fiction that I ever published appeared in the April, 1977 issue

of Galaxy magazine. The handwritten date on the first page of the manuscript of "Killing Vector,"

my first McAndrew story, is just two months later: June 15, 1977. Since then, at apparently random

intervals ranging from a few weeks to a few years, I have produced another tale of Arthur Morton

McAndrew and his long-time and long-suffering companion, Jeanie Roker.

What's the fascination of these characters for me, and why do I return to them again and again? As

a related question, is there any pattern to the stories?

First, let me point out that the order in which they appear in this volume is not the order in

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/...heffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt (1 of 189) [2/24/2004 10:40:45 PM]

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/New%20Folder/Charles%20Sheffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt

which the stories were written. Chronologically, the order would be "Killing Vector," "Moment of

Inertia," "All the Colors of the Vacuum," "The Manna Hunt," "Rogueworld," "Shadow World," "The

Invariants of Nature," "Out of Focus," and "The Fifth Commandment."

The most obvious point about these stories is that each revolves around some central issue of

science. I go into that subject in detail in the Appendix at the end of the book. Whenever I

become interested in something, especially when that something involves physics and astronomy, a

McAndrew story is likely to emerge from my hindbrain.

That explains the chosen themes, but not McAndrew himself. I might suggest that he is some form of

alter ego, the me that I wish I were, except that others have already assigned that role to

Behrooz Wolf (of Sight of Proteus, Proteus Unbound, and Proteus in the Underworld).

Of course, I may have an alter ego suffering from multiple personality disorder. However, my

better guess is that McAndrew is an excuse. I derive great pleasure from sitting around, reading

and calculating on matters of no earthly value and importance. I do this happily for hours and

days, limited only by the arguments of conscience that I ought to be doing something useful and

productive. To give one example, I have for the past five years tried, sporadically and

unsuccessfully, to analyze a particular mathematical game. I can state the game simply, and to

avoid (or possibly create) reader frustration I may as well do so. Two players, A and B, take

turns throwing a die. There is a probability p that the die will show a score of 2, and a

probability of (1 - p) that the die will show a score of 1. Given a whole number N, what is the

probability that player A will be the first to reach a score of at least N?

I cannot justify wasting so much time on such a trivial game, except to use the all-work-and-no-

play defense. However, if an area of apparently useless interest can one day become the basis for

a McAndrew story, I have a rationale for my actions. Surely, if I write and publish a story, no

one can say that all my preliminary reading and calculating was pointless.

As for an overall pattern to the stories, I do see a general trend. However, I suspect that the

trend mirrors changes not in science but in me. If I had to categorize myself at the time I wrote

"Killing Vector," it would be as a practicing scientist whose knowledge of science fiction was

mainly as a reader, a person who despite some first-hand experience of America and Americans was

basically English, with an English wife and children. Today, twenty-one years and four or five

million published words on, I would describe myself as a writer with a strong amateur interest in

science; a person mostly American, with an American wife and children, albeit also a person with

strong social and family ties to England and the English. And, a fact not to be dismissed, I am

twenty-one years older. I am rather less interested in science, and more interested in people.

These changes affect the stories. When first we meet him, McAndrew the scientist is all there, but

I don't think I could in the early tales ever have given him a child (as in "Rogueworld"), and

still less a mother (as in "The Fifth Commandment"). That last story also points out an implicit

element in most of the earlier stories: the relationship between Jeanie Roker and McAndrew is in

some ways that of parent-child. He is the small boy whose rash actions lead him into trouble, she

is the responsible and experienced adult who gets him out. I think that's who I would really like

to be, the curious child who is not quite responsible for his own actions. That is the reason why

I continue to write about Arthur Morton McAndrew.

Two other brief answers to questions: Will I ever write a McAndrew novel? An e-mail correspondent

pointed out that although there are references to McAndrew in others of my novels, he has never

had one of his own. My answer is, McAndrew will get a novel when I run across a neat scientific

idea so large and complex that I can't get a handle on it in a story of ten to twenty thousand

words.

And finally, is this really the Complete McAndrew, as the title suggests?

To this, I can only offer the Clintonian reply: it all depends on how you define the word, is.

Certainly, at this time there exist no other McAndrew stories, so what you have is the complete

McAndrew. Equally certainly, there will in the future be fascinating scientific ideas that just

jump up and down, crying out, "Me, me, write about me."

I'm not sure I will be able to resist their pleas. But "The Incomplete McAndrew" makes a poor book

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/...heffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt (2 of 189) [2/24/2004 10:40:45 PM]

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/New%20Folder/Charles%20Sheffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt

title.

FIRST CHRONICLE:

Killing Vector

Everyone on the Control Stage found a reason to be working aft when Yifter came on board. There

was maximum security, of course, so no one could get really close without a good reason. Even so,

we all took the best look that we could manage—you don't often have a chance to see a man who has

killed a billion people.

Bryson from the Planetary Coordinators' Office was at Yifter's elbow. The two men weren't shackled

or anything melodramatic like that. Past a certain level of notoriety, criminals are treated with

some deference and even respect. Bryson and Yifter were talking together in a friendly way,

although they were in the middle of a group of top-rank security men, all heavily armed and

watchful.

They were taking safety to extremes. When I stepped forward to greet Bryson and his prisoner, two

guards carefully frisked me before I could get within hand-kill range, and they stood close beside

me when the introductions were made. I haven't lived on Earth for a long time, and they must have

known that I have no close relatives there; but they were taking no chances. Yifter was a prime

target for personal revenge. A billion people leave a lot of friends and relatives.

From a distance of one meter, Yifter's appearance did not match his reputation. He was of medium

height, slightly built, with bushy, prematurely white hair and mild, sad eyes. He smiled at me in

a tired, tolerant way as Bryson introduced us.

"I am sorry, Jeanie Roker," he said. "Your ship will be filled with strangers on this trip. I'll

do my best to keep out of your way and let you do your job."

I hoped he could live up to his words. Since I took over the runs to Titan, I've carried most

things in the connected set of cargo spheres that make up the Assembly. Apart from the kernels,

and we carry a few of those on the outbound leg of every trip, we've had livestock, mega-crystals,

the gravity simulator, and the circus. That's right, the circus. They must have had a terrible

agent, that's all I can say. I took them both ways, to Titan and back to L-5. Even with all that,

Yifter was still a novelty item. After he had been caught and the rest of the Lucies had gone

underground, nobody had known quite what to do with him. He was Earth's hottest property, the

natural target for a billion guns and knives. Until they decided how and when he would come to

trial, they wanted him a long way from Earth. It was my job to deliver him to the Titan penal

colony, and return him when they got themselves sorted out on Earth.

"I'll arrange for you and your guards to travel in a separate part of the Assembly," I said. "I

assume that you will prefer privacy."

Yifter nodded agreeably, but Bryson wasn't having any.

"Captain Roker," he said. "Let me remind you that Mr. Yifter has not been found guilty on any

charge. On this journey, and until his trial, he will be treated with proper courtesy. I expect

you to house both of us here in the Control Stage, and I expect that you will invite us to take

our meals here with you."

In principle, I could have told him to go and take a walk outside. As captain, I said who would

travel in the Control Stage, and who would eat with me—and innocent people were not usually sent

to the Titan penal colony, even before their trial. On the other hand, Bryson was from the

Planetary Coordinators' office, and even off-Earth that carried weight. I suppressed my first

reaction and said quietly, "What about the guards?"

"They can travel in the Second Section, right behind the Control Stage," replied Bryson.

I shrugged. If he wanted to make nonsense of Earth's security efforts, that was his choice.

Nothing had ever happened on any of my two-month runs from Earth to Titan, and Bryson was probably

quite right; nothing would happen this time. On the other hand, it seemed like a damned silly

charade, to ship twenty-five guards to keep an eye on Yifter, then house them in a separate part

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/...heffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt (3 of 189) [2/24/2004 10:40:45 PM]

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/New%20Folder/Charles%20Sheffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt

of the Assembly.

Yifter, with an uncanny empathy, had read through my shrug. "Don't worry about security, Jeanie

Roker," he said. He smiled again, that tired, soothing smile that began deep in his sad, brown

eyes. "You have my assurance, I will be a model prisoner."

He and Bryson walked on past me, into the main quarters. Was that really Yifter, the bogey-man,

the notorious head of the Hallucinogenic Freedom League? It seemed hard to believe. Three months

earlier, the Lucies—under Yifter's messianic direction—had planted hallucinogenic drugs in the

water supply lines of most of Earth's major cities. An eighth of the world had died in the

resulting chaos. Starvation, epidemic, exposure, and mindless combat had revisited the Earth and

exacted their age-old tribute. The monster who had conceived, planned, and directed that horror

was difficult to match with Yifter, the seemingly mild and placid man.

My thoughts were quickly diverted to more immediate practical matters. We had the final masses of

all the cargo, and it was time for the final balancing of the whole Assembly. One might assume

that just means balancing the kernels correctly, since they out-mass everything else by a factor

of a million. But each Section containing a kernel has an independent drive unit, powered by the

kernel itself. We leave those on Titan, and travel back light, but on the trip out the dynamic

balancing is quite tricky.

I reviewed the final configuration, then looked around for McAndrew. I wanted him to review the

balance calculations. It's my responsibility, but he was the kernel expert. I realized that he

hadn't been present when Yifter came aboard. Presumably he was over on one of the other Sections,

crooning over his beloved power sources.

I found him in Section Seven. The Assembly is made up of a variable number of Sections, and there

would be twelve on this trip, plus the Control Stage. Until we accelerate away from the Libration

Colony station, all the Sections are physically connected—with actual cables—to each other and to

the Control Stage. In flight, the coupling is done electromagnetically, and the drives for the

powered Sections are all controlled by a computer on the Control Stage. The Assembly looks like a

small bunch of grapes, but the stalks are nonfunctional—there are no cables in the System that

could take the strains, even at lowest acceleration. Moving among the spherical Sections when

we're in flight isn't easy. It means we have to cut the drives, and turn off the coupling between

the Sections. That's why I thought the idea of having Yifter's guards in a different Section was

so dumb—from there, they couldn't even reach the Control Stage when the drives were on.

I wanted McAndrew to check the configuration that we would hold in flight, to see if he agreed

that the stresses were decently balanced among the different Sections. We never run near the limit

on any of them, but there's a certain pride of workmanship in getting them all approximately

equal, and the stresses as low as possible.

He was standing on the ten-meter shield that surrounded the Section Seven kernel, peering through

a long boresight pointed in towards the center. He was aware of my presence but did not move or

speak until the observation was complete. Finally he nodded in satisfaction, closed the boresight

cap, and turned to me.

"Just checking the optical scalars," he said. "Spun up nicely, this one. So, what can I do for

you, Jeanie?"

I led him outside the second shield before I handed him the trim calculations. I know a kernel

shield has never failed, but I'm still not comfortable when I get too close to one. I once asked

McAndrew how he felt about working within ten meters of Hell, where you could actually feel the

gravity gradient and the inertial dragging. He looked at me with his little, introspective smile,

and made a sort of throat-clearing noise—the only trace of his ancestry that I could ever find in

him.

"Och," he said. "The shields are triply protected. They won't fail."

That would have reassured me, but then he had rubbed his high, balding forehead and added, "And if

they do, it won't make any difference if you are ten meters away, or five hundred. That kernel

would radiate at about two gigawatts, most of it high-energy gammas."

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/...heffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt (4 of 189) [2/24/2004 10:40:45 PM]

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/New%20Folder/Charles%20Sheffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt

The trouble was, he always had the facts right. When I first met McAndrew, many years ago, we were

taking the first shipment of kernels out to Titan. He had showed up with them, and I assumed that

he was just another engineer—a good one, maybe, but I expected that. Five minutes of conversation

with him told me that he had probably forgotten more about Kerr-Newman black holes—kernels—than I

was ever likely to learn. I have degrees in Electrical Engineering and Gravitational Engineering,

in my job I have to, but I'm really no gravity specialist. I felt like an idiot after our first

talk. I made a few inquiries, and found that McAndrew was a full professor at the Penrose

Institute, and probably the System's leading expert on space-time structure.

When we got to know each other better, I asked him why he would give up his job for four months of

the year, to ride herd on a bunch of kernels being shipped around the Solar System. It was a milk-

run, with lots of time and very little to do. Most people would be bored silly.

"I need it," he said simply. "It's very nice to work with colleagues, but in my line of business

the real stuff is mostly worked out alone. And I can do experiments here that wouldn't be allowed

back home."

After that, I accepted his way of working, and took vicarious pride in the stream of papers that

appeared from McAndrew at the end of each Titan run. He was no trouble on the trips. He spent most

of his time in the Sections carrying the kernels, only appearing in the Control Stage for his

meals—and frequently missing them. He was a tinkerer as well as a theorist. Isaac Newton was his

idol. His work had paid off in higher shielding efficiencies, better energy extraction methods,

and more sensitive manipulation of the charged kernels. Each trip, we had something new.

I left the trim calculations with him, and he promised to check them over and give me his comments

in an hour or two. I had to move along and check the rest of the cargo.

"By the way," I said, elaborately casual as I turned to go. "We'll be having company for dinner on

this trip. Bryson insists that Yifter should eat with us."

He stood quietly for a moment, head slightly bowed. Then he nodded and ran his hand over his

sandy, receding hair-line.

"That sounds like Bryson," he said. "Well, I doubt if Yifter will eat any of us for breakfast. I'm

not sure he'll be any worse than the rest of you. I'll be there, Jeanie."

I breathed a small sigh of relief, and left him. McAndrew, as I knew from experience, was the

Compleat Pacifist. I had wanted to be sure that he could stand the idea of meals with Yifter.

Four hours later, all our checks were complete. I switched on the fields. The dull grey exterior

of each Section turned to silver, shattering the sunlight and turning the Assembly to a cluster of

brilliants. The cables linking the Sections were still in position, but now they were hanging

loose. All stresses had been picked up by the balancing fields. In the Control Stage, I gradually

turned on the propulsion units of each powered Section. Plasma was fed through the ergosphere of

each kernel, picked up energy, and streamed aft. The relative positions of the Sections, Mossbauer-

controlled to within fractions of a micrometer, held steady. We accelerated slowly away from L-5,

and began the long spiral of a continuous-impulse orbit to Titan.

My work was just about finished until crossover time. The computers monitored the drive feeds, the

accelerations, and all the balance of the Sections. On this trip, we had three units without

operating drive units: Section Two, where Yifter's guards were housed, just behind the Control

Stage; Section Seven, where McAndrew had taken the kernel out of commission for his usual endless

and mysterious experiments; and of course, the Control Stage itself. I had made the mistake of

asking McAndrew what experiments he was planning for this trip. He looked at me with his innocent

blue eyes and scribbled an answer full of twistor diagrams and spinor notation—knowing damn well

that I wouldn't be able to follow it. He didn't like to talk about his work "halfcooked," as he

put it.

* * *

I had been more worried than I wanted to admit about dinner on that first ship-evening. I knew we

would all be itching to ask Yifter about the Lucies, but there was no easy way to introduce the

subject into the conversation. How could we do it? "By the way, I hear that you killed a billion

people a few months ago. I wonder if you would like to say a few words on the subject? It would

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/...heffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt (5 of 189) [2/24/2004 10:40:45 PM]

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/New%20Folder/Charles%20Sheffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt

liven up the table-talk at dinner." I could foresee that our conversation might be a little

strained.

As it turned out, my worries were unnecessary. The first impression that I'd had of Yifter, of a

mild and amiable man, strengthened on longer exposure. It was Bryson, during dinner, who caused

the first tricky moment.

"Most of Earth's problems are caused by the United Space Federation's influence," he said as the

robo-server, always on best form at the beginning of the trip, rolled in the courses. "If it

weren't for the USF, there wouldn't be as much discontent and rioting on Earth. It's all relative,

living space and living standards, and the USF sets a bad example. We can't compete."

According to Bryson, three million people were causing all the problems for ten billion—eleven,

before Yifter's handiwork. It was sheer nonsense, and as a USF citizen, I should have been the one

to bridle; but it was McAndrew who made a growling noise of disapproval, down in his throat; and

it was Yifter, of all people, who sensed the atmosphere quickest, and deftly steered the

conversation to another subject.

"I think Earth's worst problems are caused by the power shortage," he said. "That affects

everything else. Why doesn't Earth use the kernels for power, the way that the USF does?"

"Too afraid of an accident," replied McAndrew. His irritation evaporated immediately at the

mention of his specialty. "If the shields ever failed, you would have a Kerr-Newman black hole

sitting there, pumping out a thousand megawatts—mostly as high-energy radiation and fast

particles. Worse than that, it would pull in free charge and become electrically neutral. As soon

as that happened, there'd be no way to hold it electromagnetically. It would sink down and orbit

inside the Earth. We couldn't afford to have that happen."

"But couldn't we use smaller kernels on Earth?" asked Yifter. "They would be less dangerous."

McAndrew shook his head. "It doesn't work that way. The smaller the black hole, the higher the

effective temperature and the faster it radiates. You'd be better off with a much more massive

black hole. But then you've got the problem of supporting it against Earth's gravity. Even with

the best electromagnetic control, anything that massive would sink down into the Earth."

"I suppose it wouldn't help to use a nonrotating, uncharged hole, either," said Yifter. "That

might be easier to work with."

"A Schwarzschild hole?" McAndrew looked at him in disgust. "Now, Mr. Yifter, you know better than

that." He grew eloquent. "A Schwarzschild hole gives you no control at all. You can't get a hold

of it electromagnetically. It just sits there, spewing out energy all over the spectrum, and

there's nothing you can do to change it—unless you want to charge it and spin it up, and make it

into a kernel. With the kernels, now, you have control."

I tried to interrupt, but McAndrew was just getting warmed up. "A Schwarzschild hole is like a

naked flame," he went on. "A caveman's device. A kernel is refined, it's controllable. You can

spin it up and store energy, or you can use the ergosphere to pull energy out and spin it down.

You can use the charge on it to move it about as you want. It's a real working instrument—not a

bit of crudity from the Dark Ages."

I shook my head, and sighed in simulated despair. "McAndrew, you have an unconsummated love affair

with those blasted kernels." I turned to Yifter and Bryson, who had watched McAndrew's outburst

with some surprise. "He spends all his waking hours spinning those things up and down. All the

last trip, he was working the kernels in gravitational focusing experiments. You know, using the

fact that a gravity field bends light rays. He insists that one day we won't use lenses for

optics—we'll focus light using arrays of kernels."

I made the old joke. "We hardly saw him on that trip. We were convinced that one day he'd get

careless with the shields, fall into one of the kernels, and really make a spectacle of himself."

They didn't get it. Yifter and Bryson looked at me blankly, while McAndrew, who'd heard it all ten

times before, chuckled. I knew his simple sense of humor—a bad joke is always funny, even if it's

the hundredth time you've heard it told.

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/...heffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt (6 of 189) [2/24/2004 10:40:45 PM]

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/New%20Folder/Charles%20Sheffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt

It's a strange thing, but after the first half-hour I had stopped thinking of Yifter as our

prisoner. I could understand now why Bryson had objected to the idea of surrounding Yifter with

armed guards. I'd have objected myself. He seemed the most civilized man in the group, with a warm

personality and a very dry and subtle sense of humor.

When Bryson left the table, pleading a long day and a lack of familiarity with a space

environment, Yifter, McAndrew and I stayed on, chatting about the previous trips I had made to

Titan. I mentioned the time I had taken the circus.

"Do you know, I'd never seen most of those animals before," I said. "They were all on the list of

endangered species. I don't think you could find them on Earth any more, except in a circus or a

zoo."

There was a moment of silence, then Yifter spoke. His eyes were mild and smiling, and his voice

sounded dreamy and distant.

"Endangered species," he said. "That's the heart of it. Earth has no room for failures. The weaker

species, like weaker specimens of a species, must be eliminated. Only the strong—the mentally

strong—may survive. The weak must be culled, for our own sake; whether that means one tenth, one

half, or nine tenths of the total."

There was a chilling pause. I looked at Yifter, whose expression had not changed, then at

McAndrew, whose face reflected the horror that I was feeling. Yet behind all that, I could feel

the unique power of the man. My mind was rejecting Yifter, but I still had a sense of well-being,

of warmth in the pit of my stomach, as he was speaking.

"We have made a beginning," went on Yifter quietly. "Just a beginning. Last time we were less

successful than I had hoped. We had a breakdown in the distribution system for the drugs. I

managed to eliminate the responsible individuals, but it was too late to correct the problem. Next

time, God willing, it will be different."

He rose to his feet, white hair shining like silver, face beatific. "Good night, Captain. Good

night, Professor McAndrew. Sleep well."

After he had left, McAndrew and I sat and looked at each other for a long time. Finally, he broke

the spell.

"Now we know, Jeanie. We should have guessed it from the beginning. Mad as a hatter. The man's a

raving lunatic. Completely psychotic."

That said most of it. McAndrew had used up all the good phrases. I nodded.

"But did you feel the strength in him?" went on McAndrew. "Like a big magnet."

I was glad that the penal colony was so far from Earth, and the avenues of communication so well-

guarded. "Next time . . . it will be different." Our two-month trip suddenly seemed to have

doubled in length.

* * *

After that single, chilling moment, there were no more shocks for some time. Our regular meal-time

conversations continued, and on several occasions McAndrew voiced views on pacifism and the

protection of human life. Each time, I waited for Yifter's reply, expecting the worst. He never

actually agreed with Mac—but he did not come out with any statement that resembled his comments of

the first ship-evening.

We soon settled into the ship-board routine. McAndrew spent less and less time in the Control

Stage, and more in Section Seven. On this trip, he had brought a new set of equipment for his

experiments, and I was very curious to know what he was up to. He wouldn't tell. I had only one

clue. Section Seven was drawing enormous energy from the other kernels in the rest of the

Assembly. That energy could only be going to one place—into the kernel in Section Seven. I

suspected that McAndrew must be spinning it up, making it closer to an "extreme" kernel, a Kerr-

Newman black hole where the rotation energy matches the mass energy. I knew that couldn't be the

whole story. McAndrew had spun up the kernels before, and he had told me that there was no direct

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/...heffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt (7 of 189) [2/24/2004 10:40:45 PM]

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/New%20Folder/Charles%20Sheffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt

way of getting a really extreme kernel—that would take an infinite amount of energy. This time, he

was doing something different. He insisted that Section Seven had to be off-limits to everybody.

I couldn't get him to talk about it. There would be a couple of seconds of silence from him, then

he would stand there, cracking his finger joints as though he were snapping out a coded message to

me. He could be a real sphinx when he chose.

Two weeks from Earth, we were drawing clear of the main Asteroid Belt. I had just about concluded

that my worries for the trip were over when the radar reported another ship, closing slowly with

us from astern. Its spectral signature identified it as the Lesotho, a cruise liner that usually

ran trajectories in the Inner System. It was broadcasting a Mayday, and flying free under zero

drive power.

I thought about it for a moment, then posted Emergency Stations throughout the Assembly. The

computed trajectory showed that we would match velocities at a separation of three kilometers.

That was incredibly close, far too close to be accidental. After closest approach, we would pull

away again—we were still under power, accelerating outward, and would leave the Lesotho behind.

I was still watching the displays, trying to decide whether or not to take the next step—shutting

off the drives—when Bryson appeared, with Yifter just behind him.

"Captain Roker," he said, in his usual imperious manner. "That's an Earth ship there, giving you a

distress signal. Why aren't you doing anything about it?"

"If we wait just a few minutes," I said. "We'll be within spitting distance of her. I see no point

in rushing in, until we've had a good look at her. I can't think what an Inner System ship would

be doing, free-falling out here beyond the Belt."

That didn't cool him. "Can't you recognize an emergency when you see one?" he said. "If you won't

do something productive with your people, I'll do something with mine."

I wondered what he wanted me to do, but he walked away without saying anything more, down the

stairs that led to the rear communication area of the Control Stage. I turned back to the

displays. The Lesotho was closing on us steadily, and now I could see that her locks were open. I

cut our propulsion to zero and switched off all the drives. The other ship was tumbling slowly,

drive lifeless and aft nacelles crumpled. Even from this distance, I could see that she would need

extensive repairs before she could function again.

I was beginning to think that I had been over-cautious when two things happened. Yifter's guards,

who had been housed behind the Control Stage in Section Two, began to float into view on the

viewing screen that pointed towards the Lesotho. They were all in space armor and heavily

weaponed. At the same time two suited figures appeared in the open forward lock of the other

vessel. I cut in the suit frequencies on our main board.

"—shield failure," said the receiver. "Twenty-seven survivors, and bad injuries. We must have

painkillers, medical help, water, food, oxygen and power-packs."

With that, one group of our guards outside began to move towards the two suited figures in the

Lesotho's lock, while the remainder stayed close to the Assembly, looking across at the other

ship. Subconsciously, I noted the number of our guards in each party, then gave them my full

attention and did a rapid re-count. Twenty-five. All our guards. I swore and cut in the

transmitter.

"Sergeant, get half of those men back inside the Assembly shields. This is Captain Roker. I'm over-

riding any other orders you may have received. Get the nearer party—"

I was interrupted. The display screen flashed blue-white, then over-loaded. The whole Control

Stage rang like a great bell, as something slapped hard on the outer shield. I knew what it was: a

huge pulse of hard radiation and highly energetic particles, smashing into us in a fraction of a

microsecond.

Yifter had been floating within a couple of meters of me, watching the screens. He put his hand to

the wall to orient himself as the Control Stage vibrated violently. "What was that?"

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/...heffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt (8 of 189) [2/24/2004 10:40:45 PM]

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/New%20Folder/Charles%20Sheffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt

"Thermonuclear explosion," I said shortly. "Hundred megaton plus. On the Lesotho."

All the screens on that side were dead. I activated the standby system. The Lesotho had vanished.

The guards had vanished with it, vaporized instantly. All the cables linking the parts of the

Assembly, all the scanners and sensors that were not protected behind the shields, were gone. The

Sections themselves were intact, but their coupling fields would have to be completely

recalibrated. We wouldn't be arriving at Titan on schedule.

I looked again at Yifter. His face was now calm and thoughtful. He seemed to be waiting, listening

expectantly. For what? If the Lesotho had been a suicide mission, manned by volunteers who sought

revenge on Yifter, they hadn't had a chance. They couldn't destroy the Assembly, or get at Yifter.

If revenge were not the purpose, what was the purpose?

I ran through in my mind the events of the past hour. With the drives switched off in the

Assembly, we had an unprotected blind spot, dead astern. We had been putting all our attention on

the Lesotho. Now, with the guards all dead, the Control Stage was undefended.

It was quicker to go aft and take a look than to call Bryson or McAndrew and ask them what they

could see from the rear viewing screens of the Control Stage. Leaving Yifter, I dived head-first

down the stairway—a risky maneuver if there were any chance that the drive might come back on, but

I was sure it couldn't.

It took me about thirty seconds to travel the length of the Control Stage. By the time that I was

halfway, I knew I had been thinking much too slowly. I heard the clang of a lock, a shout, and the

sputtering crackle of a hand laser against solid metal. When I got to the rear compartment, it was

all finished. Bryson, pale and open-mouthed, was floating against one wall. He seemed unhurt.

McAndrew had fared less well. He was ten meters farther along, curled into a fetal ball. Floating

near him I saw a family of four stubby pink worms with red-brown heads, still unclenching with

muscle spasm. I could also see the deep burn on his side and chest, and his right hand, from which

a laser had neatly clipped the fingers and cauterized the wound instantly as it did so. At the far

end of the room, braced against the wall, were five suited figures, all well-armed.

Heroics would serve no purpose. I spread my arms wide to show that I was not carrying a weapon,

and one of the newcomers pushed off from the wall and floated past me, heading towards the front

of the Control Stage. I moved over to McAndrew and inspected his wounds. They looked bad, but not

fatal. Fortunately, laser wounds are usually very clean. I could see that we would have problems

with his lung unless we treated him quickly. A lobe had been penetrated, and his breathing was

slowly breaking the seal of crisped tissue that the laser had made. Blood was beginning to well

through and stain his clothing.

McAndrew's forehead was beaded with sweat. As the shock of his wound wore off, the pain was

beginning. I pointed to the medical belt of one of the invaders, who nodded and tossed an ampoule

across to me. I injected McAndrew at the big vein inside his right elbow.

The figure who had pushed past me was returning, followed by Yifter. The face plate of the suit

was now open, revealing a dark-haired woman in her early thirties. She looked casually at the

scene, nodded at last, and turned back to Yifter.

"Everything's under control here," she said. "But we'll have to take a Section from the Assembly.

The ship we were following in caught some of the blast from the Lesotho, and it's no good for

powered flight now."

Yifter shook his head reprovingly. "Impatient as usual, Akhtar. I'll bet you were just too eager

to get here. You must learn patience if you are to be of maximum value to us, my dear. Where did

you leave the main group?"

"A few hours drive inward from here. We have waited for your rescue, before making any plans for

the next phase."

Yifter, calm as ever, nodded approvingly. "The right decision. We can take a Section without

difficulty. Most of them contain their own drives, but some are less effective than others."

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/...heffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt (9 of 189) [2/24/2004 10:40:45 PM]

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/New%20Folder/Charles%20Sheffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt

He turned to me, smiling gently. "Jeanie Roker, which Section is the best equipped to carry us

away from the Assembly? As you see, it is time for us to leave you and rejoin our colleagues."

His calm was worse than any number of threats. I floated next to McAndrew, trying to think of some

way that we could delay or impede the Lucies' escape. It might take days for a rescue party to

reach us. In that time, Yifter and his followers could be anywhere.

I hesitated. Yifter waited. "Come now," he said at last. "I'm sure you are as eager as I am to

avoid any further annoyance"—he moved his hand, just a little, to indicate McAndrew and

Bryson—"for your friends."

I shrugged. All the Sections contained emergency life-support systems, more than enough for a trip

of a few hours. Section Two, where the guards had been housed, lacked a full, independent drive

unit, but it was still capable of propulsion. I thought it might slow their escape enough for us

somehow to track it.

"Section Two should be adequate," I said. "It housed your guards in comfort. Those poor devils

certainly have no need for it now."

I paused. Beside me, McAndrew was painfully straightening from his contorted position. The drugs

were beginning to work. He coughed, and red globules floated away across the room. That lung

needed attention.

"No," he said faintly. "Not Two, Yifter. Seven. Section Seven."

He paused and coughed again, while I looked at him in surprise.

"Seven," he said at last. He looked at me. "No killing, Jeanie. No—Killing vector."

The woman was listening closely. She regarded both of us suspiciously. "What was all that about?"

My mouth was gaping open as wide as Bryson's. I had caught an idea of what McAndrew was trying to

tell me, but I didn't want to say it. Fortunately, I was helped out by Yifter himself.

"No killing," he said. "My dear, you have to understand that Professor McAndrew is a devoted

pacifist—and carrying his principles through admirably. He doesn't want to see any further

killing. I think I can agree with that—for the present."

He looked at me and shook his head. "I won't inquire what dangers and drawbacks Section Two might

contain, Captain—though I do seem to recall that it lacks a decent drive unit. I think we'll

follow the Professor's advice and take Section Seven. Akhtar is a very competent engineer, and I'm

sure she'll have no trouble coupling the drive to the kernel."

He looked at us with a strange expression. If it didn't sound so peculiar, I'd describe it as

wistful. "I shall miss our conversations," he said. "But I must say goodbye now. I hope that

Professor McAndrew will recover. He is one of the strong—unless he allows himself to be killed by

his unfortunate pacifist fancies. We may not meet again, but I am sure that you will be hearing

about us in the next few months."

They left. McAndrew, Bryson and I watched the screens in silence, as the Lucies made their way

over to Section Seven and entered it. Once they were inside, I went over to McAndrew and took him

by the left arm.

"Come on," I said. "We have to get a patch on that lung."

He shook his head weakly. "Not yet. It can wait a few minutes. After that, it might not be

necessary."

His forehead was beading with sweat again—and this time it was not from pain. I felt my own

tension mounting steadily. We stayed by the display screen, and as the seconds ticked away my own

forehead began to film with perspiration. We did not speak. I had one question, but I was terribly

afraid of the answer I might get. I think that Bryson spoke to both of us several times. I have no

idea what he said.

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/...heffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txt (10 of 189) [2/24/2004 10:40:45 PM]

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/New%20Folder/Charles\%20Sheffield%20-%20The%20Compleat%20McAndrew.txtTHEBRAINOFANEINSTEIN--THEMINDOFANENGINEERPresentingthespaceadventuresofArthurMortonMcAndrew,space-timeexpertandscientistextraordinaire,andhislong-sufferingcompanion,spaceshipskip...

展开>> 收起<<

Charles Sheffield - The Compleat McAndrew.pdf

共189页,预览10页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Charles Sheffield - The Compleat McAndrew

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: