Alan Dean Foster - The Black Hole

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THE BLACK HOLE
BY ALAN DEAN FOSTER
A Del Rey Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1979 Walt Disney Productions
ISBN 0-345-28538-7
First Edition: December 1979
Cover art courtesy of Walt Disney Productions
“There are more things in Heaven
and Earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philoso-
phy.”
—Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
“Stars with trains of fire and dews of
blood,
Disasters in the sun.”
—Horatio, Soldier of Denmark
1
THE Universe bubbled and seethed to overflowing with paradoxes, Harry
Booth knew. One of the most ironic was that the mere observation of its
wonders made a man feel older than his time, when, instead, it should have
made him feel young, filled with the desire for exploration.
Take himself, for example. He was an inhabitant of the years
euphemistically called “middle age.” Mentally the label meant nothing. His
body felt as limber and healthy as when he had graduated from the
university, though his mind had adopted the outlook of a wizened
centenarian—a centenarian who had seen too much.
C’mon, Harry, he admonished himself. Cut it out. That’s wishful
thinking. You want to sound like the all-knowing old sage of space. Your
problem is you still have the perception as well as the physical sense of
well-being of a university student. Imagine yourself the inheritor of the
skills of Swift and Voltaire, if you must, but you know darn well you’ll
never write anything that makes you worthy of sharpening the pencils of
such giants. Be satisfied with what you are: a reasonably competent, very
lucky journalist.
Lucky indeed, he reminded himself. Half the reporters of Earth would
have permanently relinquished use of their thirty favorite invectives for a
chance to travel with one of the deep-space life-search ships. How you,
Harry Booth, ended up on the Palomino when far better men and women
languished behind merely to report its departure from Earth orbit is a
mystery for the muses. Count your lucky stars.
Glancing out the port of the laboratory cabin, he tried to do just that. But
there were far too many, and none that could unequivocally be deemed
lucky.
Although he had pleasant company in the room, he felt sad and lonely.
Lonely because he had been away from home too long, sad because their
mission had turned up nothing.
He forced himself to stand a little straighter. So you consider yourself a
fortunate man. So stop complaining and do what you’re designed to do.
Report. He raised the tiny, pen-shaped recorder to his lips, continuing to
stare out the port as he spoke.
“December twenty-four. Aboard the deep-space research vessel
Palomino. Harry Booth reporting.
“Ship and personnel are tired and discouraged, but both are still
functioning as planned. Man’s long search for life in this section of our
galaxy is drawing to a close.”
Pausing, he glanced back into the lab to study his companions. A tense,
slim man tapped a stylus nervously on a light-pad and looked back up at
Booth. He wore an expression of perpetual uncertainty and looked much
younger than the reporter, though they were not so different in age. The
uncertainty and nervousness were mitigated by an occasionally elfin sense
of humor, a wry outlook on the cosmos. The man executed a small,
condescending bow toward Booth; the corners of his mouth turned up
slightly.
Behind him stood a softly beautiful woman whose face and figure were
more graphically elfin than the man’s sense of humor. Her mind, however,
was as complex as the whorls in her hair. Both scientists were more serious
than any Booth was used to working with, a touch too dedicated for his
taste. He might never truly get to know them, but he had respected them
from the first day out. They were cordial toward the lone layman in their
midst, and he reciprocated as best he could.
She was feeding information into the lab computer. As always, the sight
had an unnerving effect on Booth. It reminded him of a mother feeding her
baby. Where Katherine McCrae was concerned, the analogy was not as
bizarre as it might have been if applied to another woman. There was a
particular reason why one would view her association with machines as
unusually intimate.
Booth returned to his dictation. “Based upon five years of research
involving stars holding planets theoretically likely to support life, by the
fair-haired boy of the scientific world, Dr. Alex Durant”—the man who had
bowed now grinned playfully back at him— “this expedition has concluded
eighteen months of extensive exploration and netted, as with all previous
expeditions of a similar nature and purpose, nothing. Not a single alien
civilization, not a vertebrate, nothing higher than a few inconsequential and
unremarkable microbes, plus evidence of a few peculiar chemical reactions
on several scattered worlds.”
Booth clicked off the recorder and continued staring at Durant. “That
about sum it up, Alex?”
Repeated disappointment had purged Durant of the need to react
defensively to such observations. “Unnecessarily flip, perhaps, but you
know I can’t argue with the facts, Harry.”
“I’m never unnecessarily flip, Alex.” Booth slipped the recorder back
into a tunic pocket. “You know that I’m as disappointed in the results as you
are. Probably more so. You can go back with the ship’s banks full of valuable
data on new worlds, new phenomena, stellar spectra and all kinds of info
that’ll have the research teams back on Earth singing hosannas to you for
years.” He looked glum.
“Sure, we’ve missed the big prize: finding substantial alien life. But you
have your astrophysical esoterica to fall back on. For me and my news
service, though, it’s eighteen months down a transspatial drain. He thought
a moment, then added, “December twenty-fourth. Not quite the way we’d
expected to celebrate Christmas Eve, is it?” He turned again, looked back
out the port.
“We need reindeer and a fat man in a red suit. That would do for a
report on extraterrestrial life, wouldn’t it?” He grunted. “Christmas Eve.”
Durant forced a wider smile. “Beats fighting the mobs of last-minute
shoppers. You couldn’t order a thing about now. Order channels to the
outlets would be saturated.” Nearby, McCrae flipped a control on the
computer panel, concluded her programming, then laughed.
“You can both hang your stockings back by the engines. Maybe Santa
will leave you something unexpected.”
Booth eyed her challengingly. “Can you fit an alien civilization into a
sock?”
“I’d settle for anything non-terran with more backbone than a semi-
permeable membrane.” Durant’s smile melted his melancholy. “Or some
stick chocolate,” he added cheerfully. “I never will understand why the
galley can’t synthesize decent chocolate.”
“I’ll threaten it.” McCrae started toward the lab exit. “Maybe that’ll
produce results. I’m going back to Power.”
“Be back by Christmas.” Durant watched her depart, glanced down at
the calculations he had been doodling with and spoke without looking
across at Booth. “Wonder what Holland would say if I asked him to extend
the mission another two months. By widening our return parabola, we could
check out two additional systems, according to my figures.”
“I don’t think you’ll get much sympathy for that idea from our pilot,
Alex.” Booth’s gaze had returned to the stiff but always fascinating ocean of
stars outside the port. “Privately, he’d probably enjoy spending another year
exploring. But he wasn’t picked to command this expedition because of a
penchant to indulge himself in personal pleasures.
“Schedule says we return by such and such a date. He’ll move heaven
and earths to dock in terran orbit on or before that date. Pizer, now … he’d
steer us through a star if you could guarantee him a fifty-fifty chance of
making the run. But he’s only first officer, not commander. He still smells of
the audacity of youth. And the foolishness.” Booth looked resigned.
“Life is ruled by such subtleties, Alex. Commander or first officer,
experienced or brash and challenging. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in
three decades of reporting on developments in science, it’s that the actions
of people and subatomic particles aren’t as different as most folks would
think.”
“If you want my real opinion, I’d rather have Vincent in charge than
either of them.”
“Me, too,” Durant agreed. “Of course, that’s impossible. Even though
they’re supposed to select the best people for each position.”
“True,” said Booth. “The problem is whether Vincent qualifies as people.
He certainly doesn’t fit the physical specifications for a command pilot.”
At the moment the subject of their conversation was up forward in
command with Charles Pizer. Vincent’s multiple arms were folded neatly
back against his hovering, barrel-shaped body. Monitor indicators winked
on or off as internal functions directed.
His optical scanners were focused on the first officer. Pizer was slumped
on one of the pilot lounges, staring at the main screen. He took no notice of
Vincent. That the robot was not a man was obvious. But the suggestion that
he might not qualify as a person was one Pizer would have taken immediate
exception to.
Hands manipulated controls. Constellations and other star patterns slid
viscously around on the screen. Suns shifted against a background of pale,
lambent green, that color being easier on the eyes—and, according to the
psychologists, less depressing—than a more realistic black would have been.
It was all the same to the robot.
The first officer’s thoughts were drifting like the representations of stars
and nebulae, though not in harmony with them.
“What does that remind you of, Vincent?”
“Presuming you to be referring to the holographic stellar display, Mr.
Pizer,” the machine responded smoothly, “I would say that it reminds me
strongly of a holographic stellar display.”
“Not me. To me it looks like multipea soup.” Pizer raised up in the
lounge, the chair humming as it matched the movement of his body. “I’m
starving . . .”
Lights flashed in sequence on the robot’s flanks, visual indication that
the machine was preparing to respond. “What else is new?”
“Mechanical sarcasm is a feature the cyberneticists could damn well
have left in the hypothetical stage.” Pizer gave the robot a sharp look.
“Nothing sitting loose in the galley, I expect. What’s on the menu for
today?”
“Dehydrated turkey. A special treat, Lieutenant, since it’s Christmas Eve.
Also dehydrated cranberry sauce, dehydrated gravy and giblets, de—“
Pizer cut him off. “Save me from a full list of the special treats.” The
vision of dehydrated giblets had quashed whatever rising surge of hunger he
had been experiencing.
“Vincent, I envy you.”
“That’s not surprising, but why, Lieutenant?”
“No taste buds.” He leaned back into the lounge. Servos whined,
adjusting to fit material properly against his back. He slipped his hands
behind his head and stared longingly at the ceiling.
“Now, if I were home, I’d sit down to a feast. A real one, with the right
amount of water already in the food, not waiting to be added. Roast turkey
with oyster stuffing, sweet potatoes in orange sauce, vegetables, salad,
mince pie …” Remembering made him appear even younger than he was.
He drifted happily along on the illusion of caloric ephemera until
Vincent had to add, “... bicarbonate of soda ...”
Pizer swung out of his chair and moved toward the doorway, shoving the
robot with mock belligerence. “You’ll never know one way or the other.
Anyway, I’ll be eating the real thing soon enough. Eighteen months. It’s the
twenty-fourth. Time to start back, as you well know. Back to real turkey and
real dressing. Back to real life. Take her home, Heart o’ Steel.”
Actually, there was very little steel in Vincent’s body, the robot having
been constructed of far more durable and exotic alloys and metals. But he
was still capable of recognizing and accepting an affectionate nickname
such as the one Pizer had just bestowed on him. He did not offer
metallurgical correction as he drifted toward the consoles, plugged the
correct armature into the board and began to prepare for the incipient
change of course.
“Home for you, Mr. Pizer. But out here’s the only home I know.” One
free limb gestured at the swath of star-speckled blackness that filled the
port above the consoles.
Pizer had already left the room.
Kate McCrae broke the magnetic contact between her shoes and the
deck and drifted back toward the Palomino’s power center, trying hard to
block out the air of disappointment she had left back in the lab.
Booth’s personal pessimism she could dismiss easily enough. His
interest in the mission stemmed from cruder needs than hers or Alex’s. The
reporter would be mentally translating the most significant of their dis-
coveries into credit points with his service, disparaging them by the process
which transmuted the advancement of science into monetary terms.
It was in her nature, however, to see the best in everyone. Personal
relationships were one area where she neglected to apply scientific
methodology. So she made excuses for Harry Booth. If nothing else, by
being less than fervently involved in the problems of science, he kept the
journey in proper perspective.
If they were less downcast by their failure to find life than they might
have been, it could be attributed to Booth’s vision of science only in terms of
monumental discoveries. He was a more accurate representative of
mankind’s hopes and expectations than anyone else on the ship, she
reminded herself. As such, his disappointment would fade faster when they
returned home. As would that of the general public.
And who was she to condemn Harry Booth’s view of the cosmos?
Columbus sailed west not to advance science or knowledge as much as to
find gold, gems and spices. Da Gama went to India for pepper and nutmeg
and cloves, not because he was intensely curious about the Indians.
The motivations of such men did not diminish the magnitude of their
discoveries. Maybe the Harry Booths were as necessary to mankind’s
opening of the Universe as were the Alex Durants.
At least the reporter was good company. She had been around many
journalists in her career. Others had tried to exploit her peculiar abilities.
Not Booth. They could have done a lot worse than the crusty old veteran.
A feeling of power sifted through her as she worked her way around the
vast chamber of the center. Engines snored steadily, shoving them past
space—as opposed to through it—at a rapid pace. They were presently
traveling at a comparative crawl, having gone sublight preparatory to
changing their course for home.
At one time man had believed faster-than-light travel impossible. She
smiled at the thought. If man had learned anything since stepping out past
the atmospheric bubble that enclosed his world, it was that the only
immutability of the Universe lay in its infinite bounty of contradictions. On
the cosmic docket, the laws of nature seemed perpetually subject to
challenge by the scientific court of appeals.
Holland was working in the monitoring complex, his gray uniform
blending in with the colors of the tubes and metallic constructions
surrounding him. The warmth that coursed through her at the sight was not
wholly a result of the radiant heat from the engines.
She moved next to him. Though he still didn’t look up from his work, she
knew he had been aware of her presence from the instant she entered the
center.
“Think it’ll hold together long enough to get us home?”
He smiled affectionately over at her. “How can you have any doubts with
Super-Pilot at the controls?”
“Humility is one of your most endearing qualities.”
“After eighteen months, it’s nice to see that you’ve learned some.” He
paused, then looked momentarily somber. “I’ve been concerned about
suggestions of metal fatigue in the propulsion unit’s inner chambers. I know
they’re designed to handle this kind of steady thrust, but eighteen months,
with only an occasional brief rest, is a long time to ask even the densest
alloys to function without showing some kind of wear.” The smile returned.
“I think we’ll be okay, though.” He adjusted one slide control slightly,
watching with satisfaction as two nearby readouts shifted in response.
“I’ll be sorry to see this mission end. It’s tough to go home after so long
and say the principal reason for making the trip in the first place came up
unresolved.”
“You give up too easily. I don’t. We’ll still have a few systems to study
while curving home. And the Palomino sweep is only one expedition.
There’ll be others. And I’ll charm the powers-that-be into assigning you and
Vincent to any team I can get organized.”
“The powers-that-be will have other plans for Vincent.”
“Like what?”
“Like taking him apart to study the effects of the voyage on him. He’s
likely to be outmoded by new models by the time we return. They’ll likely
take him and—“
“They won’t do anything of the sort to Vincent. I won’t let them. He’s
entitled to remain inta—to remain himself, after all he’s done for this
mission. He’s a lot more than a mere machine, to be picked apart at some
cyberneticist’s whim.”
Holland tried to hide his amusement. “That’s not a very scientific
outlook, Dr. McCrae. What would you do to prevent such a thing?”
She looked suddenly uncertain. “I ... I don’t know. But I’d do something.
Whatever was necessary. Adopt him, maybe.”
“Be an expensive adoption. Vincent doesn’t run on bottle formulas and
ground-up fruits and vegetables. Fuel-cell pablum’s a lot more expensive
than the organic variety.”
“Maybe so. But I wouldn’t let them take him apart, any more than I’d let
them take apart any other close friend.”
“There’s just one hitch to your idea. Vincent and I’ve been together a
long time. Several missions prior to the Palomino. We’re a package deal.
That goes for any kind of future mission.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Aren’t you a bit long in the tooth for
adoption?”
“That wasn’t quite the kind of relationship I had in mind. How Vincent
views it is his business.” Holland turned from the controls and embraced
her, his arms tightening against her back as he pulled her close to him.
The kiss was interrupted by a voice issuing from the monitoring
console’s communications grid. “I regret the interruption, Captain, but
there is something I think you should see. I’ve put it on the central viewer.”
A little breathless, they separated. McCrae brushed at the hair that had
fallen over one eye. “If you’ve been together so long and have become so
inseparable,” she murmured softly, “maybe you could do something about
that blasted machine’s lousy timing.”
“I’ll make it a point to mention it to him,” Holland assured her. His
smile turned serious. “Vincent wouldn’t break in while I was … working,
unless it was something genuinely important. We’d better go see what he
wants.”
Pizer, closest to the command center, reached it first. Vincent hovered
摘要：

THEBLACKHOLEBYALANDEANFOSTERADelReyBookPublishedbyBallantineBooksCopyright©1979WaltDisneyProductionsISBN0-345-28538-7FirstEdition:December1979CoverartcourtesyofWaltDisneyProductions“TherearemorethingsinHeavenandEarth,Horatio,Thanaredreamtofinyourphiloso-phy.”—Hamlet,PrinceofDenmark“Starswithtrainsof...

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