Far futures, p.40
Far Futures, page 40
Cass was unconsciously pointing out to Drake that the brave new world he now lived in contained other elements at least as hard to grasp as science. Slavery did not exist, but six years of absolute service to another was taken for granted. Its ethical basis was never questioned. But Drake could not understand that basis. He comforted himself with the thought that Henry VIII would have been appalled at wars that killed civilians, while worrying not at all about a public hanging, drawing, and quartering. Humanity needed few absolutes, because people could live within and justify almost any imaginable variation.
Drake resigned himself to his situation. He had survived, and Ana was safely frozen in the Pluto cryowombs. Before he could do anything to change her status he would first have to earn his own freedom. He resolved to give Par Leon six good, solid years of dedicated effort toward the other man’s great lifetime project: the analysis of musical trends in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries.
After the first few weeks of effort Par Leon’s shrewdness and insight became apparent. More important than any facts that Drake might provide were the perspectives that he had to offer. And more than just science and ethics had changed.
Again and again, he found Par Leon shaking his head. “It is truly astonishing. Did man-woman relationships really play so large a part in everything in your society?”
“You know they did.” Drake was learning his way around the data banks. “Your own records show it, the ones that we were examining just two days ago.”
“Yes. They do show it, but believing it is difficult. Men and women actually appeared to hate each other in your era. Yet at the same time there was much random mating, mating on impulse. I do not mean mere sexual acts, that I can comprehend. But random mating that produces offspring, without benefit of genome maps or the most rudimentary genetic information on parents and grandparents . . .”
Drake was about to explain when he realized that he couldn’t. It was another six-hundred-year gulf that would not be crossed. To Par Leon, mating was dictated by the selection of desirable gene combinations. No other approach could be justified, or even understood.
In any case, Drake was beginning to have problems of his own. There really was no case to be made for the production of children, without thought for their future or for their physical and mental wellbeing. It was merely the blind mating urge of the primeval slime, deified to become religious principle and blind dogma.
Drake listened to his own thoughts and realized that he was beginning to view his own epoch with a new perspective. He must control that tendency, or his main value to Par Leon would disappear. For that reason, and one other, he had to remain an outsider in this century.
More and more, Drake realized that he was earning his keep. Par Leon might be the century’s foremost expert on the music of Drake’s period, but in many ways he knew nothing. He was endlessly fascinated by the smallest details.
“You say you knew him?” Par Leon leaned forward, eyebrows raised on his high forehead. “You met Renselm in person?”
“A score of times. I was present at the first performance of Morani’s Concerto concertante, written especially for Renselm, and I went backstage afterwards. Then we went to dinner, just the three of us. I thought you already read about all this in one of my articles.”
“Oh, yes.” Par Leon made a dismissive gesture. “I certainly read it. But this is different. Tell me about his fingering, his posture at the keyboard, his strange reaction to applause. Tell me what he said to you about Adele Winterberg—she was his mistress at the time, you know.” He laughed aloud in delight. “Tell me, if you can remember it, what you all ate for dinner.”
Only once or twice did Par Leon express dissatisfaction. And then it was because Drake had been frozen just before some event that especially interested him. Even that he accepted philosophically and with good humor.
It was by no means a one-way transfer of information. From his vantage point six centuries ahead, Par Leon had insights into the musical life of an earlier era that left Drake gasping. For the first time, he understood where certain contemporary musical currents had been heading. Krubak, in his much-ridiculed late works, had been feeling his way toward forms that would not mature until thirty years after Drake had been frozen.
The work went on, ten to twelve hours a day. When work was over, Drake spent every spare minute learning about the society in which he was living.
It was an abstract exercise. He had no wish to be absorbed by or become part of that society, since he had no long-term intention of remaining there. Yet he had to know certain subjects in great detail, far more than Par Leon could tell him. Fortunately, the general data banks permitted near-infinite cross-checking and depth of inquiry.
Drake continued his own explorations, to satisfy his own needs.
The whole solar system had been explored and mapped in detail. Venus was in the first stages of terraforming, the acid witch’s-brew of its atmosphere dropping slowly in temperature and pressure. Mars was colonized, not on the surface but within the extensive natural caverns beneath it. There were permanent active stations—many of them “manned” by self-replicating computers and repair devices—on all the satellites of the major planets.
And Pluto?
Drake gave that world his special attention. A small crew of scientists had a research station on Charon, the outsized satellite that made the Pluto/Charon system into a small planetary doublet. But Pluto itself was uninhabited unless one counted the dreaming serried ranks of the cryo-corpses. The cryowombs were too cold for animate humans, hovering as they did down at liquid-helium temperature (Drake’s earlier suspicion of liquid nitrogen storage had proved well founded). The vaults were tended, to the extent that they needed any sort of attention, by machines especially designed for extreme cold.
With the idea of money subsumed into some incomprehensible system of electronic credit, it was not clear to Drake that he would ever be able to afford to make the long trip out to Pluto. He forced himself to be patient, putting that question to one side until his time of service was closer to its end.
And still the work went on, hard but not unrewarding. The text that they were producing grew steadily. By the beginning of the fourth year, Drake shared Par Leon’s conviction that they were producing a classic. He listened to the suggestion that in fairness the two of them should be given equal credit, and shook his head.
“It was all your idea, not mine. You could have found someone else to do what I have done. But without you to revive me . . .”
And I do not plan to be here long enough to take credit, even if it were to be given to me.
Before the end of the sixth year they were approaching project completion. They had also become close friends, or as close as Drake dared to permit. It was not surprising that Par Leon, a good man by any moral standards that Drake would ever be able to comprehend, was beginning to worry about a different problem.
He began to hint at other possible collaborations. Drake read a deeper concern. What would Drake’s future be when the project ended? It had apparently not occurred to Par Leon six years ago, but a revival was not unlike a birth. And like a parent, Par Leon now felt responsibility for the future of his “offspring.”
Drake was soon able to reassure him, and more easily than he expected. While they were still putting the finishing touches to their mammoth study of “ancient” music, he had started to compose again. He had learned during the project that musical knowledge of the centuries before his birth had some big gaps in it, and facility in different musical idioms had always come easily to him. He could steal tricks from the giants of the past, dress them in the modem style, and pass it off as innovation. In less than a year he had a burgeoning reputation, which he knew was undeserved, a group of imitators, largely untalented, and— most important—a growing financial credit.
At last he could explore a long-postponed question. He suggested to Par Leon that with the project completed, he would like to take an overdue vacation. If he wanted to have a look around the solar system, would it be easy to do so? And could he afford it?
To his surprise, Par Leon could not begin to answer. He hardly seemed to understand the questions.
“Free to go?” The furry eyebrows rose. “Of course you’re free to go. But why on Earth would you want to go? You’re not an astronomer, or an astronaut. There’s absolutely nothing out in space for a musician.”
“But there are ships available?—for people, I mean, not just machines.”
“Ships? Of course there are ships. Loads of ships, as many as you want. And as for cost, there’s no human cost to making a ship. Machines do the whole thing, and they fly them, too. Unless you are planning to have a human along as your guide?”
“No. Actually, I would rather go alone.”
“Then cost doesn’t even come into it. You only consume credit if you demand human time for something. Like now.” Par Leon laughed. With the project wrapped up, he was in a near-constant state of euphoria. “I could charge you for this advice, you know. But I won’t. Go on, Drake, take your holiday. You’ve certainly earned it.”
“I will. In a few more weeks.”
“But if you are crazy enough to go to space, don’t ask me to go with you!”
Drake laughed, too. He was careful not to mention the subject again to Par Leon. He didn’t want his friend to suspect the true depth of his interest.
In the next couple of weeks he quietly took accelerated courses in cryonics, astronautics, and space systems. He was astonished by what he found. Ships were available in abundance, with drives that could take them close to light speed in just a couple of hours. Drake did not even try to understand the technique of inertia shedding that bypassed what should have been a killing four-thousand-gee acceleration. Instead, he thought of the other changes in the world. If this capability had been around at the end of the twentieth century, it would have been used by millions. Now, few people seemed to care. Although the stars were within easy reach, humanity was not stretching out to enfold them. Civilization seemed stable, static, content to remain within the comfortable limits of the solar system.
At last he could wait no longer. The night before he left he took Par Leon out for a ceremonial dinner. They went to Par’s favorite eating place, ate his favorite foods, and drank his favorite wines. It was an unexpected bonus that by coincidence one of Drake’s own new compositions was playing in the background.
Par Leon jerked his head toward an invisible speaker. “Real and deserved fame. Music good enough to eat to.”
“But not to listen to, eh?”-Drake shrugged off the compliment. “Table music is like table wine, usually nothing special. Telemann could compose it as fast as he could write it down.”
He felt the glow that comes with good, compatible company. He was going to miss that.
The urge to tell the truth became very great. Surely, if he did confide in Par Leon, the other man would be a willing accomplice?
He stifled the thought before it could fully develop. His plans might lead to danger and destruction. He would not want Par Leon to bear any guilt by association.
He also would not—could not—do anything at all that might lessen the chance of success.
A little knowledge proved to be almost too much. Back on Earth Drake had become blasé, taking for granted the idea of robotic servants who accepted every command without question. He had assumed that it would be equally true on Pluto, and certainly his command to be taken to the deep cryowombs was obeyed at once.
At the entrance to the Pluto lower vault, he paused. The cryotanks were supposedly stored in neat rows, stretching on forever into the darkness ahead. He could see nothing. Illumination in the cryowomb vault was both unnecessary and discouraged, since any energy release might raise the vault temperature from its liquid-helium ambient. He was at the mercy of his robot guide, a drifting blue pyramid who knew the deep vault’s geometry through programmed memory.
Encased within his suit, Drake followed the feeble glowworm light in front of him. When it halted by one particular cryotank he had no idea where he was.
“This is the right one?” He crouched low, seeking some identification.
“It is the one.”
“I cannot see. Lift it carefully, and lead me back to the surface and my ship.”
He sensed a moment of hesitation, and then the cryotank was lifting in the low gravity. Two seconds more, and the robot’s pale gleam was moving again through the vault. Twenty minutes more, and Drake was supervising the careful placement of Ana’s cryotank in the aft storage compartment of his ship.
He had already told the robot guide to leave and was beginning to relax when the ship’s communication panel lit with a busy constellation of red and yellow warning lights.
“The removal of the cryotank from the wombs, and its placement aboard this ship, is unauthorized,” said a quiet voice. “It must be returned at once.”
Drake cursed his own stupidity. It had never occurred to him that the actions of the robot guides might be reported automatically to some central data bank. Screening for anomalies apparently took place in close to real time.
Rather than replying, he locked the outside ports and prepared at once for departure from Pluto’s frozen surface.
“The removal of any cryotank from the Pluto vaults is forbidden without proper authorization,” repeated the voice. “Do not attempt to leave Pluto. It will not be permitted.”
Drake ignored the warning, dropped into the pilot’s seat, and gave the order for instant takeoff. Unless there was some way that the ship’s controls could be overridden from outside, he would take his chances.
The Pluto approach corridor had been deserted on his arrival. Now it seemed filled with ships. His control board indicated at least thirty of them in the space ahead. Where had they all come from?
There was no time to worry that question. They were converging, moving to intersect the course that he had set for the solar-system perimeter. It was obvious that somehow they knew his flight plan.
“DO NOT ATTEMPT TO PROCEED.” The command was louder and more peremptory. “RETURN AT ONCE TO PLUTO.”
Drake set the ship to maximum acceleration and kept going, driving toward the heart of the converging cluster of ships. Already he was moving at forty kilometers a second. Impact at this speed would leave nothing but fragments of melted metal and plastic.
Collision and destruction were no more than a split second away when at the last moment the other ships sheered off. The center of the cluster became open. Drake flew on through. He decided that the interceptors must be inhibited from harming humans. He aimed wide of another group of ships that had appeared far ahead, and fled for the edge of the solar system. As soon as the sky seemed clear he set a course for Canopus.
And at last he was able to breathe. If he had been judged murderer in an earlier generation for what he and Tom Lambert had done to Ana, he was now thief or worse in this one. Who cared? He and Ana were together again, which was all that mattered. Although pursuit was still possible, he could see no signs of it. And he would be hard to catch. The ship was accelerating monstrously. Soon it would crowd light speed, moving at just 125 meters per second slower than a traveling wave front. It could reach within a meter a second of light speed if necessary.
Unless he saw signs of pursuit, their present rate of progress was just about right. Time dilation was a powerful factor, making three years pass on Earth for every day of shipboard time. The trip out to Canopus and back would be a little more than two months for him, and two hundred years back on Earth.
And for Ana?
She was still trapped outside of time, in her personal fermata, a temporal hiatus without end where duration and interval did not exist.
He felt a sudden urge to gaze upon her face within the sealed cyro-tank. Instead he moved forward to peer ahead to the distant star he had chosen as their destination. Even from a distance of one hundred light-years, by some miracle of the ship’s imaging system Canopus was already revealed as a tiny bright disk.
He leaned back and did his best to relax, turning his attention to the ship. It could support him and his life-system needs, apparently indefinitely. Its speed and maneuverability never ceased to amaze him. And yet it was in many ways less surprising than the civilization that had made it. To produce such a miracle of performance and potential . . . then allow it to go unused; that was the most incomprehensible mystery of all.
Was it the temporal dislocation produced by time dilation that was psychologically unacceptable? To leave, and upon your return find your friends in the cryowombs or perhaps dead?
Drake noticed that the ship’s external mass indicator showed more than 140,000 tons, up from its rest mass of 130 tons. To an outside observer, he himself would seem to mass eighty-eight tons and be foreshortened to a length of less than two millimeters. The shields hid the view ahead of the ship, but he knew that the picture he was seeing on his screen had been subjected to extreme image motion compensation. An unshielded view would reveal the universal three-degree background radiation, Doppler-shifted up to visible wavelengths. Far behind, hard X-ray sources were faded to pale red stars.
And still the ship was nowhere close to its performance limits. He felt that they could fly on forever, to the end of the universe if necessary. He closed his eyes and heard a broad, calm melody, the music of the stars themselves, stirring within his brain. He allowed it to fill his mind.
In the quiet space between the stars there were no distractions. He had already started to compose again—real music, not potboilers or derivative works. The ship’s flight was fully automatic. In her safe little room aft, Ana lay peacefully in the cryotank. Drake allowed the new composition to grow within him. He felt optimistic that two more proper-time months would be enough. In the two hundred years that would pass on Earth until they returned, physicians would surely have found a safe and certain cure. If not, he could easily head out again and repeat the cycle.
And if Earth finally failed them?
