Dark Star (20 page)

"I tell you, he's not completely gone," Doolittle insisted. "Only his body is dead. If we can get him back to Earth before the cells degenerate too far—"

"If we can get ourselves back to Earth," Pinback mumbled.

"I'm going to try it anyway," he told them. He left the bridge, hurried through the corridors of the
Dark Star
.

Powell . . . Powell would know what do. Powell had always known what to do. Powell wasn't much older than the rest of them. Not physically. But he'd always seemed to know exactly the thing to do, always known the right decision to make.

It seemed to Doolittle that he relied more on Powell dead than when the commander had been alive.

If only that damned seat circuit hadn't gone bad on them. But there might still be a chance. He
had
talked with Powell since the accident—with what was left of him. There might still be a chance. With the central computer helpless, there
had
to be a chance.

He opened a secondary hatch, descended a ladder to a little-visited section of the ship. He remembered the trouble they'd had installing the linkups to Powell's brain. Remembered the pressure of that first attempt at contact.

How dimly, almost imperceptibly, Powell had responded to his first hesitant probes. It had given Doolittle something else to do after he'd finished the organ, Powell had become something of a hobby.

But he hadn't been down here in a long, long time. How badly had the leads disintegrated? How much had the supercold affected the linkages?

Carefully avoiding the thick hatch cover in the center of the small chamber, whose top gave off continuous wisps of chilled air, he took the special insulated gloves from their place on the wall.

Then he walked around behind the hatch and lifted it carefully, slowly. The cover to the cryogenic freezer compartment came up easily. He could feel the cold even through the thick hatch insulation, even through the specially treated gloves.

Doolittle let the hatch cover down easily, took the linkup box from its niche in the wall. He plugged it into the open socket by the hatch cover and pulled out the compact mike. Adjusting dials on the box carefully, he watched an arrow move back and forth in a gauge.

Occasionally a hum like the ocean heard inside a seashell would rise to audibility, then die out. Eventually it reached a point where he could hear it clearly, where the arrow locked into the proper slot on the gauge. He turned another switch, and the arrow stayed frozen in position. If he couldn't reach Powell now he'd never be able to.

One other thing was certain. He'd never have another chance.

Below him, encased in frozen gas and ice of unbelievably low temperature, was Commander Powell. The body of the maybe-dead commander was nude, his head facing the hatch opening, his feet the farthest away.

The top of his skull was an intertwined blackbird's nest of long hair and wires and jumps and pickups and electrode paste. Both Boiler and Pinback had laughed at him for leaving Powell's hair unshorn—would have made it much easier to connect the myriad links. But Doolittle had insisted on leaving the commander as natural-looking as possible.

Actually he'd been as shocked as any of them when that first successful contact had been made. But Powell really had very little to say, and the conversations obviously tired him, drained what little was left of the life force.

So Doolittle had gone down to the cryo chamber less and less. And there had been many times when patient inquiry had drawn nothing but a confused mumbling from the commander's frozen brain.

But now—now he had to make contact.

He blew into his gloves and spoke hopefully into the box-microphone.

"Commander Powell, Commander Powell, this is Doolittle. Can you hear me, sir?"

Mumbling, becoming slightly louder, but still indistinct. He wasn't getting through. Wishing he had more delicate controls, he worked at the single fine tuner on the box.

"Commander Powell, this is Doolittle. Something serious has come up, sir. I'm sorry to bother you, but I do have to ask you a question. It's vital, sir. I know how this tires you, but I didn't know what else to do."

A slight turn of the tuner . . . and now words started to form, the mumbling started to take on recognizable form. The words were incomparably distant, faint . . . and cold. Cold with a chill born of vast distance and not the refrigerating material in which the commander was encased.

There was a feebleness to the words that Doolittle tried hard to ignore, and again he found himself speculating on what Powell's preserved mind thought about down there in the cold and the dark. He shivered a little. Maybe his desperate attempts to preserve the commander's life had not been a good thing.

But it might save them all, now.

This time, Powell seemed actually happy for the company.

"Doolittle . . . I'm so glad you've come to talk to me, Doolittle. It's been so long since anyone has come to talk to me."

"Yes, sir, Commander," he answered hurriedly. This was no place for long pauses—he had to retain Powell's attention. It could fade at any time.

"Sir, we have a big problem, and everything I've tried has failed. The computer is damaged and it can't seem to do anything, either. It's the last bomb, sir, bomb number twenty. It's stuck. It won't drop out of the bomb bay, and it refuses to abort, and it says it's going to detonate in"—he checked his wrist chronometer—"in less than eleven minutes . . . Do you understand me, sir?" His voice rose nervously. Had he lost the commander already?

Powell's voice echoed from the box speaker, reassuringly strong. "Yes, Doolittle . . . I hear you. Doolittle, you must tell me one thing."

"What's that, sir? Anything . . ."

"Tell me, Doolittle," came the distant, icy whisper, "how are the Dodgers doing?"

For a moment Doolittle sat frozen himself, trying to readjust his mind. "The . . . Dodgers?"

"Yes, Doolittle, the Dodgers. Do they have a chance for the pennant this year?"

Careful, now. His mind is wandering. Keep him happy, but keep him!

"They broke up, I think, sir. Disbanded over fifteen years ago. The descendants of the original landowners finally won their suit and they had the stadium torn down. I think they grow grapes there now."

"Oh," the ghost-voice moaned in disappointment. "Pity, pity. You see, Doolittle, all is transitory, nothing lasts. You realize that in here. It is surprising, but being dead has its advantages."

"Yes, sir—but you don't seem to understand." He had the tiny microphone in a strangle grip. "It's the bomb. We can't get bomb number twenty to drop. It's stuck in the bomb bay, we can't seem to abort the final sequence, and it insists it's going to detonate."

"Yes, Doolittle. But you must remember one thing."

"What, sir?"

"It's not a bomb. It's a thermostellar triggering device. There is a difference, you know."

If he doesn't start talking about the bomb, Doolittle thought tightly, I'm going to kill him.

"Whatever you choose to call it, sir, it's still going to go off. It'll kill us all."

"That's really not much concern of mine, Doolittle." A vast sigh rolled out of the mike. "But I can see where it might bother you." Another sigh. "So many malfunctions. Sometimes I wonder if—"

The voice stopped, then continued even more strongly. "Why don't you ever have anything nice to tell me when you come to visit me?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Doolittle said in a carefully controlled tone. "It's hard to think of nice things to say . . . even if you do have a nice disposition for a dead man. But you know, sir, so many malfunctions, and me with the responsibility of running the ship . . . Boiler is a walking bomb, and Pinback is receding into infantilism in addition to his special problem, and Talby grows further away from us every day. It's been very hard for me, sir." He checked his wrist chronometer, "But we're managing, sir. But the bomb . . ."

"Oh, yes. Ah, well . . . did you try the aesthemic clutch?"

"Yes, sir," he responded gratefully. At last Powell appeared to recognize the problem!

"What was that, Doolittle?"

"Negative effect, sir."

"It didn't work?" Powell moaned.

"That's what I meant by negative effect, sir."

"Don't get smart, Doolittle." A far-off, faintly heard wind. "What about the explosive bolts?"

"No luck, sir," Doolittle told the box.

"Tch. Well then, what about the aesthemic clutch?"

Doolittle wanted to scream. "You already asked me about that, sir, and I told you it didn't work either."

Rushing-water sounds of a distant, lonely creek. "Sorry, Doolittle. I've forgotten so much since I've been in here. So much . . . and I don't seem able to remember things in any order. I can remember some very complicated things, though, Doolittle, but I forget the simple ones, and I remember simple ones but forget the complicated ones, and forget the simple . . ."

"Sir? What should we
do
, sir? Time is running out. The bomb's going to go off in a few minutes!"

"Well, what you might try if everything else has failed is to—" A roar of static took over the mike and Doolittle worked frantically to reset the controls.

"Commander?" He shook the box in deperation. Please let him finish, he pleaded with unknowable deities—please! "Hello . . . come in, Commander Powell!"

"Hello, Doolittle."

"Sorry, sir." Doolittle's turn to sigh. "You faded out for a couple of minutes there."

"I'm sorry, Doolittle. It's hard to keep in touch. Tiring. It makes you sleepy. So . . . sleepy . . ."

"The bomb, sir? What were you saying about the bomb—about what we might try?"

"Oh, yes, I remember, Doolittle. Did you think my mind was going? It seems to me . . . sorry, I've drawn a blank. Can't seem to remember . . ."

Doolittle was going to cry.

"Hold it, hold it. I'll have it again in just a minute. I forget so many things. Hold on just a second . . . let me think. Oh yes, now I remember . . ."

Tell me, tell me! "Yes, sir, what is it?"

"You might try to reach station KAAY in Los Angeles with an extreme tight beam, using your full amplification on the communications transmitter. They should know how the Dodgers are doing."

He covered the pickup with one hand and allowed himself the luxury of a single scream.

He'd have to start all over again.

"But you
can't
explode in the bomb bay," Pinback explained for the hundredth time. He stole a fast look at the chronometer insert in the screen overhead. It now showed 0009:08.1. It seemed like the numbers were changing faster now, but of course that was only his imagination working faster.

"Why not?" the bomb asked innocently.

"What do you mean, why not?" He had had about enough of this bomb. It was deliberately not cooperating. Playing with him. Probably laughing at him, too.

If only it didn't have the last laugh.

"Because . . . because you'd kill us all. And that's silly. There's no reason for it. It's different for you, bomb. You look forward to a short happy life and then going out in real style. We look forward to a long life and going out with a whimper. Damn it, bomb, listen to reason!"

"I always listen to reason," the bomb replied easily. "And right now reason tells me that I am programmed to detonate in approximately nine minutes and that detonation will occur at the programmed time."

Oh, what was the use? No matter how he argued, no matter what course of action he suggested or how logical he tried to be, the bomb always responded inexorably, "I am programmed to detonate in . . . detonation will occur at the programmed time."

How could you argue with a stubborn machine with a one-track mind? There had to be a way—surely it must be equipped with mental as well as mechanical failsafes! Surely its builders had foreseen every possibility!

"Look," he said hopefully into the mike, "wouldn't you consider an alternate course of action? I'm not saying you don't ever not have to detonate . . . of course you're going to detonate. I
want
you to detonate. Boiler wants you to detonate . . . don't you, Boiler?"

Boiler nodded his head vigorously.

"Even Talby wants you to detonate. But it doesn't have to be right away, does it? Think of the advantages of waiting . . . of just sitting around for a while so we can disarm you. All that time you could spend contemplating your eventual magnificent demise. You know, they say planning for a trip is half the fun. Just for a couple of hours, bomb, until we can fix your grapple and get you all nice and properly detached from the ship. Then we'd fix you up again as good as new. How about it, bomb? Huh? C'mon, how 'bout it?"

"No," the bomb said petulantly.

"Geez, it sounds like you," snorted Boiler.

Pinback ventured a look promising the corporal sudden death—which, under the circumstances, was not unlikely—and then turned his attention back to the mike.

"Look, bomb, be reasonable. You don't really wanna die, do you? I mean, I know that's what you're programmed for, but survival is the strongest instinct of all, and deep down inside, you've thought about it, haven't you? We can fix it so you never die. Then we could have nice long chats like this all the time."

"Death has no meaning for me, except as an end unto itself," the bomb intoned meaningfully. "Death is my reason for existence. I am born unto destruction. I am Vishnu, Destroyer of Worlds . . . not that I let this influence my pleasant disposition, mind."

"Oh, Christ," muttered Boiler, "a Hindu bomb."

"Listen, bomb," Pinback pleaded, "pretty bomb, logical bomb, lovely reasonable thermostellar triggering device . . ."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," the bomb insisted.

"If you won't do it because it's the right thing to do, if you won't do it because it's the reasoning thing to do, if you won't do it to save the ship or the mission," he asked intensely, "would you do it just as a favor to me? A personal favour . . . mind to mind?"

"Well-l-l . . ." For a second, only a second, the bomb seemed to hesitate. "I might . . . if I knew who you were."

"Who am I?
Who am I?
" A Niagra of emotions flooded Pinback's brain, a cascade of conflicting questions he'd tried so hard to suppress, to keep under control, especially when around the others.