Dark Star (3 page)

"We are informed, though, that the seat circuit shorting out like that was a one-in-a-million chance, so the rest of you should have no compunctions about sitting down on the job, hah, hah." He smiled again.

"We're all behind you wonderful guys a hundred percent. The job you're doing now will be remembered by billions of successful colonists thousands of years in the future, when all those systems you've cleared are filled with flourishing new populations—all operating under democratic principles, we expect." He winked.

"Now, about your two requests . . ." His eyes strayed to the hidden sheet again.

"I hate him," Doolittle whispered under his breath.

"Gee, what a nice fella," Pinback grinned inanely.

Boiler growled and punched buttons.

"First, about your request for portable radiation shielding and weld mechanism to replace the apparently defective plating." He shook his head. "Sorry to have to report that this request has been denied. I hate to send bad news when you guys are doing such a wonderful job, but I think you'll take it in the proper spirit." He heaved a theatrical sigh. "You know how politicians are when money is mentioned.

"There have been some cutbacks in the U.N. appropriations, and what with the cash for the colony ships and all having such a rough time getting through committee, we just can't afford to send a hyperspeed cargo shuttle out there to you. I've got to confess it didn't help our case when we had to admit that we didn't know exactly where you were, but have you ever tried explaining to a minister from Malaysia how big a parsec is?

"But I know you guys will make do. You've been doing amazing things so far. Lourdes—he's our project chief now, and a nicer, sweeter guy you couldn't find anywhere—says he doesn't know how you and Boiler got the shielding redistributed near the drive without getting a lethal dose of radiation. He doesn't
think
it made you sterile, since you should have died in the first place, but you guys shouldn't worry about that.

"About your other request." He leaned forward and looked right and left in a conspiratorial way. "Frankly, if it was up to me and the regulars here at Deep Space Mission Control, we'd cryostate the six girls and shoot 'em out to you. Only trouble was, some idiot leaked the request to the press, and they blew it up out of all proportion. But don't worry." He sat back and winked again. "We covered for you guys . . . made out how it was all a big joke on your part to show how well you're doing, right?"

Boiler was punching buttons faster now.

"Gee, what a nice fella," Pinback repeated, his smile a little less broad now.

I wish it were him up here and me down there smiling idiotically up at him, Doolittle thought desperately.

"So I'm really afraid," the alien continued, "that the request has been declared inoperative. But at least you know that we down here sympathize with you guys. It's the higher-ups who're making things tough."

"It'll bet he's queer as a two-dollar bill," Boiler said suddenly. "Flaming queen." Growl.

"He looks like a queer—look at his nails."

"That might be the current style on Earth," countered Pinback. "Anyway, you can't see his nails. They're below the vision pickup."

"Well, I saw 'em," Boiler insisted, his voice rising dangerously. He glared at the sergeant. "Wanna make something of it?"

"Well, gee, no," Pinback admitted. "I mean, it didn't seem to me it meant that much to you . . . I mean . . ."

"Goddamn faggots," Boiler rumbled.

"Quiet, Boiler," Doolittle said softly. He had his finger on the
Hold
button. "We've started it . . . we may as well hear all of it." As he lifted his finger off the control, Boiler lavished a last predatory glare on the subdued Pinback and returned to his button pushing. It didn't seem quite as much fun now. Damn queer had broken his concentration. Who needed their stupid messages anyhow?

"So anyway, that's how it is down here on Earth. Or up here on Earth, depending on which way you guys are heading, hah, hah. I wish there was something more I could say," and for a moment a flicker of humanity seemed to appear in the alien's face. Again he seemed to acknowledge the words of an off-screen presence, and the flicker disappeared.

"Well, as you know, these deep space calls cost a lot of money, so all I can say for all of us here at McMurdo is, keep up the good work and drop us a line more often, huh?"

Fizzle . . . pop . . .the words
END COMMUNICATION
appeared on the screen. Doolittle switched it off.

"Surprised he didn't blow us a goodbye kiss," muttered Boiler. The other two ignored him.

"Nice to know they're thinking about us so warmly, isn't it, guys?" Pinback ventured cautiously, looking from Doolittle to Boiler and back to Doolittle. "Isn't it?"

"Quiet, Pinback," said Doolittle, working controls. "We're almost there. We've got a planet to blow."

"Ah, gee, you guys never wanna talk anymore." Pinback folded his arms and sat back, pouting. "Blow it up, blow it up—that's all you think about anymore. We do that all the time. When was the last time we all just sat around and talked, huh? About nothing in particular?"

"You do that all the time, Pinback," Doolittle commented.

"Yeah, but it's pretty dull just talking
to
you guys if you don't chat back. I might as well talk to a blank wall."

"You do that all the time, Pinback."

Oh, you think you're so smart, Doolittle, Pinback muttered silently. Always ready with the snappy comeback, aren't you? Well, we'll see who comes out of this mission with a clean bill of health! Wait till the psyche boys get a look inside
your
head. Then you'll be sorry you didn't talk to me when you had the chance.

I tried to help you, Doolittle, but you don't want to be helped, so don't blame me when they lock you in solitary for observation, with doctors poking and monitoring and prodding and digging into your brain, digging, digging . . .

Pinback was glad when Doolittle switched the overhead screen from communications to fore visual pickup. He was beginning to drown in the sweat of his own thoughts.

A world sprang into sharp focus. It was sterile, empty, deserted. No animals moved on its surface, no fish swam in its seas. Nothing grew and nothing moved. It was no different from a thousand other worlds they had encountered, but it had one thing in common with eighteen others—eighteen others they had encountered and destroyed.

They had found two habitable worlds in this system. One planet was very Earthlike, the other marginally so. Some day each might support a population as great as that of Earth's today.

But as things stood there would be no point in planting an incipient civilization on either of them because this world, according to computer predictions, sat in an unstable orbit. In not more than two hundred thousand nor less than five thousand years it would spiral inward to intercept its own sun.

There was the chance that nothing serious would happen—the world might be turned instantly to ashes. However, if conditions were right, it could be enough, just enough, to alter the position of the star in relation to its habitable planets. Or worse yet, set it on the path to nova.

Waste it, and want not, Doolittle thought—the motto of the scientists who had proposed and organized the
Dark Star
mission and its objectives.

So now they would commence operations to quietly eliminate a world in a soundless, overwhelming explosion bigger than any ever seen on Earth, thereby rendering the system safe for Mom, Apple Pie, and another four or five billion of the social insect called man. A voice sounded in his earphones.

"What'd you say, Pinback?" he mumbled in reply.

"
Goggle, freep, tweep
."

He spoke into the mike again. "What was that? I still can't understand you." Might as well be nice to poor Pinback. After all, he tried his best to do a sergeant's job.

Pinback was always trying. That was one of his problems. At times he reminded Doolittle just a bit too much of the unctuous young officer who had delivered the message from Earth base.

One of these days Corporal Boiler was going to . . .

Pinback shoved the mike aside and leaned over. "I said, I'm trying to reach Talby. Something's wrong with the damned intercom. If you're not going to talk to me, then I'm going to work, I need a last-minute diameter approximation. Do you expect me to figure that my self?"

"Calm down, Pinback. There's something wrong with everything on this ship." He flicked a fingertip on his own mike. "Talby, Talby, this is Dooiittle, do you read me? Answer me, Talby . . . wake up, man."

Eleven, twelve, thirteen, wonder what I've seen . . .

Three blue-white suns, just above the plane of the ecliptic. He jotted them down in his mental catalog. Odd to see three of the same magnitude grouped so closely together. Another interesting surprise.

Exactly how many stars were now included in his private collection he didn't know. There were at least several thousand. He would know better if he entered them formally in the ship's scientific records—something he adamantly refused to do.

Doolittle had bugged him about it when be found out what the astronomer was doing—or rather, wasn't doing. But Talby's smile had defeated him. You couldn't reduce a star to an abstract figure, Talby had patiently tried to explain. It was demeaning, both to the man and to the star. Doolittle gave up after a while.

Talby touched controls, and the observation chair swerved another ninety degrees, tilted forward. Maybe he could convince Doolittle to rotate the ship again, so that he could see the other half of the heavens for a while. Doolittle never understood these requests. He insisted that after a while all stars looked the same: uniform, ugly little fireflies glaring in the night-space. Talby couldn't make him see. Poor Doolittle.

Poor Talby.

Something buzzed insistently in his head. At first he thought it might be another of his headaches. In a way, it was.

"Talby, Talby, this is Doolittle. Can you read me? Acknowledge, Talby."

The corporal blinked, forced himself out of the real universe and back into the irritating dreamworld of reality . . . the triangular dreamworld of the
Dark Star
.

"Oh, yes, Doolittle. Yes, I read you. What is it?"

Doolittle continued to manipulate the instruments in front of him as he spoke to Talby. The astronomer was beginning to worry him. No, no . . . that wasn't quite right. Talby had been worrying him for some time now. He always meant to do something about it, but there were so many other things to worry about, so many other tasks he was responsible for now.

Not that Talby had ever done anything to threaten the safety of the ship—quite the contrary. He was efficient in his duties to the point of abnormality. But it bothered Doolittle that the astronomer spent so much time in the observation dome. It bothered Doolittle that Talby didn't eat his meals with the rest of them. It bothered Doolittle that Talby never joined them for their admittedly deadly dull group recreation periods.

But mostly it bothered Doolittle because Talby seemed so friggin' happy

"Uh, Lieutenant Doolittle?" He blinked, glanced irritably at Pinback.

"I'm okay, Pinback. Hello, Talby? We need a diameter approximation here."

"Roger, Doolittle," responded Talby, prompt, efficient. "Have it in a minute."

"Talby, were you counting again?"

"I'm always counting, Lieutenant You know that." A pause. Then, "Point zero niner five—no special setting required. Too bad it's a bummer."

"Yeah," said Doolittle curtly. "Thanks, Talby."

Doolittle would have liked to hate Talby. For his happiness, for his easy efficiency, for the way he stood the agony of the voyage. But he couldn't. Talby was one of them. Talby was human in a way the frog-faced messager from Earth never could be.

Pinback again. "I need a GHF reading on the gravity correction."

"I'll check it," Doolittle replied.

"I'll have a By SA plus one, Boiler."

Doolittle almost smiled. They were operating loose, easy now. The supersmooth crew of the
Dark Star
was doing what it had been trained for. Each man became an integral part of the unit, each subordinating his personal opinions, desires, and feelings to the overriding demands of the mission.

It was rather like making love. They could even think about that now without breaking down, when functioning as a team. Even think about se— No, no, that was one thought he still had to suppress. The psychometricians had felt they'd compensated adequately for that, but ever since the auto-erogenizer had broken down . . .

He checked a gauge

"Yeah, Doolittle."

"Your GHF reading is minus fifteen."

"Okay." Pinback did things with the controls at his station, frowned slightly.

"Doolittle?"

"Yeah."

"I need a," he hesitated, checked the readout, "a computer indication on a fail-safe mark."

"Roger, Pinback."

"Boiler, can you set me up with some overdrive figures?"

"Ninety-seven million less eight corrected for expected time critical mass."

"That checks out here." The sergeant nodded. "I have a drive reading of seven thou."

"No conflict. Systematization keyed and ready," Boiler replied easily.

Odd, Doolittle reflected, how harmonious Pinback and Boiler could be when operating together for the good of the mission. Maybe if all mankind could be involved in some similar, single project, where each needed the aid of his neighbor, they could function together like the sergeant and corporal.

It was only in the off moments—which meant all the time they weren't actively engaged in running the ship—that animosity flared between the two.

And himself, he was forced to add. Pinback could put him off his mettle any time he opened his mouth. It wasn't that the sergeant was trying to be obnoxious; he just couldn't help himself.

Strange how the psyche boys could place Pinback in the crew with him and Boiler and Powell. That produced a click in his mind and brought back unpleasant thoughts which he quickly shoved aside. It bothered him that he'd forgotten again.