Dark Star (4 page)

All the more reason to drive themselves, loose the last of the bombs, and start on their way home.

"I read that quantum increase of seven," Pinback was saying.

"Pinback, I have that computer reading. It's, nine-five-seven-seven. Repeat, nine-five-seven-seven."

"Time to start talking," Boiler observed. The three men leaned back in their lounges. There was a hum in the control room. "Bomb-bay systems operation confirmed."

Two panels slid apart in the belly of the white arrow head that was the
Dark Star
. A long tube lowered from it. Attached to its end was a thick disk holding a long, rectangular box-shape. The box-shape had the number 19 painted on its sides

It was born out of a computer relay from the
Dark Star
's brain and would die soon in funereal conflagration unknown in this part of the galaxy till now. The rectangular box-shape with the number 19 painted on its sides was, as Pinback insisted, a thermostellar device—or, as Boiler and Doolittle persisted, a bomb.

The sergeant reached up and flipped an overhead switch. The words
LOCK FAIL-SAFE
appeared on the screen in front of him.

"Fail-safe engaged." He tapped the end of his microphone and blew into it once. "Sergeant Pinback calling bomb."

Doolittle gave him a look, but Pinback ignored it. He couldn't see any harm in being convivial, even with a bomb.

"Bomb number nineteen, do you read me, bomb?" The voice that replied was muted, relaxed, and not at all concerned about its impending suicide. "Bomb number nineteen to Sergeant Pinback. I read you, Sergeant. What's up?"

"Well, bomb," Pinback continued conversationally, examining his nails, "not much." There, that was pleasant enough. He tried to be this way with each bomb before it was dropped. After all, they didn't live very long. And no matter what Doolittle and Boiler thought, he felt bombs were pretty nice people—for planet-destroying machines, that is.

To be perfectly honest about it, he'd rather talk to one of the bombs than to Boiler any day.

"Well, bomb, it's just about sixty seconds to drop. Just wondering if everything is all right." He adjusted another set of controls. "How are you feeling?"

"As well as can be expected. I'm looking forward to carrying out the mission for which I was designed."

"Atta boy, bomb. Checked your platinum-iridium energy grid? And your shielding?"

"Grid and shielding positive function," the bomb replied good-naturedly.

"Swell," said Pinback. "Tell you what, bomb. Let's go ahead a sychronize detonation time. Ah, you wouldn't happen to know when you're due to go off, would you?"

"Detonation in six minutes, twenty seconds."

"Good, good. Just let me double-check that."

"Very well, Sergeant Pinback."

"All set here, bomb. We match up. Arm yourself."

A few small red lights flashed briefly from the back of the thermostellar device. That was all there was to indicate that the inert construct of metal and plastic was now the most dangerous single object within a hundred parsecs.

"Armed," it said sharply.

"Well then . . ." Pinback sighed, looked around for something else to do. "Everything looks good, bomb. Dropping you off in about thirty-five seconds. Good luck."

"Thanks," said the bomb. Its diagramatic targeting computer had already locked on to the world below.

The interior of the control room now became a flurry of controlled activity as final preparations were made. Then Boiler and Doolittle sat back as Pinback gripped a pair of opposing knobs and stared at the small chronometer set into the panel above his station.

"Beginning primary sequence."

Doolittle flipped a last switch, watched a red light wink on in front of him.

"Sequence activated. Commence countdown."

"Roger. Mark it: ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one." Both switches were turned simultaneously. "Drop."

There was a bright flare of light from the point where the bomb contacted its release disk. The thremostellar trigger dropped away from the ship. The disk and tube were drawn rapidly up into its belly.

"Hyperdrive sequence begun," Doolittle noted. "Hit it, Pinback."

The sergeant hit a pair of buttons in rapid succession. "Force field activated . . . sequence engaged." He sat back in his chair. A slight tingle started to come over his whole body, as if his leg and everything else were suddenly going to sleep. Then the field locked in, and he saw everything through a haze of red cellophane. This field would enable them to survive the short run at hyperdrive.

There was a second's pause, and then the
Dark Star
vanished from the region of the unstable world, thrown away at incredible speed to a precalculated point in free space—a point far removed from the debris of a shattered planet to come.

Behind them, the bomb, quiet and alone now, continued down toward the planet's surface.

Though the force field fogged his vision, Talby could still see the stars. Only now they were rushing to greet him—all sizes and all degrees of magnitude, rushing toward him. But the distorting blur of hyperdrive allowed him to greet only a few in return. They fell at him like horizontal rain, pelting him with color as they rushed past and disappeared.

Supposedly it wasn't safe for a man to stay up in the observation dome while the ship was in hyperdrive. The shielding provided by the transparent hemisphere was minimal, and it was theorized that in hyperdrive a person might be subjected to a dangerously concentrated burst of radiation.

Talby, however, had disproved this particular theory, as he had disproved so many others. He'd survived eighteen such fights now, and his body was a healthy as ever. Healthier than that of anyone else on board, which, considering that he spent no time in the exercise room, Doolittle was at a loss to explain.

Talbly told him it was due to peace of mind, but Doolittle insisted there had to be something more than that. Perhaps the hypothesizers were right, but wrong. Perhaps anyone who remained in the dome during hyperdrive did receive a concentrated dose of radiation. Radiation that was not dangerous, but benign. Radiation that supplied something special to a man. Because there was no denying that Talby defied a large number of accepted rules for interstellar travel and came out of it in peculiarly good shape.

No one saw the bomb reach its predetermined detonation point just above the planet's surface. They were already too far away for that. But behind them, a blinding ball of white light appeared where the unstable world had once drifted. It turned pink, then crimson—a monstrous, blood-colored blossom blooming in uncaring night.

Then it faded rapidly and was gone. A world had vanished from the galaxy. Its convulsive death had given life to several new clusters of asteroids and meteors. These would now take their place among the other cosmic debris roaming the starpaths.

The universe came to an abrupt halt. The
Dark Star
stopped, its hyperdrive sequence concluded.

The red haze of the field faded from his eyes, drawn back into its electronic cage. Talby blinked.

He made a quick check of his instruments. They were safely out of hyperdrive. All navigational equipment was functioning properly, and they were on course. His hand moved toward the intercom switch. He intended to relay this information to Doolittle but, as so often happened, something more important caught his eye, dragged him away from human concerns.

Just to the lower right of their present course lay a particularly handsome purple and red nebula. They would pass quite close to it if they continued on their present path. He should have ample time to enjoy and study the new miracle.

His hand continued to hover halfway between the intercom activator and the arm of his chair-lounge. Then he relaxed in the seat. As astronomer it was still his job to make manual verification of the bomb run. But suppose he didn't? Suppose he didn't, and the bomb had malfunctioned? The scenario was simple to imagine. The world in the system they had just left would be explored and settled. Eventually it might grow to support a population larger than Earth's.

Then, one distant day, a planet thought safe would go spinning off its orbit into the sun, perhaps turning it in a few days into a churning nova which would sear the settled world clean of billions of lives. And no one could do more than rant and curse at the long-dead Talby He would have returned a blow for the natural, unmanipulated universe. But he couldn't do it.

After all, they'd blame the entire crew of the
Dark Star
, and Talby couldn't drag the others down to an ignominious future no matter what he saw as fit for himself.

So he swung about in the chair, touched several buttons, and prepared to do his duty—for Doolittle, Pinback, Boiler, and Powell, and not for some faraway abstracted humanity.

The eyepiece to the deep-space telescope dipped neatly down in front of him. He edged close to it, and took a visual sighting. A rapidly diminishing bright spot was all that showed in the now considerable distance. Quick cross-check of charts revealed it was indeed something in the vicinity of the star they had just left. He addressed the intercom.

"Lieutenant Doolittle, it just exploded. Ah, the planet just exploded, sir. Lieutenant?"

Well, if Doolittle didn't even
care
. . . Talby flipped the intercom off, morosely contemplated the heavens.

But it wasn't Doolittle's fault. The intercom, like so many things on the
Dark Star
lately, was merely malfunctioning again.

Down in the control room, with the bomb run no doubt successful and the destruction sequence completed, Pinback, Doolittle, and Boiler were taking a stretch, shifting about in their seats like so many old cats.

"Computer's late again," observed Boiler. "That computer's beginning to worry me, Doolittle. Sometimes I think I hear it singing to itself."

"I know it's late, Boiler," the lieutenant replied. "Don't let that bother you. It's about the only instrument on this ship that's still performing up to par." There was a cessation of the muted hum that always came over the speakers, and Doolittle smiled slightly. "See, there it is now."

"Attention, attention," the mechanical, mildly feminine machine voice said. "Ship's computer to all personnel. The hyperdrive sequence is now terminated, and I am happy to report that the target planet is destroyed."

"Whoopee," muttered Boiler, making a little circle in the air with one finger.

"You may now relax and take a stretch if you so desire, gentlemen."

"Unlock fail-safe," ordered Doolittle, ignoring the voice. It didn't do to listen too long to those mildly erotic tones.

Pinback was doing something at an overhead panel. "Fail-safe unlocked."

"The sector just visited," the computer continued, "is now cleared for colonization. You have successfully eliminated the only unstable world in the system. Congratulations on another successful bomb run, boys."

"Gosharootie, thanks, computer," Doolittle said sardonically. "Tell me, honey, what are you doing after the cataclysm tonight?'

"Operating the ship, as usual, Lieutenant Doolittle." There was a pause, then the voice continued in a slightly reproving fashion, "I must remind you again, Lieutenant, that these mental conceptualizations you have of me as a smooth-skinned, pliant, and heavy-breathing female humanoid are neither healthy nor conducive to the smooth operation of the ship. I must ask you to discontinue them."

"Oh, go discontinue yourself," Doolittle blurted curtly. "Stop panting, Pinback . . . you're fogging up your instruments." Pinbadc looked abashed and started to pout again.

The computer didn't reply to Doollttle's advice, recognizing either the frustration in the lieutenant's voice or else the impossibility of complying with the suggestion—or maybe both.

The thought left a sour taste in Doolittle's mind. He always got like this when a bomb run had been completed and they were faced once more with long days of nothing to do. Post-coital letdown, he thought disgustedly.

Irritated, nervous—he felt they had to hurry and find another system with habitable worlds and an unstable companion. And it was getting worse. The glow of satisfaction, the smooth aura of accomplishment that usually came over him after a successful run had grown shorter and shorter with each successive drop. Now it was practically nonexistent. He could remember when the pleasure of seeing an unstable world dissolved to its component elements had left him feeling good for weeks.

Now, he was empty again.

'What now, Boiler?" he found himself asking. "What have you got for us now?"

"So soon, Lieutenant?" wondered Pinback. "We only just finished a run." Doolittle ignored the sergeant.

Boiler, quiet and responsive to Doolittle's moods, was already hard at work with the predictors. "Not much here, Lieutenant. I don't see any possibilities at all in this sector. Tough."

Responsive, yes, but insensitive. Damn the man's insensitivity. Damn his uncommunicativeness and his in ability to enjoy extended, intelligent conversation. Doolittle wondered at himself. He never would figure out why he preferred talking to Boiler instead of Pinback. Maybe it was because the corporal, at least, required nothing of him in return. Doolittle had never been a person to give much of himself. He expected too much from Boiler, and got too much from Pinback. If only Talby were more willing to chat. If only Powell were still around, to give the orders.

"Well, find me something," he ordered nervously. "I don't care where it is. Something interesting, anything . . . we've only got one lousy bomb left and then we can go home—I think."

"Something interesting," Boiler echoed. "Okay." He bent to his instrumentation, consulted the charts from under his panel.

"Well, we're close to the Horsehead Nebula sector. We had reports before we left that there was as much as a ninety-five-percent probability of intelligent life in the southern quadrant of the nebula. Long-distance locators found at least two sol-type stars there showing measure perturbations in their paths, indicative of planets at distances which would place them in the so-called life zones."