Ratner's Star (28 page)

“If you deserve it, you should get it.”

“It would be unprecedented, a third Cheops Feeley. The award secretly coveted by everyone in the sciences. The one they'd lie and cheat to get. It's the underground prize, given for work that has an element of madness to it. Of course, no one says this openly. But we all know that madness content is a determining factor.”

“How much in cash?”

“When you talk about cash, stick to the Nobel Prize. I'll never get one of those, not for something with the high madness content of moholes.”

“If it's so crazy, why blame the people afraid of it?”

“Theory, in theory, that's in theory. Everything we've discussed is pure theory. In theory it's soothing, it's lovely, it explains a great deal. If the theory is ever tested, however, and if they find evidence of real-life moholes, then it's every man for himself. The laws are different there, you see. Although some of my lesser colleagues would argue against this, I am convinced that alternate physics is not designed to cope with physical reality; that is, with the real world. As kingpin, I would probably react more drastically than anyone. This has always been part of my psychological value pattern. I have never been far from snapping. This is in confidence I'm telling you this.”

“What do you think would happen if you snapped?”

“We won't talk about that,” Mohole said.

“Anyway, about the Nobel Prize, aren't they holding up some of the awards this year?”

“You got yours.”

“I think they're trying to decide some of the tricky ones.”

“I'm completely self-taught,” Mohole said. “I took correspondence courses. I went to the library. I practically lived in the library. A lot of people become deeply involved in their work but only self-taught people experience total murderous obsession. It took years but I finally beat them at their own game.”

“What game?”

“Science.”

“What's wrong with two medals with your kind of background?”

“I'm a snapper, that's what wrong. When things start getting unbearable I see myself getting a high-powered rifle out of the closet.”

“Then what?”

“We won't discuss it further.”

“They'll want me getting back there to sit in.”

“I was fanatically determined to make my mark among the great figures of modern science and I've done it, I've succeeded, a two-time Cheops Feeley medalist, all the work and struggle rewarded with an entire theoretical system of relativity named in my honor. But plenty could still happen if it moves out of the realm of theory.”

“Named in your honor by you yourself.”

“Are you criticizing?”

“Not that I'm criticizing.”

“Einstein wasn't
all
wrong, you know. I certainly don't think my efforts lead inescapably to that conclusion. He did some promising work in pure mathematics before regrettably abandoning that field at the age of sixteen, I believe it was.”

“You mean Einstein wasn't all
right
. He made a little mistake here and there. That's what you mean.”

“If I seem to be raising my voice,” Mohole said in a calm tone, “it's only because I recognize your right to correct me. I wouldn't be yelling if I didn't respect you. Yelling is a bond between people who respect
each other despite invalid corrections. We yell and scold as a way of paying homage to each other's views. This is the burden of friendship between extremely high-strung individuals. If we didn't accept the burden, we'd be sworn enemies. Friendship is exasperating at best. But think of the alternative.”

“I am.”

“The essence of my brand of relativity—that in a mohole the laws of physics vary from one observer to another—is at odds with every notion of the universe that displays a faith in nature. In the value-dark dimension the laws are not equally binding in all frames of reference, whether accelerated or nonaccelerated, and if I get up and leave suddenly it's because I have to use the vomitorium.”

He put another green pill in his mouth. Billy was certain that if he threw his head back as abruptly as he had the last time he swallowed, the head would smash against the back of the chair, perhaps causing a whiplash injury to Mohole's neck or spine. But this time he used an abbreviated head-jerk, beginning his gasp sooner and sustaining it until a scant trace of bilious secretion appeared on his lips. Billy thought this would be followed by stomach matter, the gush itself, but before it could happen Mohole rose from the chair, uttering hoarse dry sounds, and disappeared into one of the rear chambers. When he returned he was wearing a turquoise cravat.

“So the radio signals have the characteristics of an echo,” he said. “Although a mohole has no surface and radiates no heat, the message gives every indication of having been reflected from a high-temperature object of very dense surface composition.”

“But you don't want to know what it says.”

“Now that Ratner's star has been ruled out as the source of the transmission, we don't want to presuppose a new conclusion. We want to pursue certain lines of argument without outside equivocation. In other words you needn't overexert yourself on cracking the code.”

“You want to find out who sent it and from where but not what it says.”

“It would only beg the question.”

“An answer.”

“Exactly,” Mohole said.

“It's probably not a good idea to say who's going to stop me if I decide to keep working.”

“Can you blow bubbles with spit?”

“Only little.”

“I do big,” Mohole said.

“Can you sneeze out of just one nostril?”

“Have a greenie.”

“They're so big. I've never seen pills that big.”

“Have one for your head.”

“Look how big.”

“Have a greenie.”

“Even if I knew what they did to my type brain, I couldn't swallow it because of the size.”

“Some people are swallowers, some aren't. I concede that. But have one anyway.”

“Can you belch at will?”

“A greenie,” Mohole said.

“Everybody knows about drugs and jumping off roofs.”

“Do it to please me.”

“How can it please you to give me something I don't want?”

“That's the way high-strung people are. We expect others to make small sacrifices for the sake of our emotional calm. Now that I've explained things, will you take the greenie?”

“No.”

“I feel hurt when people refuse to accept what I offer. I can't tell you how hurt I feel. Hurt enough to snap. Granted, some people aren't known as swallowers. Still, I hurt all over. In fact I see myself with a high-powered rifle and a whole lot of ammunition. I'm standing in a window high above the street.”

“What else?”

“That's all I'm saying.”

“Make a deal.”

“My psychological value pattern is what it is and there's nothing I can do about it.”

“A deal,” the boy said. “I'll take the greenie if I can keep it for later.”

“Done,” Mohole said. “Once it's out of my hands and in yours, I know you've accepted it and I feel less inclined to raise my voice, much less fill the streets with random gunfire.”

“The lady told me to get back at once.”

“That reminds me. I'm having some female companionship drop up later today. Maybe you'd like to stay around and meet it.”

“What's it consist of?”

“There's only one but she might have a sister.”

“They told me to get back at once and I didn't. If you could find out for sure about the sister thing, I could try to leave the meeting early again.”

“Do you like it here?”

“What, here?”

“The whole big place.”

“I don't see myself making a career out of it.”

“Are you entering into things?”

“No.”

“Enter into things,” Mohole said.

“I don't see it.”

“Make an effort. Are you making an effort?”

“No.”

“Make an effort,” he said. “That's what I failed to do at your stage of the game and even much later. I didn't enter into things, with the result that I felt left out, consistently on the verge of snapping. I didn't make the effort. So what would happen? I would see myself with a high-powered rifle and big boxes of ammo. I'm standing in a window high above the street. I'm firing wildly. I'm shooting anything that moves. Then I'm yelling at anyone left out there who'll listen. ‘I'm a snapper! I snapped! It's not my fault!' Yelling and firing simultaneously.”

“What then?”

“Maybe you'd better tell me your partner preference,” Mohole said.

“Whatever's normal in my situation.”

“Maybe you don't want someone's sister. There are different varieties of companionship dropping up to a place like this.”

“Let's stay with the sister thing for now.”

“Tell you what let's do,” Mohole said. “You go on back to the conference and I'll contact you when I've made arrangements. It might turn into a very unique soiree. It just happens that I'm a paid consultant to a sex engineering outfit. Devices galore.”

“I like the name.”

“That's not their name. That's what they make. Remember not to tell anyone I've had this place converted. No one knows who shouldn't know. And don't worry if I seem to raise my voice. When I stop shouting at you, that's the time to worry.”

He showed the boy around the rest of the suite. The furniture in every room had the same surly gleam, a waxless finish that seemed an indestructible trait rather than something adhering to the objects themselves. There were towel racks everywhere. Refrigerated air seeped from large vents in the wall. The sofas, drapes and lampshades had plastic covers labeled
OMCO RESEARCH
. There was no sign of the translucent inner surface of the sphere itself; partitions had been erected as part of the renovation. An ornamental footbath graced the vomitorium. Mohole opened a cabinet and displayed his collection of “specialty scents”—artificial fragrances packaged in aerosol cans. Billy noted a few of the labels.
“CHEESE, CRACKERS AND DRINKS.” “DINNER FOR TWO—SEAFOOD SERIES.” “WOOD-BURNING FIRE.” “COFFEE TABLE AURA—FRESH FLOWERS, CIGARETTES, AFTER-DINNER CORDIALS.” “HEAPED GARMENTS.” “BEDSHEETS AND HAND LOTION.” “NUDE FEMALE BODY (MOIST)—SENSE OF URGENCY SERIES.”
One can was simply marked
“YVONNE, YVONNE
.” The suite's seeming contradiction, that of functional objects contained in a space of baronial proportions, made the boy feel slightly dislocated. But the sight of so many TV sets, all with swivel mechanisms, revived him. It was like a nineteenth-century motel, magnificent and bland, the traveler desolate in this unnatural immensity, a painless estrangement for all.

“Poverty is exhausting,” Kyzyl said. “I've seen it etched on many a face. We used to make early dawn sweeps across the urban centers,
tagging indigents for further study. We'd proceed forth in unmarked half-tracks and commence tagging with coded markers. These were tired people. When we speak of poverty, this is co-synonymous with extreme fatigue. Migration patterns can't be studied without tagging. But the average migrant indigent, even when we talk of his fatigue and his flagged-out spirits, he sometimes posed a bodily threat to the funded personnel. He with his people resisted being tagged, resisted wearing the tag, resisted the idea of tagging, the whole concept enforcement. It was a study. There was funding. But the poverty mentality resists this. Migrant workers, as opposed to indigents, were too lethargic one way or the other. People who follow the sun are easy to tag and we had checkpoint activity throughout the warmer zones. But the indigents resisted. We utilized no force or prereaction sweeps except as they applied. Applied force is sanctioned by most confederations of the destitute. This is first-hand from personal experience that we utilized only optional weaponry and never inflicted as we say incommensurate pain. Pain inflicted had to be equal to the threat to our persons. There's a difference between exhaustion and lethargy. Exhausted people are known to be dangerous. They don't display the torpor and stupor of people who follow the sun by the truckload, making them easy to tag. So the question of fatigue is double-edged, commingled with the language problem, and many experts on dialect proceeded forth into the urban enclaves to explain to the indigents that this was all a study to learn more about their migratory patterns. A funded study. But they resisted the coded markers. They fought with their teeth and feet. In our lightly armored vehicles we conversed among ourselves. ‘How tired they seem,' we said.”

Billy realized that Kyzyl was escorting him back to his canister rather than to the large room with the bare octagonal table. This made sense, come to think of it, because Kyzyl didn't know he was supposed to return to the Conference on Invisible Mass. Once inside, with Kyzyl waiting beyond the door, he decided in a moment of minor defiance to do some further work on the star code. He turned off the light and began to calculate, his silky pencil forming giant numbers on the plain white sheet. The videophone chimed five times. He pushed a button
on the panel and the screen filled with light. There was no one there, however. The only thing he could see was a tricycle in the background, dimly.

“Big B., can you hear me?”

“Where are you?”

“It's Endor.”

“Talking from where?”

“On the floor,” the voice said. “Don't want you to see me. But I want you to hear. Can you do that?”

“You're coming in weak.”

“How about now?”

“Better.”

“I'm down on the floor shouting up into the talk gadget. Don't try to see me. Do you know where I am?”

“Down on the floor.”