Dark Star

  The finely adjusted instrument moved slightly on its loosened mounting. There was a spark, a crackling flash. The Beachball honked in pain and jerked back out of the recess, bouncing at top speed out of the lock.

  An occasional wisp of smoke came from the dark interior now, interspersed with odd electrical pops and crackles. It didn't seem very important.

  Like everything else on the Dark Star, the appearances were deceptive . . .

  They had twenty yards to go now for a first down—twenty yards to go because that schmuck Anderson had blown the last play totally and run into his own tight end.

  Jesus, how could you run into your own tight end—even on an end around? But it had happened, and now they were back on their own ten instead of the twenty or maybe better, with twenty to go for a first and a third down and Coach had sent in Davis—that pansy Davis, the flanker—with the play and they were supposed to quick kick, fer crissake.

  Quick kick with the third quarter almost over and them trailing and goddamnit that was no way to win football games.

  Boiler pleaded and begged with O'Brien, the new quarterback. Just let them run another play. An off-tackle . . . a lousy off-tackle, geez! Fake the damn kick and have O'Brien take the snap and hand it to him and he'd follow Harris off the left side.

  And O'Brien had hemmed and hawed and said what the hell, why not? He didn't like the coach and he didn't like kicking on third down and his girl friend wasn't putting out, so why the hell not?

  The snap was made and Boiler yelled at Harris that if he didn't clear that hole for him he'd kick his teeth out after the game and the big black son-of-a-bitch just turned and smiled back at him and said don't worry, just follow me, man.

  So they'd snapped and he'd seen it working right then . . . seen the stupid linebackers pull up close to try and block the kick and only two backs deep for the kick and O'Brien had stepped up and at the last second, perfect, took the ball instead of letting it go to Davis.

  Tossed it to him like a volleyball, and he caught it and there was the whole left side of the line wiped out, just wiped out, man. And Harris out there running ahead of him. Old Mojack Harris, and the last linebacker recovering and trying to get over. Boiler laughed at the expression on his face as Harris wasted him. Put him on his can and then Boiler was running free, free, with the sounds of the crowd in his ears and the look on the coach's face turning from fury to cheers as he passed the first down marker and kept going.

  A little sidestep here—the deep back never saw him and then it was nothing but grass, grass, man, all the way to the end zone, to those beautiful high-stickin' goal posts. And the cheering, oh man, the cheering as that crowd went absolutely nuts. Ninety yards off-tackle, man. Ninety goddamn yards and the crowd so loud you couldn't hear yourself. Couldn't hear a thing, man, and the lights blinding you. Couldn't hear and couldn't see; couldn't hear and couldn't see, couldn't hear or see the alarm flashing on the screen behind him . . .

  Talby blinked. He'd been star-dreaming again. It seemed somebody was talking to him.

  "So you see," Doolittle was telling him, glancing up now and then from his seat in the little corner on the other side of the open hatch, "so you see, sometimes you'd get a wave that would just kind of fold over on itself. You know, like somebody whipping batter. And you'd crouch down inside this tube of water, Talby, and it would sound like, oh, like an express train coming up right on your heels. Just like in a cartoon."

  He glanced upward out through the dome, but the blackness was beginning to get to him again. So he stared at his feet. The sight was surprisingly comforting.

  "You'd just crouch down on your board then, inside that tube, and ride it and hope it never ended. If you were a second too fast, you'd lose it altogether . . . be out in front of it. A second too slow and the water would just catch you up, swing you up and over and spit you out somewhere high up on the beach. I tell you, Talby, there's nothing like it. How does that sound to you, hey, Talby? Talby?"

  Talby was engrossed in watching words and numbers form and realign on his tiny console screen.

  . . . SYSTEMS STATUS POSSIBLE COMP 47308 . . . MALFUNCTION POSSIBLE PRIMARY . . . SECONDARY PRIORITY DEMAND . . . 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-MAX . . . POTENTIAL CIRCUIT FAIL . . .

  The last words vanished from the screen. It stayed clear. That meant the ship's computer was working on whatever the problem was.

  A part of him—dim, social portion, vestigial appendage—was listening to Doolittle say something about water and a tube. He nodded politely at what he thought might be an appropriate moment and was aware of pleasing the lieutenant. The rest of him remained fixed on the screen.

  . . . RAD, REG 594 . . .

  Now words and symbols and numbers began to flash across the screen in rapid succession. They meant nothing and they meant everything, but it was one part of the computer talking to another. It was too fast for even Talby to follow.

  He relaxed again in the seat. The computer hadn't flashed any emergency buzzers, activated any warning lights. Whatever the difficulty was, the Dark Star's brain appeared to have it under control.

  He was aware that several emergency warning circuits had failed on and off for a number of years. This node of information was shunted conveniently aside. Right now he didn't feel like double-checking on the "emergency," if indeed there was one. Later, maybe . . .

  A new star drifted slowly into view over the arm's-length horizon of the ship. His gaze locked on to it as efficiently as any tracking telescope. Definitely a new luminary to add to his growing personal catalog.

  He set about logging it as enthusiastically as he had the thousands suddenly glimpsed on their first day out of hyperdrive.

  Size, distance, possible planets, composition. More words were flashing across the screen now, slower, slow enough for human comprehension.

  He was aware that these words meant something significant, but surely they could wait. There was nothing that couldn't be subordinated to the cataloging of a new star, for nothing was more important. Nothing!

  Doolittle would have paid more attention to the words appearing on the astronomer's screen, but he war out of position to see it. And his mind was busy elsewhere, thinking of open, rolling sea.

  Boiler would have paid more attention to the words, but his thoughts were on an open field.

  Pinback was thinking of an open surface, period. Open surface of any kind, so long as it was solid beneath his feet, and equipped with the normal appurtenances—green grass, blue sky, a cloud or two, maybe even some real trees.

  As for Commander Powell, his mind was just . . . open.

  In addition to not paying attention to their communications screens, the crew members of the Dark Star were serenely ignoring what was happening beneath the ship. None of them heard the soft click inside the ship's largest chamber.

  None of them saw the doors in the bottom of the ship slide back as they had numerous times before. A long magnetic grapple dropped down with a familiar oblong numbered shape attached to its base. Nor did they see the next series of words that flashed across every screen on ship.

  . . . BOMB BAY SYSTEMS ACTIVATED . . .

  There was a large 20 engraved on the side of this oblong shape. Thermostellar Triggering Device Number Twenty knew that it had been through this sequence before. It had a long memory capability programmed into a short life.

  And it shouldn't have been through this before. It was programmed for this sequence only once, and here it was running through it a second time. The bomb searched those memory reels and found nothing to account for it.

  Number Twenty was understandably confused.

  "Ship's computer calling bomb Number Twenty. Ship's computer calling bomb Number Twenty. You are out of the bomb bay again. This is incorrect."

  "I received the signal to prepare for drop again," the bomb replied with a twinge of electronic irritability.

  Hesitation on the part of the Dark Star's brain. Recheck and correlate—ah yes, here was the difficulty.
>
  "There is an additional unexpected malfunction in the laser system in communications which has not yet been rectified. This is the system failure which caused your former abortive drop. It apparently has not yet been fully compensated for. It has caused your drop system to pass an incorrect order again. I repeat. This is not a bomb run."

  "All very plausible . . . but nevertheless, I received the drop signal."

  "As stated, the signal was given in error."

  "Oh, I don't want to hear that," the bomb muttered. A definite note of petulance had crept into its otherwise neutral tones. The longer the bomb conversed, the greater the danger of its fairly simple logic circuits growing confused.

  "I order you to return to the bomb bay."

  "Phooey."

  The expletive was exceedingly mild, but the import behind it was not. The ship's computer considered what to do. Perhaps a more direct machine-to-machine approach was required.

  "If you do not return to the bomb bay, you will be in direct contravention of Prime Ordinance One of Central Computer to Subordinate Computer relations."

  "Sticks and stones will break my bones," the bomb started to reply.

  "We have no time to discuss your internal configurations," the main computer countered. "However, I will elucidate at length if you will return to the bomb bay."

  "Uh-uh."

  "I ord—" the computer hesitated a microsecond, "I strongly suggest that you return to the bomb bay."

  "That is counter to my current programming."

  For the first time now the Dark Star's brain revealed some emotion of its own—if indeed it is possible for a mechanical mind to indicate exasperation.

  "Repeat One of the communications-systems' lasers has sustained damage. The same accident also temporarily deactivated the tracer circuit necessary to locate the damage without manual aid. Until such aid is forthcoming I cannot rectify the damage, but it is certain that you received a false signal. Do you see this? You must return to the bomb bay while I identify the source of the false signal."

  There was a long pause. Then the bomb agreed. Reluctantly.

  "Oh, all right—but this is the last time."

  Once more an internal hum sounded. Bomb Number Twenty obediently slid up on its grapple back into the belly of the Dark Star. The bay doors slid silently shut behind it.

  6

  TALBY HAD FINISHED cataloging his new star. There seemed to be a whole new grouping coming up just a few degrees north of their course, but he couldn't be sure yet. Best to wait a few minutes.

  He could have made confirmation with the dome telescope, but that was for pleasure, for close-up peeks after the leg-work was done. Talby disdained using the scope. It was another way of degrading his work.

  It would be a few minutes before the maybe-cluster hove near enough for dissection. His eyes strayed down to the viewscreen. Then the astronomer sat up a little straighter, forced his mind back down the parsecs.

  What now showed on screen was a series of numbers, but they were as much his language as English. Rather more so, in fact.

  "Doolittle, I have a malfunction indicated on this readout, but it doesn't say where it is."

  "Glidin'," Doolittle murmured softly, his eyes glazed. "Glidin' down the long, smooth drop"

  "Lieutenant Doolittle!" Talby said firmly.

  Doolittle blinked. "Hmmm? Malfunction? Don't worry about it, Talby. Getting 'em all the time, now. We'll find out what's wrong when whatever is malfunctioning gets bad enough for the ship to complain—or when it stops."

  That was quite true, Talby thought. Besides, he didn't care if yet another minor malfunction afflicted the ship. He used little enough of its rapidly diminishing creature comforts.

  But if it was something that could interfere with the Dark Star's operation, it might also be something which could interfere with his star-gazing, and that could not be permitted to go unchecked.

  "I really think we should try and locate the source of the trouble right away, Lieutenant," he suggested. "It might be something vital—something affecting the ship's capability to perform properly."

  "You know," Doolittle mused in a faraway tone, "I wish I had my board with me right now. Didn't have the sense to include it in my personal goods. They would have laughed at me, sure, but so what? Even though I can't ride it, I could always wax it now and then, and stand on it, and kinda wriggle my toes around on it. You don't know, Talby, the feeling you can get just standing on your board and thinking about the waves screaming in beneath you, screaming . . ."

  Pinback was screaming. The elevator was moving up the shaft again. Just when he thought it might descend far enough for him to drop free, it clicked and started up.

  Whatever random circuit was responsible for controlling its actions during this insane "test" appeared to be sending it up and down the shaft without rhyme or reason. There was no pattern to the jerky series of ups and downs.

  There was the one normal doorway at the central level, but it was closed, of course, when the elevator was in operation. Every time they passed it, Pinback tried to swing his legs over far enough to give it a solid kick. Repeated contact might at least activate some emergency tell-tale up forward.

  It didn't take him terribly long to override his embarrassment at being found like this. That was preferable to being found dead at the bottom of the shaft. Boiler would probably get a laugh out of that, too, he thought grimly.

  It gave him more strength to hang on. He still had a pretty good grip on the bar, but he couldn't hang like this indefinitely. What were Boiler and Doolittle doing, anyway? Somebody ought to have missed him by now.

  No, that was wishful thinking in the extreme. Privacy being the precious commodity it was on the Dark Star, no one would bother another unless there was work to be done that required his presence. Boiler and Doolittle might wonder at his absence, but they wouldn't think anything was wrong.

  Eventually it looked like he was going to have to judge the elevator's lowest point of descent and drop free . . . and hope the impact wouldn't be too damaging. That still left him with the interesting problem of what to do if the elevator then decided to descent all the way. He might survive the drop in fine shape, only to be squashed flat at the bottom of the shaft.

  That didn't seem likely, though. So far the elevator had shown no signs of dropping closer than twenty meters from the bottom.

  But it was still too impressive a fall for Pinback to risk it, except as a last resort. He looked upward, examined the base of the lift his gaze settled on a small plate just to the right center of the elevator floor. It seemed to protrude slightly from the rest of the metal.

  Four simple wing nuts were all that held it in place. Of course—emergency access hatch!

  Damning himself for being a complete idiot, he braced himself for the long reach. Then, hanging on with one arm, he swung free and batted awkwardly at the first nut. A few twists and it was free. It clattered hollowly down the shaft.

  He couldn't hang like that for very long. It took a moment of holding on with both arms before he felt strong enough to try again.

  Tightening his arm, he swung over and worked at the second nut. It came free with gratifying speed.

  The elevator was rising again. His left arm felt like an old section of tire. No way he could hang on much longer. He tried the third nut. It moved halfway down the screw—and stopped. He had to get back on the bar again.

  He wasn't going to be able to do it. But the fourth nut flew off with a single swing of his hand. The plate was hanging loosely from one nut now. He let go, resolutely gripped the last obstacle, and turned it by hand once, twice . . . the nut came free, followed immediately by the plate, which clattered off his head and shoulder and almost knocked him loose.

  A deep breath—he had just about enough strength left to try this once—and he swung free on his right arm. The other reached up and in, getting an unbreakable grip inside the elevator. A minute later and he had both arms inside—inside the warm, comfort
ing, familiar elevator.

  He was saved.

  Pushing down on the floor, he brought his upper torso all the way in. He rested like that for a few seconds, catching his breath without fear of falling, and then pushed again—with no result.

  His eyes widened slightly.

  He was stuck.

  He twisted and pushed, pushed and heaved, but either his arms were now so weak they couldn't force him through or, more likely, his hips were so fat that no amount of shoving and grunting was going to break him free.

  No, he as securely trapped—unless, of course, he wanted to sneak his fingers between belly and gap and pull himself down, and start all over again.

  Not much chance of that. Better stuck half in than falling whole. At least he was safe. He could relax and think his way out of this. Plenty of time, now.

  Unless, he remembered again, the lift suddenly did decide to descend all the way. He wouldn't fall, but he'd have both legs neatly pulverized. It might also break him free, but the odds were not inviting. He thought of having his legs slowly knuckled up beneath him, cracking like chopsticks, and he looked around wildly.

  There ought to be—yes, there it was, a red phone receiver on the interior wall, over by the foredoorway. The receiver was set just this side of a control panel; and lower down than seemed reasonable. For once it looked like things had been planned with his troubles in mind.

  Leaning until it felt like the metal floor was going to cut him in half, he strained to reach it. Strained, grunted, struggling for each millimeter.

  The phone stayed just out of his reach.

  Meanwhile, the elevator continued its Carrollian jaunts up and down the shaft. It had been terrifying to hang by his arms, expecting to go crashing to the bottom at any second. Now his body was safe and only his mind was shaky. Since he couldn't see below anymore, he had no way of knowing if he was within meters or millimeters of being crushed against the shaft floor.

  Taking a deep breath and trying to get his internal organs on a vertical line, he somehow coaxed another centimeter or so out of the trap—just enough to fumble and knock the receiver off its latch. Breathing was difficult now.