Anthonology

THE GHOST GALAXIES

My original title for this story was "Ghost"; the editor at If retitled it, thereby giving away the conclusion. If you want to know the third worst bane of a writer's life, after Writer's Block and Critics, it is Editors. They tend to come across as ignorant little dictators who try to mess up a piece if they can't find a pretext to reject it outright. (Of course, editors might have something similar to say about writers....) The various Galaxy Publications, over the years, have been worse than most in this regard. "Ghost" was a phenomenal effort on my part, requiring several drafts over several years, and mind-bending calculations. Several markets rejected it before If took it for a piddling one cent a word and published it in 1966. Unsatisfied, I novelized it—that is, I rewrote it, expanding it into a full novel, Ghost, with updated science (the story version is now sadly dated)—and the book publishers bounced it. I finally got an expression of interest from Dell, but the editor wanted revision of the opening. He had some good points, so I wrote 17,000 words of new material—whereupon the editor moved to another company, and the novel was rejected, and remains unsold. I'm a slow learner, but episodes like this taught me cynicism. Today I won't even start to write a novel, let alone revise it, unless I have a signed contract and money in hand. And I have this minor bit of advice for editors: if you insist on kicking the writers, don't be surprised when they start kicking you.

"Eight point eight one," the pilot's voice counted off over the intercom. Thirty seconds passed. "Eight point eight two."

Captain Shetland's eye passed to the hunched man seated across the cabin, then went on to the port. Already the red shift, or something analogous, was distorting the view of space.

What an anachronism, he thought. A direct-vision port on a Faster-Than-Light ship. The Meg II was fresh from the construction dock and theoretically designed throughout for FTL travel....

"Light speed," the intercom announced, and the port was void. "Eight point eight three."

"Thank you, Johns," the captain said.

His voice did not reflect the tension he felt.

Shetland had passed the speed of light many times, but never with comfort. FTL was not simply a high velocity. The restrictions of conventional physics could not be set aside with impunity. In the captain's mind were four great dreads, and as he closed his eyes a notebook appeared, with an old-fashioned wire-coil binding. On its cover was a picture of a small and shaggy pony and a single word: PRIVATE. The booklet opened, exposing a lightly ruled sheet, and from offstage appeared an animated pencil, freshly sharpened, tooth marks on the latter end. The pencil twirled and wrote:

THE FOUR DEADLY DREADS OF CAPTAIN SHETLAND.

1. Beacon, failure of.

2. Drive, malfunction of.

3. Personality, distortion of.

4. Unknown, the.

It pleased him to note, as always, the alphabetical arrangement of the terms, and the entire mental process of itemizing them reassured him. Fears that could be outlined in a notebook lost some of their power. This was good, for their power was great. One of them had taken, after thirty hours, the Meg I.

Stop that! he commanded himself. Even his carelessly wandering thoughts were exceedingly dangerous in FTL.

Shetland's gaze returned to the seated man. This was Somnanda, operator of the beacon.

Somnanda sat without motion or expression. His forehead was high, the hair above it dark but sparse. His long ears seemed to be listening intently for something beyond the confines of the cabin, of the ship itself. His eyes, half closed, were a curious, faded gray, their color suggesting a nictitating membrane. The lips and mouth were more delicate than one would expect in so large a man. Somnanda gave the impression of nobility, almost of sainthood.

On the table before him was a small box with a facsimile of a burning candle above it. Somnanda's unwavering gaze centered upon this light. His two mighty hands rested above the table, blue-ridged veins curling over the raised tendons in back. The fingers touched the surface lightly on either side of the candle.

Somnanda moved. His head swiveled gradually, turret-like, to cover Shetland. "It is well, Captain," he said, his voice so deep and strong that there almost seemed to be a staccato echo from the walls surrounding them.

Shetland relaxed at last. Behind his eyes the notebook reappeared, reopened. The pencil drew a neat line through Dread No. 1.

The beacon was functioning properly—so far.

When a ship entered FTL, the normal universe existed only tenuously. Relative to that ship, to its crew and many of its instruments, planets and even stars became ghostlike, present but insubstantial. External light and gravity registered only as an indication on a meter. Internally, the laws of physics applied as always; Meg II required power for illumination, temperature control, the operation of its instruments and the rapid rotation that provided artificial gravity. But physical communication with Earth—and any electronic or laser-based signal had to be regarded as such—was impossible, because the ship no longer occupied the same specific universe as Earth.

There was complex circuitry embedded in the table beneath Somnanda's tapering fingers. But it was psionic circuitry, incomprehensible to normal science. The actual mechanism of communication was largely in the operator's mind and subject to no tangible verification—aside from the fact that it worked.

The light, a flickering mock candle, was the evidence that the beacon was functioning. It lit the way to Earth. No instrument could retrace the course of the Meg II with sufficient accuracy to bring the ship home. Not when the distance traveled was to be measured in megaparsecs. Not when the universe itself was indistinct. Only this steady beacon, this metaphysical elastic connection, could guide them back even to the correct galactic cluster. Only Somnanda.

"Captain."

Shetland recovered with a start. "I'm sorry, Somnanda. Was I worrying again?"

The man smiled slowly. "No, Captain. You were not disturbing the beacon. I wished simply to remind you that your move was due."

Shetland had forgotten their game of chess. The lonely hours of space made some sort of diversion essential. "Of course." He closed his eyes, seeing the checkered board. His king was in check. "White, 23. King to King two. No pun intended."

Somnanda nodded. It would be another hour before he replied with his own move, for he, like the captain, was a deliberate man. There was time, and each development was to be savored, never rushed.

"Somnanda," he said. The somber head rose. "Do you know the purpose of this expedition?"

"The Milky-Way Galaxy is only thirty thousand parsecs in diameter," Somnanda replied seriously. "Far too small to test the beacon properly. We are traveling far."

That should be added to the notebook, Shetland thought. The understatement of the space age. The Meg II's itinerary was to take her, literally, to the edge of the universe. As had that of the first Meg...

"Captain."

Why did their conversation lapse so readily? "Again, Somnanda?"

"There is an... imbalance... in the beacon."

Shetland felt the cold clutch of fear at his stomach. Immediately the candle flickered higher, a yellowish flash.

Fear was the nemesis of the beacon—no error there! What irony if his own alarm at news of danger to the beacon should extinguish it! He exerted control over his emotions, watched the little flame subside and become even.

This was a temporary measure. Somnanda, a man of polite conservatism, had given clear warning. Something was interfering with the function of the beacon. It was not serious at the moment—but in FTL such things seldom resolved themselves. As the Meg's speed increased, so would the disturbance, until firm action became mandatory.

But what was the source? It had to be a man who either knew or suspected their true mission and was frightened by it. The great majority of the crewmen had not been informed of the special nature of this mission and had no way to learn that the Meg was establishing records in FTL.

The notebook reappeared. The pencil turned about, erased the first Dread, wrote it in again without the line through the words. It sketched an arrow leading from it down to No. 3: Personality, distortion of. Linked dangers.

The pencil hesitated, then made subheadings under No. 3, leaving a space after each: A. Somnanda; B. Shetland; C. Johns; D. Beeton. The captain noted the inversely alphabetized listing and frowned, but let it stand. The pencil returned to the first, paused again, wrote:

A. Somnanda—Most experienced & reliable communicator in space. Steady temper. Personal friend.

Was he allowing friendship to influence him? This could not be afforded. The pencil backtracked, crossed out the last two words.

Still, Somnanda was the least likely of suspects. If he lost control, there would be no appeal. No one else could maintain the beacon.

B. Shetland—Captain, experienced. Knowledge of danger. Can control emotion.

How can a man judge himself? In the act of writing he had crossed out a word, made a correction: he only suspected the various dangers, could not claim full knowledge. Yet his position was unique. He alone had sufficient information to accomplish their mission. He had to exonerate himself or admit failure at the outset. Rationalization?

C. Johns—Pilot (drive mechanic).

The pencil stopped. The record said that Johns was competent, but Shetland had not voyaged with him before. How could he be sure of this man? Or was he allowing himself to be prejudiced because Johns had replaced another friend?

Objectivity was essential. He would have to have a talk with Johns—but not immediately. The man, his schedule informed him, was about to go off duty and would not return until the eighteenth hour. That was convenient for another reason... and it was also important not to upset the sleeping schedule. Lack of sleep was one of the surest routes to emotional imbalance.

D. Beeton—Cartographer, apprentice.

The pencil stalled once more. Apprentice. That meant he had never had an assignment in FTL before. Shetland had not even met him. Young, inexperienced and in a position to comprehend both mission and danger. A very likely suspect. But again, the time was not now. Special factors had relevance, and a proper interview was quite possibly essential to the success of the mission.

Shetland turned about and set course for his own cabin. He was not tired, but he intended to sleep.

Ship's clock said 19. Shetland entered the pilot's compartment and stood behind the man. "Johns," he said.

The pilot jumped to attention. "Sir." He was a small, somewhat stout man, whose thin blond hair made his scalp seem prematurely bald. His features were regular except for a slightly receding chin. Shetland knew from the records, which were comprehensive, that Johns was an excellent craftsman, well suited to his job. Shetland knew—and tried to suppress his irrational dislike of the man.

"I see we stand at 19," he said, sounding inane in his own ears. "That, of course, is our velocity, in spite of the fact that we schedule the affairs of the ship by that clock. Would you care to translate our speed into something, ah, more specific?"

Johns tried to restrain a patronizing smile. "As you know, sir, the drive is designed to reflect speed in miles per hour, varying exponentially with the passage of time. Our velocity is indicated by the logarithmic dial of the ship's clock. Thus our present speed, relative to galactic stasis at—"

"Assume that I'm an idiot," Shetland said.

"Yes, sir!" Johns tried again. "When the clock indicates 1, it means that the ship is traveling at ten raised to the first power, or ten miles per hour. At 2, this is equivalent to ten squared, or a hundred miles per hour. 3 on the clock is a thousand mph, 4 is 10,000 mph, and so on. 9 is already beyond the speed of light."

"Very good. Why, then, do we call it a 'clock'?"

"Because that's what it is, sir. The figure on the dial also represents the time in hours since the drive was cut in. That's the way they engineered it. We have been under way for"—he glanced again at the clock—"19.12 hours, and our present velocity therefore is"—a second pause to manipulate his slide rule, while Shetland smiled inwardly at the conditioning this exposed—"approximately twenty billion times the speed of light."

Johns looked up, startled at his own words. "Twenty bil—!"

"We travel fast," Shetland said. "Hardly surprising in view of the purpose of this voyage."

Johns nodded, dazed. "Yes. Testing the performance of the drive and shield at the big MPH is a tall order. Takes us right out of the galaxy. And we've just about done it already. 19.283 is one full megaparsec per hour. One MPH. Over three million light-years in a thin sixty minutes...."

Shetland frowned, his fingers beating little cadences on the panel below the clock. Somnanda saw the voyage as a test of the beacon; Johns saw it as a test of the drive. What would Beeton see?

The pilot, misunderstanding, launched into another explanation. "We have to check it out before turning it over to private enterprise. We know so little about the drive and the part of it that we call the shield. Yet it would be impossible to travel in FTL without some kind of protection. Part of the energy of the drive is diverted to form the shield that isolates us from normal space. It's actually an adaptation of the available Cherenkov radiation—"

It was time for the shock. "Were you assuming that the Meg II was going to stop at one MPH?"

Johns' eyes widened. "We're not stopping, sir?"

The intercom came to life. It was Somnanda. "Captain to the beacon as convenient."

Shetland nodded to himself. The beacon had flared. Yet it was not conclusive. He himself had made the beacon react when caught offguard. Every man had his moments.

"Does speed frighten you, Johns?"

Johns licked his lips. "How—how much?"

"Thirty."

Johns stared at the clock. "Thirty? Sir, have you any idea how fast that is?" He took refuge in his slide rule. "We're doing twenty billion times the speed of light now—and that will just about square it, Captain." He shook his head negatively. "To answer your question, sir—no, I can't be frightened by that. I'm used to big figures, but this doesn't mean anything to me. I can't visualize it. So how can I be frightened? Meanwhile, I know the drive can do it, and I'm game to try."

Shetland did not agree with the pilot's reasoning: most men did fear what they could not visualize. But it seemed that Johns had survived his crisis and come to terms with it. He could not be considered a prime suspect.

Beeton had to be the one. He would go and pick up Somnanda's chess move, then gird himself for the most difficult interview.

"Why thirty?" Johns inquired. "...Sir."

Because that's where Death awaits us, Shetland thought. "Orders, Pilot."

Death orders?

Beeton's cabin was typical of what was expected of a young spaceman: the neat military bunk, the foot locker, the shapely pinups on the wall.

Shetland dismissed the pictures immediately. He knew that every man under thirty put them up as a matter of protocol. But after one discounted the window-dressing, a man's room was often a pretty fair indication of his personality.

Nothing. Everything was in order, allowing no personal signs. Beeton was almost too careful to conform. Only one thing showed personality: a chess set on the corner desk, with a game in progress. Even this was no giveaway. Tedium came to everyone in space.

He examined the game with a clinical interest, noting the advantageous position held by Black. This game would soon be over.

Realization struck him. This was no ordinary game. This was a replica of his match with Somnanda, complete to the last move. A game that he had thought existed only in the minds of the two of them. And Somnanda was Black.

"What can I do for you, Captain?" The cartographer had come upon him by surprise.

Beeton was a tall, blond lad. His face had that fresh-out-of-school look: sanguine and unlined, eyes startlingly blue and innocent. But the records placed his age at 24.

"I was admiring your game," Shetland said.

Beeton had the grace to flush. "You might call that a spectator sport, sir."

"As spectator, who would you say had the better position?"

"Well, sir, I'm sure I could win with White."

The captain smiled faintly. "You should know that FTL career men are noted for memory, not intelligence, and that they retain few illusions."

"I'm sorry, sir. I must admit that your defense, while logical from a positional standpoint, is unsound in the present case. But I do admire your ability to play without a board. I could never do that."

Shetland resisted the flattery, not entirely successfully. He was here to judge, not to be judged, and it was going to be difficult. This boy, the record said, was a virtual genius. "Perhaps, in time, you will show me how to win with White," he said. "It happens that I can see the board and pieces whether or not they are physically present. Just as I can read a book by turning the pages in my memory. Just one of the qualifications of the office."

Beeton sat on his bunk, not wishing to ask directly the purpose of the captain's visit. Shetland did not enlighten him. "Going into research after this trip?"

Beeton expressed surprise. "You know?" Then he smiled ruefully. "But you've studied the records, of course. Yes. Originally those lectures on celestial mechanics and such bored me. I would sit in the front of the class, my eyes fixed on the little box of rubber bands quivering like worms on the professor's desk, while he gave out with the poop. He used to purse his lips around the word... but all that changed. I'm going to settle down, get married."

"I'm sure Alice is a fine young woman. Yes, our files are thorough." Fencing, of course—but necessary.

Beeton gave him a curious glance, then made a hint of a shrug.

"Woman," he said. "That's the word that comes between 'wolverine' and 'wombat' in the dictionary." Shetland opened the big dictionary in his mind and skimmed the page. It was true. "And I want to assure you, Captain, that megalocarpous specimen on the wall is not Alice." Shetland riffled through his dictionary again, smiled when he found the word. Beeton was playing games with him, forcing him back.

"Do you know how I met her, Captain? I was sitting in a public library, studying a text on psychology, when I overheard this kind of clip-clop, clip-clop coming up behind me. For a startled moment all I could think of was a horse. You know the sound those primitive animals make when some rich showman takes them across a concrete street, the metal-shod hoofs ringing out like castanets. I couldn't resist turning around in my chair to see what could make that kind of noise in a library. Of course it turned out to be two girls in heels. But that horse was still in my mind, and you know, their feet did resemble hoofs in an attractive way. Their legs were clean and supple, rather like those of a thoroughbred.

"I laughed out loud. 'Now I know why they call them fillies,' I said. One of those girls heard that, and she came over to ask me just what I meant. Her tone was severe. That was the first time I had a really good look at her, aside from her ankles. She had on a knitted green dress, form-fitting over an excellent form... might as well admit it. I was smitten by her appearance. One thing led to another—"

"So that was Alice."

"No. Alice was the other girl. I didn't pay any attention to her that time. She—well, it gets a little complicated. I don't suppose your records cover that sort of thing."

Shetland got the point. The records were illusory. They told him nothing that would enable him to understand this too clever young man. He was being gently told to mind his own business.

How he wished he could! But Beeton was still the prime suspect, and if there was fear concealed behind that voluble facade, the captain had to know it.

"You've admitted that your early scholastics were not remarkable. What caused you to change?" For here, perhaps, the record did offer a take-off point. The shift had been abrupt, and it had been from indifferent to absolute brilliance. There were personal comments by several instructors: "Jumps to accurate conclusions." "An intuitive thinker; never makes a mistake in theory." "Even cheating is not that sharp!"

Beeton's tone was flippant. "Maybe I was afraid, Captain. Afraid that the ghost of my past would come back to haunt me. These days a degree is not enough; there were too many decades of assembly-line doctorates that degraded the magic. They delve into your records, as well you know. If I had left behind me a reputation for careless work—"

Was the young man still taunting him, showing the flag to the bull? Or was there genuine tension now?

"...though that's an unfortunate way to put it," Beeton was saying. " 'Ghost,' I mean. I always was afraid of the supernatural. Sometimes I suspect that my whole interest in science was spurred by a lingering fear of ghosts. As though I were trying to shine a light in the dark corners, to prove that nothing nonphysical could possibly hurt me, because there was nothing there. Seems ridiculous now."

Childhood fears. It did not seem ridiculous to Shetland.

For the Meg II at this moment the entire universe had become nonphysical. They were traveling at such a rate that an entire galaxy could be traversed in less than a second, and it made no difference whether the ship passed near or through it. How easy to invoke the sense of unreality, to renew the fierce early terrors.

How easy, too, to play upon the credulity of a meddling captain....

"Does the Academy still teach Einstein?" Shetland inquired with a smile.

Beeton smiled too, seeming to relax. "It still does. But of course it's a mistake to assume that FTL disproves his work. The General Theory never did limit an object to the speed of light. Though I doubt that the old gentleman anticipated—what is our present speed?"

Shetland did not miss the nervous throb, the slight terror showing in the tips of the fingers. Beeton knew the time, and he could do conversions. His question seemed like a plea for confirmation—or denial.

He looked at his watch. It said 22.9, drive time. "Just over a megaparsec per second. Our mission requires high speed."

Beeton rose to the bait, definitely nervous now. "It certainly does. This voyage will rewrite the text on celestial cartology. My instruments are recording the placement and pattern of every galaxy and cluster within a billion parsecs of our course—though I must admit that our present velocity makes this seem tiny. It will take many years for the computers back on Earth to assimilate the information we collect in hours. But our journey will be over in ten minutes."

Shetland could not conceal his astonishment. "It will?"

"Certainly. It began with the vast primeval explosion that flung matter and radiation in every direction to populate the vacant space. Then gravity slowed this impetuous expansion and brought the universe into a state of equilibrium two billion light-years in diameter. But when the galaxies formed, the forces of repulsion came into prominence, and expansion resumed. Now five billion years have passed since the beginning, and our universe has grown to a radius of three billion parsecs. In moments we stand at the culmination of it all, our mission is over: the rim."

To every man his own justification for the voyage, Shetland thought. To every man his own disillusion.

"Not yet," he said succinctly.

Beeton's innocent eyes focused on him. "You have to stop, of course. There is no point going beyond the rim of the universe."

Shetland spoke carefully. "According to your theory, there should be a cessation of all matter at approximately 23.1 on the clock. I have asked to be alerted the moment such cessation occurs. None has. It is now 23.2 hours. There has been no 'rim.' We shall not stop."

Beeton turned pale. His breath came in labored gasps. His eyes stared unblinkingly at the captain.

The intercom blared out behind Shetland with startling volume. "Captain to beacon immediately!"

Shetland whirled, paying no more attention to Beeton. He galloped headlong down the corridor, blood pounding in his ears. The shortness of his breath, he knew, was not entirely due to the exertion.

He burst into Somnanda's cabin. And stopped, appalled. The miniature candle, symbol of Earth-contact, was a towering column of fire. Orange light flooded the room, flickering off the walls and illuminating Somnanda's twisted face with demoniac intensity.

Shetland knew instinctively what to do. Terror was destruction to the beacon. He stood there, suppressing every vestige of feeling, quelling his own throbbing pulse with hypnotic waves of peace and security. Members of the crew had fears; these were groundless, based on ignorance. Only the captain had authority to know, and he was not afraid. Not afraid.

Not afraid.

Gradually he extended the oily calm outward. Somnanda was not afraid. No one was afraid. A temporary shock, no more. To be forgotten.

The fearsome color faded. The column dwindled reluctantly, down, down, until it returned to its normal pinpoint above the table.

Somnanda's countenance relaxed. Apparently a disturbance in the beacon represented physical pain to him. His hands remained above the table, fingers splayed, their backs an angry red. His forehead was shining, and rivulets of perspiration were draining down the side of his neck.

"My strength has been overextended," Somnanda said, his words slurred, voice pitched too high. "I can not protect the beacon again. From that."

So formal, even after this, Shetland thought. Yet I must talk to him. As Beeton is to me, so am I to this man of the candle. The tension is within me, and it must come out. And when my brain has translated itself into nervous impulses, and these pulses become the atmospheric vibrations which are meaningful speech sounds, and those sounds have been lost in entropy, then will my problem be over?

"A farmer once lost a sum of money," Shetland said. "He suspected a neighbor's boy of having stolen it, but had not proof. So the farmer went and studied the boy as he went about his chores, trying to determine by observation whether he was in fact the culprit. Though the lad performed his duties in the prescribed manner, there did appear to be something surreptitious in his attitude, as though he were trying to conceal guilt. The farmer returned home convinced. Later he discovered the money where he had forgotten it, in his own home. It had never been stolen. He went again to look at the neighbor's boy, but this time the lad had no guilty look about him."

"The young cartographer looks guilty," Somnanda said.

"He looks guilty," Shetland agreed. "He seemed almost normal until I challenged his evolutionary theory of the universe. Then—this. But I can not condemn a person on such circumstantial evidence. I too, in the last analysis, am afraid."

Somnanda's brow wrinkled. "I am not entirely familiar with this theory. Is there something about it that affects the nature of our voyage?"

Shetland smiled inwardly. In Somnanda's view the purpose of this journey was merely to test the beacon. The validity of one theory of the universe or another would have little bearing on that, unless one theory embodied an inherent threat to the beacon. That threat was real enough—but it stemmed from internal problems, not external.

"The evolutionary theory is one of several evolved—again, no pun—to explain the observed state of the universe," Shetland explained. "There are numberless clusters of galaxies in view from Earth, each retreating from every other one. The situation can only be explained by postulating a general expansion of the entire cosmos. But the nature of this expansion is open to doubt. This particular theory has all matter originating in a gigantic nucleus five billion years ago. When it exploded—"

"Now I understand," Somnanda said. "That would make every galaxy approximately the same age. I had assumed that the more distant ones were older."

"They may well be," Shetland said. "The information we are gathering now may answer that question when we return to Earth. But it is my conjecture that this theory is invalid, because we have already passed the farthest limit the evolutionary universe could have reached, and the pattern has not changed."

"Would this be reason to frighten the cartographer?"

Shetland paced the floor. "I don't understand why. That's what holds me back. The elimination of a single theory should be of no more consequence than the elimination of an invalid strategy in the course of a chess game. An inconvenience, certainly. But hardly frightening."

"Unless the alternative is more dangerous."

"The obvious alternative at this point would be the 'Steady State' theory, which has galaxies continuously forming and being formed outward by the constant appearance of new matter. Since there is no 'beginning' the universe is steady in space and time and does not evolve. Individual galaxies, however, would evolve, and we should discover old ones as well as new ones. And the universe would be somewhat larger."

"Larger?"

"Because the evolutionary universe would be in its infancy, limited by the five-billion-year span since the explosion. But the average galaxy will survive for ten times that length of time, and if we assume the expansion to be exponential, the universe could eventually attain a radius of ten thousand teraparsecs, give or take a decimal or two."

Somnanda digested this. "One teraparsec is—"

"A million megs. But our drive will take us there in just thirty hours."

"That would be the size of the steady state universe, since it is not in its... infancy?"

"If my conjecture is correct. The cartographer, actually, should understand such things better than I. He is attempting to map the universe."

"Perhaps he knows something that we do not."

Shetland paced the floor again. "He never mentioned steady state. It was as though it didn't exist for him."

"Possibly he has reason for his fear. This should be ascertained."

What decision had the captain of the Meg I made? Had he waited until thirty hours to question his "Beeton?" Or had some unthinkable menace consumed his ship at the rim of the steady state cosmos?

The decision of the prior captain had been wrong. How could Shetland improve upon it, in his ignorance?

The ship's clock stood at 25 when Beeton entered the beacon room. "Reporting as directed, sir."

Shetland was afraid to waste time. He watched the candle as he spoke. "I believe you are afraid of something, Beeton, and it is important for me to understand. Such emotion affects the beacon."

Beeton met him with a steady gaze in which there was not a trace of fear. "May I speak frankly, sir?"

When a crewman felt it necessary to address that question to the captain, the result was seldom pleasant. "You are directed to do so."

"I'd like to rephrase the question," Beeton said, dropping the "sir." He was intelligent and had probably anticipated this session. "I think I'm afraid of the same thing you are. Will you admit that much?"

"I am afraid of many things. Continue."

"We fear a very real danger, and it has nothing to do with the beacon. You and I know that there is death waiting for us at the edge of the universe. One ship has already been taken, perhaps others."

Somnanda looked up but held his peace.

"The important thing to realize is that this was no freak accident. We face the same demise, unless we reverse the drive."

"No," Shetland said simply.

Johns poked his head in the entrance. "Am I interrupting something?" he inquired. "My assistant took over long enough for me to inquire—"

"You should listen to this," Beeton said with authority. Somnanda nodded.

Shetland glanced from one to the other. Was there a mute agreement between them? How many were anxious to abort the mission? The situation was uncomfortable.

Johns also seemed to be ill at ease. "Look, if you want me to go—"

Shetland took command. "Mr. Beeton believes that our course leads to danger. He is about to explain his reason for his request that the Meg be reversed prematurely."

There was silence. Was the beacon flickering more violently than before? Whose tension was responsible? "Go on, Beeton," Shetland said firmly.

The cartographer swallowed, a nervous young man now that it had come to the point. The flame was brighter. "You are familiar with the 'steady state' cosmos," he said, jumping, as the record advised, to an accurate conclusion. "I had expected this theory to be eliminated by our findings. I had—hoped."

He looked at the increasing flame, then averted his gaze. "To most people, there is small difference between one concept of the universe and another. After all, it has no discernible effect on our daily lives. But to those of us who voyage into the extraordinary reaches, it becomes a matter of life and death."

"Say what you mean," Shetland growled.

"At the center, where the galaxies are young, we are safe. But at the rim they are old. Beyond the rim—" He paused in the yellow light. "Beyond the rim they are dead."

He looked at each of the others in turn and met only bafflement. "Don't you see? They have passed on. There is nothing beyond the rim but ghosts, the malignant spirits of once living galaxies."

Shetland looked at Somnanda, who shook his head negatively. He looked at Johns, whose mouth was hanging open.

"You're crazy!" Johns said.

Beeton jumped up, and the flame leaped with him. "No, no," he cried. "You have to understand. You have to stop the ship before it's too late."

"The supernatural is no threat to us," Shetland snapped.

"Captain!" Somnanda's voice was urgent. Shetland whipped around. The beacon had burst into an inferno, destroying itself.

"Stop the ship!" Beeton screamed. "The ghost is out there—"

Suddenly Shetland's sidearm was in his hand. The tableau seemed to freeze at the moment: Somnanda in the corner, half standing, agony on his face, sweat shining in the orange glow. Johns, staring at the young cartographer, confusion and incredulity distorting his own features, scalp red under the thin hair. Beeton, standing with one fist in the air, mouth insanely wide, lips pulled back from teeth.

One word from the captain would ease this threat. He had only to agree to stop the ship. To set aside his orders.

Then Beeton was falling, engulfed in a sparkling cloud. The gas from the capsule Shetland had fired was dissipating already: but Beeton would be in a deep coma for at least twelve hours. Far past the crisis point.

"Captain." Somnanda's voice cut through his reverie, as it always did. "There is little doubt that the young man's terror was the cause of the disturbance. But it should have abated, had you agreed to reverse the drive."

The flame was normal. "I could not do that."

Johns made a sound. "You knew how simple it was to stop the trouble—and you cooled him anyway?"

"Yes."

Johns stared at him with the same expression he had turned on Beeton before. "Captain—now I'm not so sure Beeton was the crazy one. Maybe he was right. You never let him make his point."

Shetland looked at the unconscious form, so peaceful now. "If I had verified his suspicion, Pilot, his terror would certainly have extinguished the beacon."

"Verified his—" Johns was shocked. "You admit it! There is a ghost out there!"

"Not a ghost. A ship. A ship that ceased contact suddenly. My orders are to investigate. I shall investigate."

"By heading straight into the same trap?"

"Those are my orders."

"Orders!" The flame was rising again. "Captain, I can't agree to that."

Shetland studied him sourly. "You can't agree, Pilot?"

"No, I can't. That ghost will eat us too. We've got to turn back."

Beside the growing flame, Somnanda's head turned to bear on Johns.

"I see it now," the pilot said. "Beeton was right. After the galaxies die, they are ghosts. And they hate the living." He looked around, saw the flame. "Don't you understand? We must reverse the ship!"

The flash, the sparkle, the dissipation—and the pilot joined the cartographer.

The flame subsided. Somnanda and Shetland looked at each other.

"Your move, Captain."

The chess game: Somnanda could think of that at this juncture! "I only hope my personal situation is better than that of my pieces," he said. "I will have to consider my move."

"Your situation is good," Somnanda said cryptically.

Shetland hauled the two unconscious men to the side of the cabin. "I think it best to keep these out of sight of the other crewmen, for the time being," he said. Then, sensing Somnanda's curiosity: "It may seem unreasonable to sacrifice two human beings in this fashion, rather than accede to their rather simple request. But I can delegate their functions if necessary, while I could neither humor their fancies nor allow their emotional stress to destroy the beacon." Yes, he felt the need to justify himself to Somnanda and cursed his own frailty.

"You seem unreasonable." From this man, this was an observation, not an insult.

"I am unreasonable. Sometimes that is the only course—just as an apparently illogical sacrifice is at times required in order to win at chess." The chess analogy kept running through his mind. Was it valid?

Somnanda waited.

"Extended trips into FTL have been rare, so far," Shetland continued. "Evidence is therefore inconclusive. But there appears to be a certain... distortion in many personalities as velocity increased. Perhaps it is a side effect of the drive, or simply an emotional reaction to isolation from the normal universe. But it is one of my dreads, and I always watch for it. That's why I'm careful about revealing my orders prematurely. Individual judgment can not be trusted in FTL. Normal people are apt to become aware of it. It is futile to point out such aberrations to the victims. They are, in effect, mental patients. I think you have seen some of this, now."

"Yes."

"The captain is not excluded," Shetland said, smiling wearily. "I have preoccupations and I entertain doubts. I question the wisdom of this voyage, its apparent expendability, the attitude of certain crewmen, the evidence of the supernatural. I do not believe, at this moment, in the beacon—that is, that it represents any valid connection with Earth. But if it is real, why not the ghost of a galaxy? I do anticipate extinction at the thirtieth hour—but I will not reverse the drive."

"I understand."

"Because my own judgment is suspect. I can rely on only one thing to be objective: my orders. These were presented to me before the voyage began and were reasonable then; they must be reasonable now. If I desire to modify them, it is because my present insight is biased, not my earlier one. I must therefore uphold what seems unreasonable to me—and I shall."

The clock read 28.8 hours. One teraparsec per second. Soon the voyage would really be over—one way or another.

Shetland found himself in Beeton's room, looking at the chess set. Why had he come? Because there was a lingering uncertainty as the thirtieth hour approached? Or simple guilt for overriding that uncertainty?

He saw a picture of Alice, smiling for a man she might never see again. Would she be widowed before her marriage, all because a certain captain's orders meant more to him than his common sense?

It was uncanny, the way in which the young man had divined the moves and kept up with a game the captain had never advertised. But this was a private game. He swept the pieces into the box, folded the board. Beneath it was a paper, previously hidden. Shetland picked it up and saw a series of notations. They seemed to represent the strategy of a game in progress. His game?

He applied the notes to the game in his mind. They checked. But the moves were not as he would have made them. They started at the present position, but the style was radically different. Beeton had said he could win with White—and these notes, incredibly, proved it. Beginning with a highly questionable queen sacrifice, White forged to a forced advantage in the game's thirtieth move. The series violated many of the tenets of good positional play—yet, he saw now, was quite valid.

He would not use it, of course; the genius was not rightfully his. But he would show this interesting lesson to Somnanda: how independent and bold foresight could convert a certain loss into victory. Book play was not always valid.

By the thirtieth move.

Coincidence?

Or a message that his stupidity had prevented Beeton from delivering? Was it natural to assume that such a brilliant mind had been mistaken, in the one case that counted? Or had the cartographer's terrible fear been based on fact, not fancy—while the distortion merely prevented him from making himself sufficiently clear?

Had Johns also, finally, responded to the actual message, seen its validity?

Assume, for the sake of argument, that Beeton had been right. That death did wait at the thirtieth hour. That the situation was hopeless because the man in charge refused to deviate from the book, from his orders, no matter what.

In chess, the answer had been a total revision of strategy. The book had to be thrown away. In life—

The chessboard image in his mind faded into a figurative map of the universe. Galaxies of the steady state hurtled outward, born in the center as pawns, dying of old age at the rim as kings.

And then, as it were, the pieces came to life. The pawns were babies, the kings old men. The board, which was the universe, became a city without buildings. The babies were born spontaneously in the center and crawled busily in all directions. As they made their way outward they grew into children, and some had bishop's hats and some had horse's heads. Farther out they developed into men and women, and the men were castles and the women queens.

Finally the old kings staggered to the rim to die. The size of this city was governed by the age of the inhabitants. Where they became too old to go out farther, the city ended. Most of them died at fifty moves. The rim was a desolate grave. There was no one to bury the bodies; where they fell, they lay, they rotted, and the white bones guarded the memory of what had been.

Then, incredibly, a child appeared at the rim. By some freak it had by-passed age and entered the domain of death long before its time. A child named "Meg."

The ancient bones quivered with rage. No living thing should be allowed to desecrate the mighty graveyard. The angry spirits gathered their forces, concentrated their ghastly energies, opened their ponderous jaws and said:

"Captain! Captain!"

It was Somnanda. Shetland shook himself awake to see the beacon room. The yellow light was rampaging again, and this time he himself was the cause.

"Reverse the drive!" he shouted into the intercom.

Now it was 16.49—but it was speed, not time. Once more the captain of the Meg II stood behind the pilot, pretending that nothing had happened.

"Captain," Johns said. "Captain—I want to say something."

What was there for this man to say? That he resented being gassed, then revived to learn that his assistant had reversed the drive at 29.34, on the orders of that same captain who had shot the pilot down for urging this?

"Captain, I just wanted to apologize. I don't know what came over me. I never lost my head like that before. I don't believe in ghosts. I just—somehow I couldn't—what I mean is, you did the only thing you could do, and I can see that you were right all the time. I'm sorry I forgot."

Johns was apologizing for his own distortion, now that it had abated with the speed of the ship, and he was able to see it for what it was. A distortion that was not his own fault.

"We were all a little on edge," Shetland said, discovering that his dislike of the pilot was gone. Was there any point in trying to explain?

16.36. Thirteen hours of deceleration, with the Meg II traveling at only a tenth its former speed with every hour that the clock subtracted. And still approaching a rendezvous of terror with fantastic velocity. Twenty-nine hours of deceleration would bring it to a halt in space, at almost the exact spot they would have passed in the thirtieth hour of acceleration. The exponential series that was the drive was a remarkable thing.

16.34. Only when they came to a dead halt, relative to their starting point, could they release the drive and apply the chemical maneuvering rockets, in order to turn the ship around and begin the home journey. Then back, accelerating once more to—

Hell broke loose.

The ship bucked violently, flinging Shetland to the far wall. Shooting pains went through his left shoulder as another upheaval bounced him on the floor. An agonized keening sounded in his ears, and a red fog clouded his brain, seeming to obscure all vision above the horizontal. Dimly he saw the pilot's legs wrapped around the bolted-down stool; Johns, more alert than his captain, had held his position. There was the smell of burning insulation in the air.

"Cut the drive!" Shetland roared. He tried to stand up, but the heaving room brushed him aside. The clamor of the suit-alert began; the hull had been pierced.

"Captain," Johns' voice drifted back from a far distance: "We're in FTL. We can't—"

"CUT THE DRIVE!"

Johns moved his hand, and miraculously the ship was quiet. Shetland lurched to his feet, heedless of the pain.

The alarm had ceased. Someone must have repaired the damage already. That man would get a commendation. Shetland's hands, of their own volition, groped for and found the archaic regulation fire extinguisher, not obsolete after all, as smoke curled up from the panel. Suddenly the unit was blasting noxious foam all over his boots. He turned it, already feeling the biting cold; crystals of ice flew off like broken glass as he tramped toward the control panel.

"Stop, Captain!" Johns cried. "No need, no need. The power is off."

Shetland lowered the extinguisher. Now he had time to assess his injuries. Pain, for the moment, was masked; it was there, but the enormity of it would only be felt later. He was surprised to discover no blood. He felt along his left arm, realizing that the trouble with the extinguisher had been due to his one-handed control. The left hand was useless, though there were no breaks.

"Captain." Why did he always drift into contemplation, even in a crisis? "Captain—" the pilot's voice was shocked. "The instruments are registering!"

"That's what they're for," Shetland said shortly.

"But we're in FTL!" Johns, so capable in the crisis, was now falling apart. "The drive is off. The shield is down. Why aren't we dead?"

Shetland had understood the situation the moment the ship bucked. But he was not certain he could explain it to the pilot readily. Johns might have difficulty accepting the truth.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" he inquired. Johns stiffened. He had already denied superstition. Shetland sympathized; but this was necessary.

"No, sir," the pilot said.

"Look at your instruments," Shetland commanded. "Tell me what's out there."

Johns looked. "We're approaching an object of galactic scope at just under the speed of light. Approximate mass—" He faltered.

"Go on, Pilot."

"Sir, I think the instrument is broken."

Shetland replied with deliberate cruelty. "Do I have to teach you elementary navigation? Where are the warning lights? You know the instrument is not broken."

"But it can't be—"

"Don't argue. What does it say?"

Johns seemed to shrink inside himself. His lips stretched to form the words his mind rejected. "It says—it says the galaxy we're approaching has no mass."

Shetland smiled grimly. "I ask you again, do you believe in ghosts?"

"Yes, there is a ghost," Shetland said, as the Meg II's hull vibrated to the impact of her chemical propulsion. She was maneuvering for a position to begin the return voyage.

The four of them were in the beacon room again, watching the steady flame, "All of us had some hint of the truth," Shetland said, "but we were blinded by our separate conceptions of the mission and by our mutual dread of the unknown. We tried to exclude the supernatural—not realizing that when the supernatural is understood, it becomes natural. Cartographer Beeton was closest to it—"

"But I wasn't able to face emotionally what my intellect showed me," Beeton said. "The thing is so incredible—"

"I still don't follow you," Johns protested. "We're alive, and there's a—a thing out there. I'll admit that much. But nothing in the universe is solid enough to rock a ship in high FTL, and we were at 16.34. That's a light-year per second! But we were battered so badly that a crate of beans broke loose and shoved itself through the hull. Or tried to." He laughed. "Wouldn't that be an epitaph for a lost ship: torpedoed by a can of beans in FTL!"

"I, too, am perplexed," Somnanda said. "I understood that it was certain destruction to drop the shield while in FTL. Solid matter can not exist at a light-year per second."

"We phased in with the ghost," Shetland said. "Beeton, things are clearer. Finish your explanation."

Beeton plunged in happily. "As I was trying to say at an earlier occasion, but somehow couldn't quite put into sensible words: At the center of things, a galaxy is young. But in the course of fifty billion years or so it ages, and like an aging man it changes. For one thing, it puts on weight, becomes sluggish. A galaxy in its late prime is an unbelievably massive thing—so dense that its surface gravity prevents its own light from escaping. Within it, nevertheless, breakdown continues, and the prisoned energies—well, we have had no experience with such a state.

"Eventually all matter is gone—but there is still no escape for that phenomenal complex of energy. We are left with a galaxy whose material portion has passed away, but which still exists as an entity. A ghost."

"The ghost of a galaxy!" Johns said. "But that shouldn't affect—"

"You forget that the ghost is moving," Shetland said. "That un-galaxy is traveling at rim-velocity: 16.04, ship's clock. Since there is no other—"

"Which means it determines stasis for this area of space!" Johns exclaimed. "Velocity is meaningless in the void. It has to be relative to some mass, or—"

"Or some ghost," Beeton put in. "Apparently our laws of physics change, here. We've discovered a lot more than a galaxy."

"So we decelerated to within light speed of the ghost, and the shield came down automatically, and left us in normal space. Even at the fringe, those energies were overloading the drive—" Johns paused. "But what would have happened if we had landed inside the ghost?"

"Or even traveled through it in FTL," Somnanda said.

Shetland considered. "I suspect the nature of space itself is altered within the ghost. The Meg I did unwittingly enter it..."

There was silence as the implication sank in. Was this the final evidence that man was limited after all, in spite of his limitless ambition? Hemmed in by numberless and deadly ghosts... or was their very existence a new challenge, greater than any before? What would the first explorers find, when they parked their fleet and penetrated, carefully, the fringe of that monster?

"Captain."

Shetland looked up. "Your move, Captain."