Eschaton 1 – The Other End of Time

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Pat

"But they killed you." Pat gasped; and, "Yes, they did," Dopey confirmed, sounding impatient. "Please. One moment." It did not seem to be a subject that interested him greatly. He turned his great eyes on the two Docs, who instantly moved forward to pluck Martin out of Rosaleen's hands. Naturally the general squawked and protested; naturally it did no good. One of the things picked the general up from behind, the two great upper arms holding him, the other four restraining his arms and legs; the other golem methodically stroked and patted Martin all over, each touch lingering for a moment and then moving on. The whole process took no more than a minute or two. Then, without warning, the Docs dropped Martin sprawling. They retreated to stand, silent and impassive, with their backs to the wall, apparently no longer interested in their environment.

"Yes," Dopey said, as though one of the Docs had reported to him-but Pat hadn't heard a sound, "the examination shows that General Delasquez is not seriously injured. It will not be necessary to replace him, as it was me due to your ill-advised action."

"About that," Jimmy Lin said at once, swallowing hard. "You know that was just an accident, don't you? I mean, we didn't want to hurt you…"

Dopey gave him a severe look. "Whatever your intentions, your action caused the loss of some data, which I must restore for this copy. Please inform me of the nature of our discussion just prior to my death."

They all looked at him blankly. "You want to know what we were talking about?" Jimmy ventured.

"Yes. That is what I said."

"Well," Jimmy said, trying to remember, "actually, I don't think it was anything much-"

"Except, " Rosaleen cut in swiftly, with a hard stare at Jimmy Lin, "that you were explaining this whole matter of copies' to us."

"I was?"

"Oh, yes, absolutely," Pat said, picking up her cue. "Is that why you aren't angrier about getting killed by those idiots? Because you're just a copy?"

Dopey looked almost offended. "I do not understand the term 'just' in that context. Of course I am a copy. We are all copies, are we not? How else could we have been transmitted here from your Starlab?"

"Transmitted?" Rosaleen repeated, fumbling in the dark. "Then-well, then that means we didn't come here in a spaceship?"

Dopey seemed amused. "Indeed not. That is a strange notion, Dr. Artzybachova. Persons do not travel on spaceships. That would be impossible for almost any person, yourselves included, since the transit times would be greater than your life span, due to the limitation imposed by the speed of light. As an astronomer, you at least must know that, Dr. Adcock."

"Oh, right," Pat said, nodding vigorously, trying to help the process on. "That's what you were explaining to us. Please go on.

The funny thing was that he did go on. Pat did her best to keep an expression of pure exultation from her face: it was, after all, the very first time they had been able to trick their captor, and that in itself promised at least some hope for the future. The other prisoners listened in silence: Rosaleen concentratedly frowning; Martin frowning also, but probably about something else; Jimmy Lin merely curious; and Dan Dannerman-well, something was going on with Dan, too, Pat thought, because the man seemed abstracted, and he appeared to be turning something over and over in his pocket as he listened.

She postponed the question of Dan Dannerman, because what Dopey was saying was certainly fascinating. It seemed there was some sort of great search going on, all through the universe, for intelligent races. Automated probes had been sent out on the quest in uncounted numbers; they traveled slower than light, because there was no way for ordinary matter to go faster. But then, when some sort of civilization was detected, a "terminal" was set up and observers like Dopey were "transmitted" to a listening post; and when "specimens" like themselves were obtained they too were "transmitted" for further study-

"Hold it!" Pat commanded. "What do you mean, 'transmitted'? Not even photons can exceed light speed."

Dopey said patiently, "I did not use the word 'photons.' The transmissions are carried by a different particle, the name of which-" He hesitated, while his fingers moved rapidly in the muff. "-is 'tachyons' in your language."

"Oh, my God," Pat breathed, remembering her days in graduate school. "Tachyons! Yes, I've heard of tachyons. They were, what's his name, Gerald Feinberg's theory, right? Particles for which the speed of light was a limiting velocity, yes, but a lower limiting velocity, so that they could travel only faster than light."

"Precisely," Dopey confirmed. "It is the nature of tachyons that the lower the energy the faster they move. The carriers used in this case are quite low in energy and thus have a virtual velocity of-" He hesitated, the long fingers moving inside the muff."-of somewhat more than one hundred thousand of your light-years per second."

Pat gasped. "Good God! But I'm pretty sure scientists looked for the things, and they were never found."

"Indeed," Dopey said politely. "Perhaps your scientists should have looked harder."

Rosaleen was shaking her head. "But how could you transmit objects on these carriers?"

"Not objects. The object is analyzed, so that a sort of-I believe you would call it a 'blueprint' is made, and that is what is transmitted. And, of course, once the blueprint exists copies may be made as desired."

"Like you," someone said.

"Precisely," said Dopey, seeming gratified; the class was beginning to understand its lesson. "Such occurrences are quite common in my situation. In fact, in my time on your orbiter it was necessary to discard and reconstitute me-" He paused to think for a moment. "-at least twenty-five times. You realize I was there for six years four months, observing, and there is damaging radiation in the environment."

"But," said Rosaleen, reasoning it out, "if it was that important, why have you stopped?"

"Stopped? Why do you think the monitoring has stopped? There are automatic machines still in place to carry out the assignment, of course." He seemed to be tiring of the conversation. He shoved his paws into the copper muff and his eyes went vacant again, and then he said, "If there are no other questions-"

"Wait," Martin said thickly, pushing himself up. "Don't go yet. I have something else to ask about your, ah, your purposes in kidnapping us." He hesitated, glancing at his fellow captive. Pat instantly thought he looked suspicious… a suspicion that was confirmed when Delasquez rattled off a couple of high-speed sentences in Spanish: "Si ustedes estdn interesados en es-tablecer relaciones, nopierdan su tempo con estagente. Migobierno en Florida les ofrecerd mejores condiciones. "

"Hey!" Jimmy Lin yelled. "None of that! Talk so we can all understand you!"

Martin gave him a frosty look. "Why? I was merely asking if they were checking us out as a precaution, before proceeding to make contact with the rest of the human race."

Dopey said politely, "Actually that is not an accurate translation, General Delasquez. Your precise message was, 'If you are going to want to establish relations, don't waste your time with these people. My government in Florida will give you a better deal.' However, that contains an incorrect assumption as to the purpose of this operation."

Dannerman glared at Martin, who glared defiantly back, but then closed his eyes and went to sleep. Or pretended to, Pat thought angrily. Dannerman turned to Dopey. "Then what is the purpose?"

Dopey was silent for a long moment. "I do not think I may discuss that. Moreover," he added, sounding sorrowful, "I believe that you have not been candid with me about our discussions before General Delasquez and Commander Lin leaped on me and crushed me to death. That is not fair. Please do not attempt to deceive me again. Also," he added, turning toward the wall, but looking over his plume at Dannerman, "please also learn that you must not attempt to steal things which do not belong to you and you do not understand."

It sounded as though the message was meant for Martin Delasquez-but then why was he looking at Dannerman? Before Pat could ask, Dopey was gone through the opening wall. A moment later the Docs followed.

"I guess the conversation's over," Dannerman said wryly.

Pat sighed. "You know what would be nice? It would be nice if he would, just once, say good-bye when he goes." And then she turned to the unfinished business of Martin Delasquez. "Bastard," she said. "What were you trying to do?"

Delasquez would have had a harder time of it-Pat would have seen to it herself-if he hadn't abruptly pressed his hand to his forehead, staggered and sat down. "Pardon," he said. "Perhaps I am not entirely recovered. In any case I was merely attempting to establish contact in another way, in the hope that something could be gained for all of us."

"Sure you were," Jimmy Lin sneered. Pat opened her mouth to tell the general a few more home truths about himself, but then closed it again. What was the point? Dannerman seemed to have lost interest in the subject; his hands were still turning something over in his pocket, and his expression continued to be abstracted.

For a while the others pressed Pat for all she could remember about these "tachyons," but it wasn't much; she had said just about all she retained from those long-ago courses, and after a few minutes Rosaleen turned to something more useful. She had been experimenting with the cooker Dopey had brought, and ten minutes later there were heavenly smells of decent meals coming out of the thing.

The reality was as good as the aroma. Pat had forgotten how fine a cup of hot Irish stew could taste. Even Martin recovered swiftly enough to cook up and devour some sort of fried-banana thing. It wasn't until they were all on their seconds that Rosaleen cleared her throat. "Patrice?" she said. "Were there not some studies, long ago, about how to produce these tachyon things Dopey was talking about?"

Pat swallowed and thought for a moment. "Studies? But the tachyons were never found."

"Yes, you said that," the old lady said patiently. "But I do recall some speculations on the subject. It was while I was studying at the high-energy institute in Kiev; we were analyzing the instrumentation of the synchrotron, and the instructor mentioned, purely for our entertainment, I am sure, that someone had once suggested faster-than-light particles could be generated with a sufficiently powerful instrument."

"With a synchrotron?" Pat said, and then, "Oh! That radiation from Starlab!"

Rosaleen nodded. "Exactly."

Then Pat had to explain what they were talking about to Martin and Jimmy Lin, who had heard nothing about synchrotron radiation being observed from the orbiter. Danner-man, on the other hand, listened for only a moment, then said, "I think I'll take a little nap."

He wasn't the only one. Martin was losing interest in the discussion; he lingered only for a few moments, then silently removed himself to a side of the cell and lay down, closing his eyes. Rosaleen yawned. "A full belly makes a sleepy brain," she said. "Do you think one of us should stay awake?"

"Not me," said Jimmy Lin; so Pat volunteered. It wasn't that she wasn't drowsy herself; it was that she had something else on her mind. Not Martin's treachery; not what Dopey had told them, astonishing though that was; the thing that was preoccupying her thoughts was the delicious fact that, at last, she had her comb back. It was what she had yearned for-well, one of the things, anyway-and while most of the captives had stretched out to nap away their full bellies Pat knelt before the mirror wall, carefully drawing it through the tangles of her hair.

That was one good thing about the place, she thought. You never had to hunt for a mirror. The bad thing was what the mirror revealed. Pat gazed discontentedly at the dark roots on her hair, the smudges of unidentified filth on her blouse, the circles under her eyes. What was even worse was that she was uncomfortably aware that she didn't smell very good, either. The hoarded drops of perfume from her carryall were running low, her little deodorant stick was long gone-and in any case the deodorant paste had left her unwelcome thatch of armpit hair sticky and tangled.

What she needed was a bath. She thought longingly of a slow soak in a hot tub, with scented bubble-bath foam rising high over the steamy water… and, yes, then also a wardrobe of clean clothes to put on afterward. Even a bar of soap would be fine. She thought of all the million little soap chips she had thrown away over her lifetime because they got to be too small to bother with. She would have paid a high price for any one of them right now.

A stirring a few steps away from her attracted her attention. It was where Dan had settled himself to sleep, but he didn't appear to be sleeping. He had taken off his jacket to wrap it over his head-well, that was a sensible enough thing to do, to keep the light out-but she saw that he had one hand up inside the garment, right in front of his face, and the hand was moving as though he were doing something with it inside the jacket.

Pat informed herself that whatever he was doing, it was none of her business. Picking his nose? Something equally distasteful and private? Not to mention that she wasn't really speaking to the man… But it went on for a surprisingly long time, and curiosity overcame her scruples. "Dan?" Softly, so as not to wake the others. "What are you doing?"

The motion stopped. A moment later Dan's head popped out, regarding her. "It's nothing," he said.

"Well, sorry. I just thought-"

But he was shaking his head as though to tell her not to pursue the subject. Baffled, she watched as he wrapped the jacket around his hand and stood up. He looked as though he were pondering something. When she opened her mouth he shook his head at her again, then seemed to come to a decision. He touched the wall with one hand, then raised the other, wrapped in the jacket, to press against it. He held it there for a bit, frowning, then slowly moved it up and down.

He seemed to be expecting something. Whatever it was, it didn't happen. He shrugged and sighed…

And then something did happen. The wall puckered and opened just where his hand was. A moment later a great fist- a Doc fist, taloned and immense-poked through and snatched the garment from his hand. "Shit!" he said, jumping back.

"What-?" Pat began, but almost at once the wall puckered again, the fist reappeared, it dropped the jacket on the floor and was gone again.

Dannerman looked angry. He picked up the jacket and shook it free. "The bastards," he muttered. "I guess they saw what I did after all, and now they've taken it away from me."