Singularity Station

CHAPTER 18

The meal was a parody of a dinner party. The servitors passed around the food and wine with the deferential air of family retainers. Maran headed a table like some patriarch. He ate and drank with gusto, politely attentive at all times to Liz, and complimentary to Buchanan on the excellence of his judgment in selecting appetizing meal-programs. He would not allow a discussion of their future until the robots deftly flicked away the last of the dishes.

“Coffee, Miss Deffant?” he inquired. “And try some of Mr. Buchanan’s brandy. Excellent!” he added, sipping the fine liqueur. “You’ll appreciate that I have not been able to enjoy the pleasures of the table in recent months. The Enforcement Service have a puritanical approach to refreshment. Their attitude is a hangover from less enlightened times than our own.”

Buchanan cautioned himself against an outburst. Maran’s treatment of them had been utterly correct. There had been no threats, no demands. And though he had taken over the station, he had treated Liz and himself as honored guests. What could one do in the face of such unjatronizing confidence?

“No doubt you will be thinking of the time when the Service again has me in its charge?” Maran inquired, uncannily picking up Buchanan’s unspoken retort.

“I can’t see how you can evade the cruisers,” Buchanan answered. “The station has a limited capacity for life-support. The cruisers can keep on patrol in relays. As soon as the station tries to leave the peripheries of the Singularity, it can be picked up by force-screens. Your escape is temporary, Maran.” Liz Deffant looked from one man to the other. Both were impressive, both resolute and determined. She had no doubt which would triumph in any contest. Maran’s single-mindedness would be supreme. She could only be a spectator now.

Maran exerted his personality when he spoke again to Buchanan. “I have told Miss Deffant that I have the feeling that you, she, and I were predetermined to meet, Buchanan.”

“So we’ve met,” said Buchanan tightly.

Maran smiled. “Buchanan, I know the conditioning you Galactic Service personnel receive. But try to break out of it for a few moments—forget what you have heard of Maran the monster. Think of what you see before you—look!”

And Maran was a smiling, easy host, glass in hand and relaxed smile creasing his big, broad face. Liz Deffant saw the deep, hypnotic eyes and wondered at the strange influence he had over her. Since he had first explained his tormented vision, she had been unable to summon up a jot of resolution or courage. Looking at Maran was like being faced with some stupendous force of nature.

“I heard what you did,” said Buchanan. “You can’t be allowed to rip the minds from any more men and women. Even though they are willing.”

Maran nodded slowly. “My machines are crude. They are not yet ready for the delicate work oi examining the cells which carry an imprint of man’s evolutionary processes. They harm, they maim, and, regrettably, they destroy. I won’t pretend that Maran has not brought misery and death to the noble spirits who followed him. But, Buchanan, there has to be a start! We must examine the deep centers that alone carry the impression of that moment of transition that made us what we are! One day, Buchanan, cell-surgery will be a commonplace—but only if a start is made! And Maran has made the start!

And Maran will find a way through the mists of time and isolate that moment of change. Miss Deffant,” he said, turning to Liz. “You believe that Maran can do it?”

Buchanan saw the answering gleam in Liz’s eyes.

She said nothing, but he knew that she was Maran’s.

“It isn’t my decision,” Buchanan said. “But if it were, I’d stop you. And send you out to the Rim.” He paused. “If I had to, Maran, I’d destroy you.”

As he said it, he knew that, if he felt a bitter antagonism toward Maran, it was not for his treatment of those who had volunteered to take part in his strange experiments. It was more simple, more basic, than that. Maran had woven a spell on the woman Buchanan wanted more than anything in the Universe. Jealousy, he recognized. He was jealous of Maran!

“Would you?” asked Liz quietly. “Would you, Al?”

He turned away from the hurt in the golden eyes.

“Al—you couldn’t. I know,” she said. “You just haven’t got the hate in you, Al.”

“A fruitless conversation,” sighed Maran. “I had hoped for better things.” Buchanan felt choked by his conflicting emotions. There was a need for violent action very near the surface of his mind; yet the robots hovered close, ready to react with instant speed. Patience, he warned himself. Maran had not yet spoken of what he intended to do. The station had a considerable capacity for life-support, but that capacity had to be divided by three now that Maran and Liz were aboard. Maran could do simple equations too.

Liz asked the question that dominated Buchanan’s thoughts: “Well, what do you intend to do, Maran?

Al’s right—the cruisers can’t let you escape. Commander Lientand can sit outside the Singularity until you’re ready to give up. There’s no way out.”

“I think Buchanan knows,” said Maran.

Buchanan said nothing, did not, allow a movement of his face to betray his thoughts.

“Al?” asked Liz.

“I checked the reports, Buchanan,” said Maran. “All the readings.”

“I expected that,” agreed Buchanan.

Yet what could Maran do, even if he persuaded the machines that what was clearly impossible might be reached?

“Al?” asked Liz again.

“Buchanan feels it his duty not to discuss the object of his search,” said Maran.

“You said you wouldn’t—”

“Don’t!” Buchanan said harshly.

“Buchanan, I know!” Maran said decisively. “Yes, Miss Deffant. I told you I felt a sense of predestination about your involvement with my escape from the ES 110. Our paths coincide.”

“The ship?” she said, trembling.

“Yes, Miss Deffant. I shall invite Commander Buchanan to return with me to his former command. I have instructed the machines to take us to the Altair Star.”

Liz gasped. Buchanan’s fist clenched around the stem of the glass. The slender stem snapped in his hand, and brandy made a spreading stain. A servitor had the cloth cleared and the brandy mopped away within seconds.

“When?” asked Buchanan.

“Why, when you have finished your drink,” said Maran, as the robot placed another glass before Buchanan.

Liz Deffant saw the massive, serpentine coils enveloping the station and gripped Buchanan’s arm until the nails bit into the flesh; an unreasoning panic blotted out all other thoughts. Buchanan swayed too, knowing that no matter how many times he ventured within the deeper reaches of the bizarre space-time enigma he could never become accustomed to the appalling blank otherness at the center. He saw that Maran was stunned by the violence of the descent into the Singularity.

And there was nothing he could do, for the slender tentacles of the couch held him firm. The station shuddered, engines howling, as the drive built force-screens to ease the station through a vicious conjunction of energies. The big screen showed the coils giving way to a whirling blackness shot through with emerald whorls. From the black pit, reinforcing bands of power emerged to investigate the nugget of human technology which had invaded the Singularity.

The station exuded screens, leaking power and easing between colossal forces. And it slid away, away and nearer the center.

Through eerie vortices, countering brute power with subtle field emissions, the station glided smoothly into the bizarre regions. Buchanan breathed a prayer of relief and gratitude to the engineers who had built the ship. They had been able only to guess at the grim fury of the Singularity’s inner depths, but they had planned and built well. No engine failed, no screen slipped.

The ship became calmer, its pace less subject to wild upheavals. Maran could concentrate on the operations screen, while Buchanan watched him.

There was no sign that he was afraid. If he trembled, it was not from fear, but awe at the incredible violence of the Singularity, and the miracle of the little ship’s survival. The maelstrom surged, and Maran’s face showed both awe and excitement. Buchanan stared now at the screen. He saw the strange black depths and felt his mind reeling.

“Look!” roared Maran, and Liz and Buchanan were held in a trance by the stark emptiness of the blackness at the center of the Singularity. They glimpsed it and shut their eyes.

“An entire new Universe!” Maran shouted.

But his two companions could not look. Reluctantly, Buchanan conceded Maran a measure of greatness. The bizarre architecture of the Singularity was a fit context for him. Maran was unquestionably awed by what he had seen, but he had lost none of his assurance. Massively excited, he radiated confidence and power.

“Al!” whispered Liz as Maran lowered his great head to the command console. “Al, why does he want to go to the Altair Star?”

Buchanan saw that Maran was indifferent to them. Eyes half closed, he was staring raptly at the screen.

“The ship’s almost intact,” he said. “If he could reach it, he could use the engines to power a life-raft.”

“But you can’t let him—Al, it’s like a mausoleum, you said! No one should disturb them!” Buchanan felt the sick excitement of his quest welling up inside him once more. Cursing his inconstancy, he whispered: “I don’t want to go, Liz—I don’t want Maran to have a chance of freedom! But I have to go!”

It seemed to take hours, but only minutes passed. Buchanan watched the seconds fly away and wondered if time were structured differently in the inner depths. Speculation was futile. No satisfactory theory had explained the unreal dimensions. Kochan’s words came back to him, and there was an uncanny stirring of the skin and short hairs behind his ears. He shuddered, as Liz had done, recalling the idea of the long undead. It was a betrayal of the natural order of things. And yet there was still the gripping compulsion to return to the Altair Star. It could not be denied. Whatever he might find, and however much he dreaded it, he had to go on now that he was so near. Even though Maran meant to use the ship!

Green-glowing serpentine coils gave way to infinite emptiness.

They were near the mystery now, very close to the strange stars, or the black hole, or the combination of unguessable events that formed the center of the enigma.

Buchanan saw the Altair Star as the eerie tunnel swam onto the big screen. A flickering glimpse, and then it was gone. Liz saw it.

“Al!” breathed Liz Deffant, cutting into his thoughts and bringing a rush of feelings that he could not concern himself with now.

“This is the place of wrecks?” asked Maran.

“This is the place.”

Scanners roamed as Maran manipulated the sensor-pads.

“Readings,” he demanded.

“No starquake emission,” reported the Grade One robot. “All three engines operating at satisfactory levels of efficiency. Screens engaged at nine-point-three-one-eight-two level.”

“Report the condition of the Altair Star.”

“Sir?”

“They don’t admit the scan,” said Buchanan.

“Report on the tunnel,” said Maran, ignoring Buchanan’s objection.

“The tunnel, sir?” asked the Grade One robot.

“They won’t admit the temporal discontinuity,” Buchanan said. “Nothing. No tunnel, no temporal discontinuity, so no ship.”

Maran wove a spell over the console. Robotic systems hesitated. Buchanan did not doubt Maran’s powers. As the big, white hands gentled the sensor-pads into compliance, the station edged nearer the glittering tunnel. The screens were filled with an astonishing glory. Then, Buchanan again glimpsed the emptiness that lay a whole Universe beyond the strange glittering tunnel. He saw a terrifying emptiness that sent his thoughts awry and brought a spangled, reeling and roaring confusion inside his mind. When it cleared, Maran was giving orders in his calm, insistent voice: “Scan.”

“Sir?” asked the robotic controller.

“For ships.”

“I have intermittent contact-potential with three Enforcement Service cruisers, sir.”

“Not those.”

“I have readings of the debris of a large transport, with implosion immediately preceding breakup.”

“The ES 110,” said Buchanan.

Maran held up a hand to indicate that he should be silent. Two flat carapaces regarded Buchanan with no menace at all. Yet they conveyed alert tension. He gritted his teeth in frustration. Patience, he tried to tell himself. All led to the Altair Star. Once he had determined the fate of the hundreds he had led to their doom, he could begin to plan, estimate, take decisions, find the single chink in Maran’s armor of self-confidence.

“Scan,” repeated Maran.

“Sir?” asked the robot.

“The temporal discontinuity observed by Commander Buchanan.”

“An interesting theory,” said the flat, metallic voice. “One that Mr. Kochan supports. It is, of course, impossible, sir.”

Maran did not hesitate: “Reduce screen levels.”

“Yes, sir.”

The station had an oddly defenseless feeling. Buchanan tensed again, aware of the gigantic forces that might boil up and leave the ship in submicroscopic, jangling fragments. But it held.

“Project a warp to the temporal discontinuity,” ordered Maran.

“To what, sir?”

“The discontinuity.”

Buchanan sensed the rebelliousness of the Grade One robot. If it would not accept Maran’s orders, they all faced Lientand’s ships.

“With what object, sir?” the machine at last asked.

“Investigating a theory.”

“Sir?”

Buchanan could almost hear the self-questioning of the robots.

Maran snapped: “Isn’t that the object of the Jansky Singularity Station?”

“The object of the station is observation and recording, sir,” the flat voice answered at once, quite certain now. “Those are the primary functions, sir.”

“Then observe the temporal discontinuity!”

“Which cannot exist, sir!”

Liz Deffant saw the big man’s utter concentration. His large, deep eyes were pinpoints as he stared at the pedestal which housed the Grade One robot.

“Observe the Quasi-discontinuity!”

“Sir?”

There was a long pause. Buchanan had seen the myriads of circuits, the endless tiny sheaves of memory-cells, which were the core of the ship’s computers. There was more factual knowledge in them than a man could store in a million lifetimes. And it was all ready for instant recall. There were generative systems which could produce strategies to cope with any eventuality the machines could understand. They had said they could not scan the impossible.

The discontinuity—the time-tunnel—was impossible.

Therefore, they reasoned, they could not cope with it. They could not admit its existence. And Maran was telling them to scan for a time-tunnel which might exist—a hypothetical discontinuity.

Buchanan knew he would return to the Altair Star in that moment. It was a confirmation of Maran’s prescience. Maran had ordered the impossible. And the machines accepted the order.

“Very good, sir,” came the metal-edged voice.

They watched as the marvelous, haunting time-tunnel began to take shape. Bathed in a coruscating white-gold sea of strange, eddying forces, the ships appeared on the screen. Liz Deffant sighed. She forgot the burly figure at the console. All the experiences of the bitter hours drifted from her memory. She saw what Al Buchanan had seen, and she entered into his knowledge, shared his wonder and grief, understood his compulsive obsession as never before. The eerie resting-place of so many ships was dreamily peaceful, utterly beyond anything she had thought to see. Al was right. It was alien but beckoning, terrifying but compelling. The mystery lay before her in its bizarre majesty. A freak scanning showed the whole length of the Altair Star. Washed by ripples of white-gold translucence, it gleamed like some magnificent, somber tomb.

“We shouldn’t disturb it,” breathed Liz. “No, Al!”

“Please, Liz,” said Buchanan.

Maran brought the scanners close to the ship. He knew ships. “The bridge has gone. But that doesn’t mean she’s a wreck.”

“It was blasted clear. Against my orders.”

“Yes,” said Maran. “It was under robotic direction?”

“Infragalactic policy. I tried to take over.”

Buchanan thought of the frenzied, despairing, harsh orders, the gouging shocks as his engineers ripped out decision-making systems.

“And?”

“I took too long to make the decision to take over.”

Maran frowned. “Power potential when you blasted clear?”

“About eight percent.”

“Low.”

“The robots let the screens down.”

“Yes,” said Maran.

“Leave the ship alone, Al! Please!” Liz said, turning to Maran.

“I’m sorry, Miss Deffant,” Maran said.

Buchanan waited, bile in his mouth. The years of searing anguish, interrupted by Liz Deffant’s tenderness, had led to this moment.

“Well?” he asked.

“We go, Buchanan.”

“All of us?”

“Not Miss Deffant.”

“Stay here,” said Buchanan to Liz.

“We both have our reasons for going,” Maran said to her. “Buchanan’s you know. You may or may not have guessed mine. But you know this, Miss Deffant,” and his great eyes were luminously intent. “You know that Maran must not fail!”

Liz shrank back, afraid for Al Buchanan, convulsively afraid that Maran might work some shocking legerdemain aboard the ghost-ship.

“Project a Quasi-warp,” ordered Maran.

The robotic controller still hedged. “Where to, sir?”

“To the Altair Star!”

“We’ll take deep-space armor,” Buchanan added.

“Why?” asked Maran.

“Life-support. Aboard the Altair Star. Its systems should have run out.” He said in a low voice: “I hope they have.”

“I must state, for the purposes of record that the station commander is grossly exceeding the instructions of the Board,” the Grade One robot announced.

Buchanan followed Maran to the hold.

Liz Deffant watched the ghostly fleet, picking out here a bulbous ion-fission hulk that had not roared across the dimensions for half a millenium; there an elegant scout that had drifted into the tunnel not more than sixty or seventy years before. She could hardly bare to look at the huge, infragalactic liner that had been Al Buchanan’s command.