I staggered and almost fell. The ship’s rotation did not seem as smooth as it should be.
“The radio,” Danny said, and Metchnikov, frowning, looked up and saw the light.
“Turn it on,” I cried. The voice I heard might be Klara’s.
Metchnikov, still frowning, reached for the switch, and then I noticed that the helix was a brighter gold than I had ever seen it: straw-colored, as though it were incandescently hot. No heat from it, but the golden color was shot through with streaks of white.
“That’s funny,” I said, pointing.
I don’t know if anyone heard me; the radio was pouring static, and inside the capsule the sound was very loud. Metchnikov grabbed for the tuning and the gain. Over the static I heard a voice I didn’t recognize at first. It was Danny A.’s. “Do you feel that?” he yelled. “It’s gravity! We’re in trouble. Stop the scan!”
I stopped it reflexively.
But by then the ship’s screen had turned and something came into view that was not a star and not a galaxy. It was a dim mass of pale-blue light, mottled, immense, and terrifying at the first glimpse. I knew it was not a sun. No sun can be so big and so dim. It hurt the eyes to look at it, not because of brightness. It hurt inside the eyes, up far into the optic nerve. The pain was in the brain itself.
Metchnikov switched off the radio, and in the silence that followed I heard Danny A. say prayerfully, “Dearest God, we’ve had it. That thing is a black hole.”
29
“With your permission, Rob,” says Sigfrid, “I’d like to explore something with you before you command me into my passive play mode.”
I tighten up; the son of a bitch has read my mind. “I observe,” he says instantly, “that you are feeling some apprehension. That is what I would like to explore.”
Incredible, I feel myself trying to save his feelings. Sometimes I forget he’s a machine. “I didn’t know you were aware that I’d been doing that,” I apologize.
“Of course I’m aware, Rob. When you have given me the proper command I obey it, but you have not ever given me the command to refrain from recording and integrating data. I assume you do not possess that command.”
“You assume good, Sigfrid.”
“There is no reason that you should not have access to whatever information I possess. I have not attempted to interfere before now—”
“Could you?”
“I do have the capacity to signal the use of the command construction to higher authority, yes. I have not done that.”
“Why not?” The old bag of bolts keeps on surprising me; all this is new to me.
“As I have said, there is no reason to. But clearly you are attempting to postpone some sort of confrontation, and I would like to tell you what I think that confrontation involves. Then you can make your own decision.”
“Oh, cripes.” I throw off the straps and sit up. “Do you mind if I smoke?” I know what the answer is going to be, but he surprises me again.
“Under the circumstances, no. If you feel the need of a tension reducer I agree. I had even considered offering you a mild tranquilizer if you wish it.”
“Jesus,” I say admiringly, lighting up—and I actually have to stop myself from offering him one! “All right, let’s have it.”
Sigfrid gets up, stretches his legs, and crosses to a more comfortable chair! I hadn’t known he could do that, either. “I am trying to put you at your ease, Rob,” he says, “as I am sure you observe. First let me tell you something about my capacities—and yours—which I do not think you know. I can provide information about any of my clients. That is, you are not limited to those who have had access to this particular terminal.”
“I don’t think I understand that,” I say, after he has paused for a moment.
“I think you do. Or will. When you want to. However, the more important question is what memory you are attempting to keep suppressed. I feel it is necessary for you to unblock it. I had considered offering you light hypnosis, or a tranquilizer, or even a fully human analyst to come in for one session, and any or all of those are at your disposal if you wish them. But I have observed that you are relatively comfortable in discussions about what you perceive as objective reality, as distinguished from your internalization of reality. So I would like to explore a particular incident with you in those terms.”
I carefully tap some ash off the end of my cigarette. He’s right about that; as long as we keep the conversation abstract and impersonal, I can talk about anybloodything. “What incident is that, Sigfrid?”
“Your final prospecting voyage from Gateway, Rob. Let me refresh your memory—”
“Jesus, Sigfrid!”
“I know you think you recall it perfectly,” he says, interpreting me exactly, “and in that sense I don’t suppose your memory needs refreshing. But what is interesting about that particular episode is that all the main areas of your internal concern seem to concentrate there. Your terror. Your homosexual tendencies—”
“Hey!”
“—which are not, to be sure, a major part of your sexuality, Rob, but which give you more concern than is warranted. Your feelings about your mother. The immense burden of guilt you put on yourself. And, above all, the woman Gelle-Klara Moynlin. All these things recur over and over in your dreams, Rob, and you often do not make the identification. And they are all present in this one episode.”
I stub out a cigarette, and realize that I have had two going at once. “I don’t see the part about my mother,” I say at last.
“You don’t?” The hologram that I call Sigirid von Shrink moves toward a corner of the room. “Let me show you a picture.” He raises his hand—that’s pure theater, I know it is—and in the corner there appears a woman’s figure. It is not very clear, but it is quite slim, and is in the act of covering a cough.
“It’s not a very good resemblance to my mother,” I object.
“Isn’t it?”
“Well,” I say generously, “I suppose it’s the best you can do. I mean, not having anything to go on except, I guess, my description of her.”
“The picture,” says Sigfrid gently enough, “was assembled from your description of the girl Susie Hereira.”
I light another cigarette, with some difficulty, because my hand is shaking. “Wow,” I say, with real admiration. “I take my hat off to you, Sigfrid. That’s very interesting. Of course,” I go on, suddenly feeling irritable, “Susie was, my God, only a child! And from that I realize—I realize now, I mean—that there are some resemblances. But the age is all wrong.”
“Rob,” says Sigfrid, “how old was your mother when you were little?”
“She was very young.” I add after a moment, “As a matter of fact, she looked a lot younger than she was even.”
Sigfrid lets me hang there for a moment, and then he waves his hand again and the figure disappears, and instead we are suddenly looking at a picture of two Fives butted lander-to-lander in midspace, and beyond them is—is—”Oh, my God, Sigfrid,” I say. He waits me out for a while. As far as I am concerned, he can wait forever; I simply do not know what to say. I am not hurting, but I am paralyzed. I cannot say anything, and I cannot move.
“This,” he begins, speaking very softly and gently, “is a reconstruction of the two ships in your expedition in the vicinity of the object SAG YY. It is a black hole or, more accurately, a singularity in a state of extremely rapid rotation.”
“I know what it is, Sigfrid.”
“Yes. You do. Because of its rotation, the translation velocity of what is called its event threshold or Schwarzschlld discontinuity exceeds the speed of light, and so it is not properly black; in fact it can be seen by virtue of what is called Cerenkov radiation. It was because of the instrument readings on this and other aspects of the singularity that your expedition was awarded a ten-million-dollar bonus, in addition to the agreed-upon sum which, along with certain other lesser amounts, is the foundation of your present fortune.”
“I know that, too, Sigfrid.” Pause.
“Would you care to tell me what else you know about it, Rob?”
Pause.
“I’m not sure I can, Sigfrid.”
Pause again.
He isn’t even urging me to try. He knows that he doesn’t have to. I want to try, and I take my cue from his own manner. There is something in there that I can’t talk about, that scares me even to think about; but wrapped around that central terror there is something I can talk about, and that is the objective reality.