Tau Zero

The present trouble was this: Suns and planets are big, staid objects. They move through space at reasonable speeds, seldom above fifty kilometers per second. And they do not zigzag, however slightly. It is simple to predict where they will be centuries from now, and aim a message beam accordingly. A starship is something else. Men don’t last long; they must hurry. Aberration and Doppler shift affect radio too. Eventually the transmissions from Luna would enter on frequencies that nothing aboard the vessel could receive. Well before then, however, through one unforeseeable factor or another, when travel time between maser projector and ship stretched into months, the beam was sure to lose her.

Fedoroff, who was also the communications officer, tinkered with detectors and amplifiers. He strengthened the signals which he punched Solward, hoping they would give clues to his future location. Though days might go by without a break in the silence, he persevered. He was rewarded with success. But the quality of reception was always poorer, the interval of it shorter, the time till the next longer as Leonora Christine entered the Big Deep.

Ingrid Lindgren pushed the buzzer button. The cabins were sufficiently soundproofed that a knock would never pass. There was no response. She tried again, drawing another blank. She hesitated, frowning, shifting from foot to foot. At length she laid hand on catch. The door wasn’t locked. She opened it a crack. Not looking through, she called softly, “Boris. Are you all right?”

Sounds reached her, a creak, a rustle, slow heavy footsteps. Fedoroff threw the door wide. “Oh,” hesaid. “Good day.”

She regarded him. He was a burly man of medium stature, face broad and high in the cheekbones, brown hair salted with gray although his biological age was a mere forty-two. He hadn’t shaved for several watches and wore nothing except a robe, obviously thrown on this minute. “May I come in?” she requested.

“If you wish.” He waved her past him and closed the door. His half of the unit had been screened off from the part currently occupied by Biosystems Chief Pereira. An unmade bed filled most of it. A vodka bottle stood on the dresser.

“Pardon the mess,” he said indifferently. Lumbering past her: “Would you like a drink? I didn’t bring tumblers, but you needn’t fear a pull on this. Nobody has anything contagious.” He chuckled, or rather rattled. “Where would germs come from, here?”

Lindgren sat down on the edge of the bed. “No, thanks,” she replied. “I’m on duty.”

“And I’m supposed to be. Yes.” Fedoroff loomed over her, slumping. “I informed the bridge I feel indisposed and had better take a rest.”

“Shouldn’t Dr. Latvala examine you?”

“What for? I’m physically well.” Fedoroff paused. “You came to make sure of me.”

“Part of my job. I’ll respect your privacy. But you are a key man.”

Fedoroff smiled. The expression was as forced as the prior noise had been. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I am not breaking down in the brain either.” He reached for the bottle, then withdrew his arm. “I am not even glugging myself into a stupor. It is nothing except a … what do the Americans call it? … a glow.”

“Glows are best in company,” Lindgren declared. After a moment: “I believe I will accept that drink.”

Fedoroff gave her the bottle and joined her on the bedside. She raised it to him. “Skal.” A scant amount went down her throat. She returned the bottle, and he gave her “Zdoroviye.” They sat in silence, Fedoroff gazing at the bulkhead, until he stirred and said:

“Very well. Since you must know. I wouldn’t tell anyone else, especially not a woman. But I have come to learn something about you, Ingrid … Gu

“Yes, Boris Ilyitch.”

He gave her a glance and a more nearly genuine smile. She sat relaxed, body curving out her coverall, a hint of warmth and human odor around her. “I believe—” his tongue fumbled — “I hope you will understand, and not repeat what I tell you.”

“I promise the silence. For understanding, I can try.”

He put elbows on knees, hands straining against each other. “It is personal, you see,” he said slowly and not quite evenly. “Yet no great matter. I will be over it soon. It is simple … that final cast we received … upset me.”

“The music?”

“Yes. Music. Signal-to-noise ratio too low for television. Almost too low for sound. The last we will get, Ingrid Gu

Fedoroff’s voice trailed off. Lindgren waited.

He shook himself. “It happened to be a Russian cradle song,” he said. “My mother sang me to sleep with it.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder and let it rest, feather-light.

“Do not think I am off on an orgy of self-pity,” he added in haste. “For a short while I remember my dead too well. It will pass.”

“Maybe I do understand,” she murmured.

He was on his second interstellar trip. He had gone to Delta Pavonis. Probe data indicated an Earthlike planet, and the expedition left with flying hopes. The reality was so nightmarish that the survivors showed rare heroism in remaining and studying for the minimum pla

“I doubt if you do, really.” Fedoroff turned to confront her. “We expected people would have died when we came home. We expected change. If anything, I was overjoyed at first that I could recognize parts of my city — moonlight on canals and river, domes and towers on Kazan Cathedral, Alexander and Bucephalus rearing over the bridge that carries Nevsky Prospect, the treasures in the Hermitage—” He looked back away and shook his head wearily. “But the life itself. That was too different. Meeting it was like, like seeing a woman one loved become a slut.” He fleered. “Exactly so! I worked in space for five years, as much as I was able, research and development on improving the Bussard engine, as you may remember. My main purpose was to earn the post I have. We can hope for a fresh begi

His words grew barely audible: “Then my mother’s little song reached me. For the last time.” He tilted the bottle to his lips.

Lindgren gave him a minute or two of silence before:

“Now I can see, Boris, in part, why it hurt you so. I’ve studied a bit of sociohistory. In your boyhood, people were less, well, less relaxed. They’d repaired the war damage in most countries and brought population growth and civil disorder under control. Now they were going on to new things, imagination-staggering projects, on Earth as well as in space. Nothing seemed impossible. At the core of their йlan was a spirit of hard work, patriotism, dedication. I suppose you had two gods you served with a whole heart. Father Technics and Mother Russia.” Her hand slipped down to lie upon his. “You returned,” she said, “and nobody cared.”

He nodded. Teeth caught at his lower lip.

“Is that why you despise today’s women?” she asked.

He started. “No! Never!”

“Why, then, have none of your liaisons lasted beyond a week or two — mostly a single offwatch at a time?” she challenged him. “Why are you only at ease and merry among men? I believe you don’t care to know our half of the human race except as bodies. You don’t think there’s anything else worth knowing. And what you said a minute ago, about sluts—”

“I came from Delta Pavonis wishing for a true wife,” he answered as if being strangled.

Lindgren sighed. “Boris, mores change. From my viewpoint, you grew up in a period of unreasonable puritanism. But it was a reaction to an earlier easiness that had perhaps gone too far; and earlier yet — No matter.” She chose her words with care. “The fact is, man has never stayed by a single ideal. The mass enthusiasm when you were young gave way to cool, rationalistic classicism. Today that’s being drowned in turn by a kind of neoromanticism. God knows where that will lead. I probably won’t approve. Regardless, new generations grow up. We’ve no right to freeze them into our own mold. The universe is too wide.”