of their one communication link with Earth, the onset of a steady ine x plicable degradation of the signal, leading in evitably to the isolation of the starship in a realm of total silence?
And what if it is? What if the telepathic link should fail, what if they should lose contact with Earth altogether? The transmissions between Yvonne and Noelle are non-relativistic; the y travel instantaneously across a cosmos in which light itself can go no faster than 300,000 ki l ometers per second and even this non-relativistic faster-than-light sta r ship crosses the topological folds of nospace at finite, though immense, velocity. Witho ut the sisters, they would have to fall back on radio transmission to make contact with Earth: from their present distance a message would take two decades to get there.
The year-captain asks himself why that prospect should trouble him so. The ship is sel f-sufficient; it needs no guidance from Earth for its proper functioning, nor do the voyagers really derive any particular benefit from the daily measure of information about events on the mother planet, a world which, after all, they have chosen to aband o n. So why care if silence descends? Why should it matter? Why not, in that case, simply accept the fact that they are no longer Earthbound in any way, that they are on their way to becoming virtually a different species as they leap, faster than light, ou t ward into a new life among the stars? He is not a sentimental man. There are very few sentimental people on this ship. For him, for them, Earth is just so much old baggage: a wad of stale history, a fading memory of archaic kings and empires, of extinct r e ligions, of outmoded philosophies. Earth is the past; Earth is mere a r chaeology; Earth is essentially nonexistent for them. If the link breaks, why should they care?
But he does care. The link matters.
He decides that it has to do with the symbolic functio n of this voyage to the people of Earth: the fact that the voyagers are the focal point of so much aspiration and anticipation. If contact is lost, their achievements in planting a new Earth on some far star, whatever they may ultimately be, will have no m eaning for the people of the mother world.
And then, too, it is a matter of what he is experiencing on the voyage itself, in relation to the intense throbbing grayness of nospace outside: that interchange of energies, that growing sense of universal connec te d ness. He has not spoken with any of the others about this, but the year-captain is certain that he is not the only one who has felt these things. He and, doubtless, some of his companions are making new di s coveries every day, not astronomical but — well, spiritual — and, the year-captain tells himself, what a great pity it will be if none of this can ever be communicated to those who have remained behind on Earth. We must keep the link open.
“ Maybe,” he says, “ we ought to let you and Yvonne rest for a few da ys.”
***
A celebration: the six-month anniversary of the day the Wotan set out for deep space from Earth orbit. The starship ’ s entire complement is jammed into the gaming lounge, overflowing out into the corridor. Much laughter, drinking, winking, singing, a happy occasion indeed, though no one is quite sure why they should be making such a fuss about the half-year anniversary.
“ It ’ s because we aren ’ t far enough out, yet,” Leon suggests. “ We still really have one foot in space and one back on Earth. So we k eep time on the Earth calendar, still. And we focus on these little milestones. But that ’ ll change.”
“ It already has,” Chang observes. “ When was the last time you used anything but the shiptime calendar in your daily work?”
“ Which calendar I use isn ’ t impo rtant,” Leon says. He is the ship ’ s chief medical officer, a short, barrel-chested man with a voice like tu m bling gravel. “ As it happens, I use the shiptime calendar. But we still think in
And what if it is? What if the telepathic link should fail, what if they should lose contact with Earth altogether? The transmissions between Yvonne and Noelle are non-relativistic; the y travel instantaneously across a cosmos in which light itself can go no faster than 300,000 ki l ometers per second and even this non-relativistic faster-than-light sta r ship crosses the topological folds of nospace at finite, though immense, velocity. Witho ut the sisters, they would have to fall back on radio transmission to make contact with Earth: from their present distance a message would take two decades to get there.
The year-captain asks himself why that prospect should trouble him so. The ship is sel f-sufficient; it needs no guidance from Earth for its proper functioning, nor do the voyagers really derive any particular benefit from the daily measure of information about events on the mother planet, a world which, after all, they have chosen to aband o n. So why care if silence descends? Why should it matter? Why not, in that case, simply accept the fact that they are no longer Earthbound in any way, that they are on their way to becoming virtually a different species as they leap, faster than light, ou t ward into a new life among the stars? He is not a sentimental man. There are very few sentimental people on this ship. For him, for them, Earth is just so much old baggage: a wad of stale history, a fading memory of archaic kings and empires, of extinct r e ligions, of outmoded philosophies. Earth is the past; Earth is mere a r chaeology; Earth is essentially nonexistent for them. If the link breaks, why should they care?
But he does care. The link matters.
He decides that it has to do with the symbolic functio n of this voyage to the people of Earth: the fact that the voyagers are the focal point of so much aspiration and anticipation. If contact is lost, their achievements in planting a new Earth on some far star, whatever they may ultimately be, will have no m eaning for the people of the mother world.
And then, too, it is a matter of what he is experiencing on the voyage itself, in relation to the intense throbbing grayness of nospace outside: that interchange of energies, that growing sense of universal connec te d ness. He has not spoken with any of the others about this, but the year-captain is certain that he is not the only one who has felt these things. He and, doubtless, some of his companions are making new di s coveries every day, not astronomical but — well, spiritual — and, the year-captain tells himself, what a great pity it will be if none of this can ever be communicated to those who have remained behind on Earth. We must keep the link open.
“ Maybe,” he says, “ we ought to let you and Yvonne rest for a few da ys.”
***
A celebration: the six-month anniversary of the day the Wotan set out for deep space from Earth orbit. The starship ’ s entire complement is jammed into the gaming lounge, overflowing out into the corridor. Much laughter, drinking, winking, singing, a happy occasion indeed, though no one is quite sure why they should be making such a fuss about the half-year anniversary.
“ It ’ s because we aren ’ t far enough out, yet,” Leon suggests. “ We still really have one foot in space and one back on Earth. So we k eep time on the Earth calendar, still. And we focus on these little milestones. But that ’ ll change.”
“ It already has,” Chang observes. “ When was the last time you used anything but the shiptime calendar in your daily work?”
“ Which calendar I use isn ’ t impo rtant,” Leon says. He is the ship ’ s chief medical officer, a short, barrel-chested man with a voice like tu m bling gravel. “ As it happens, I use the shiptime calendar. But we still think in
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