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Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
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said, “Well, it's like one of those old Navy novels — should I yell out 'Engineer, set all sails' ...”
“You're mixing your metaphors,” Fontana said. “In the days when they set sails, in the Navy, they didn't have engineers.” She too was in one of the supernu-
merary seats; they had all chosen to be present for that moment when Survey Ship 103 moved away from the Space Station, From being as nearly at rest as any body in the universe could be — moving in free-fall orbit around the Space Station — they would begin their long, slow, but steady acceleration which, within a year, would bring them to 99.3 per cent of light-speed; the highest practical speed for space travel. And so rapid would this acceleration be that, from just outside the orbit of the Moon, they would leave Pluto's orbit behind within thirteen days.
Moira wet her lips, checked the panel before her, then, deliberately, touching the buttons with gentle fingers, she pressed a certain sequence which would activate the drives. Although the drive was in another module, and the intervening total vacuum of space would not convey even a fragment of sound, she fancied that she could feel a faint vibration, somewhere, the drives setting up their vibration . . . not a sound. Not a vibration. Had it to do with her extra-sensory perception, so that she felt it somewhere inside herself, that the drives were running, like a heartbeat?
She checked the green light on the console which telemetered information, looked at a small visual panel which gave video information from the drive module. There were, of course, no moving parts, but energy was being transmitted, and outside the dome window, the Space Station began to recede, grow smaller against the background of stars. It was no longer passing their window every few seconds. It was moving away . . . no. They were moving away, Survey Ship 103 was accelerating away from the Space Station at nine point eight meters per second per second. ... at an ever-increasing velocity. Moira was not the natural mathematician Ravi was, and could not keep track of the continuing veloc-
66 „
ity without flicking a glance at the tell-tales giving velocity, and the percentage of Tau — light-speed.
“There it goes,” Fontana said suddenly. “We might as well take a last look.”
Earth had come into their viewfield, a dim blue wraith, the size of a small dinner plate, diminishing, distant ... a raindrop. Moira blinked, shook the tears from her eyes, concentrating on the drive tell-tale. Now, when they were clear of the last fragments of gravitational pull from the Moon and from the Space Station . . . now, slowly, gently . . . she pressed another sequence of buttons in a memorized order, feeling the faint drag from the DeMag units; possibly it would be easier when they could turn off the DeMags for a while, but at this moment none of them were emotionally or physiologically prepared for less than half gravity. The ship rotated, modules turning for favorable light exposure. She watched what she was doing on her video tell-tales as the light-sail panels, enormous, thin sheets of mylar film, were slowly extruded. She could see a corner of one of them coming, slowly, into sight across the dome, a smear of translucence blotting out a few of the stars across the lower edge of the lenticular observation window. Trim it just a little toward the sun, Moira thought, pressing buttons gently, watching the sail veer ever so slightly, rotate a little, streaming gently. Her tell-tales told her of other sails, great sheets of film sensitive to solar pressure . . . light as a tangible force, making the sails just shiver. . . the film was so delicate it would tear at a touch, but in space, friction-less, airless, there was nothing to tear it. Yet Moira's fingers moved as delicately on the studs as if her fingers could rip through the sails themselves, and she watched the movement, the imperceptible shiver of the streaming mylar, with a
“You're mixing your metaphors,” Fontana said. “In the days when they set sails, in the Navy, they didn't have engineers.” She too was in one of the supernu-
merary seats; they had all chosen to be present for that moment when Survey Ship 103 moved away from the Space Station, From being as nearly at rest as any body in the universe could be — moving in free-fall orbit around the Space Station — they would begin their long, slow, but steady acceleration which, within a year, would bring them to 99.3 per cent of light-speed; the highest practical speed for space travel. And so rapid would this acceleration be that, from just outside the orbit of the Moon, they would leave Pluto's orbit behind within thirteen days.
Moira wet her lips, checked the panel before her, then, deliberately, touching the buttons with gentle fingers, she pressed a certain sequence which would activate the drives. Although the drive was in another module, and the intervening total vacuum of space would not convey even a fragment of sound, she fancied that she could feel a faint vibration, somewhere, the drives setting up their vibration . . . not a sound. Not a vibration. Had it to do with her extra-sensory perception, so that she felt it somewhere inside herself, that the drives were running, like a heartbeat?
She checked the green light on the console which telemetered information, looked at a small visual panel which gave video information from the drive module. There were, of course, no moving parts, but energy was being transmitted, and outside the dome window, the Space Station began to recede, grow smaller against the background of stars. It was no longer passing their window every few seconds. It was moving away . . . no. They were moving away, Survey Ship 103 was accelerating away from the Space Station at nine point eight meters per second per second. ... at an ever-increasing velocity. Moira was not the natural mathematician Ravi was, and could not keep track of the continuing veloc-
66 „
ity without flicking a glance at the tell-tales giving velocity, and the percentage of Tau — light-speed.
“There it goes,” Fontana said suddenly. “We might as well take a last look.”
Earth had come into their viewfield, a dim blue wraith, the size of a small dinner plate, diminishing, distant ... a raindrop. Moira blinked, shook the tears from her eyes, concentrating on the drive tell-tale. Now, when they were clear of the last fragments of gravitational pull from the Moon and from the Space Station . . . now, slowly, gently . . . she pressed another sequence of buttons in a memorized order, feeling the faint drag from the DeMag units; possibly it would be easier when they could turn off the DeMags for a while, but at this moment none of them were emotionally or physiologically prepared for less than half gravity. The ship rotated, modules turning for favorable light exposure. She watched what she was doing on her video tell-tales as the light-sail panels, enormous, thin sheets of mylar film, were slowly extruded. She could see a corner of one of them coming, slowly, into sight across the dome, a smear of translucence blotting out a few of the stars across the lower edge of the lenticular observation window. Trim it just a little toward the sun, Moira thought, pressing buttons gently, watching the sail veer ever so slightly, rotate a little, streaming gently. Her tell-tales told her of other sails, great sheets of film sensitive to solar pressure . . . light as a tangible force, making the sails just shiver. . . the film was so delicate it would tear at a touch, but in space, friction-less, airless, there was nothing to tear it. Yet Moira's fingers moved as delicately on the studs as if her fingers could rip through the sails themselves, and she watched the movement, the imperceptible shiver of the streaming mylar, with a
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