I made myself eat. Then I made myself sleep. I succeeded in that much, but not in staying asleep very long. I took a long, hot whirly bath and played some music for background; it was actually quite a nice hotel. But when they went from Stravinsky to Carl Orff that lusty, horny Catullus poetry made me think about the last time I had played it with my lusty, horny, and, at the moment, seriously broken-up wife.
“Turn it off,” I snapped and ever-vigilant Harriet stopped it in midshriek.
“Do you want to receive messages, Robin?” she inquired froth the same audio speaker.
I dried myself carefully, and then said: “In a minute. I might as well.” Dried, brushed, in clean clothes, I sat down in front of the hotel’s comm system. They weren’t quite nice enough to give their guests full holo, but Harriet looked familiar enough as she peered at me out of a flatplate display. She reassured me about Essie. She was continuously monitoring, and everything was going well enough-not far enough, of course. But not badly. Essie’s own real flesh-and-blood doctor was in the picture, and Harriet gave me a taped message from her. It translated to don’t worry, Robin. Or, more accurately, don’t worry quite as much as you think you ought to.
Harriet had a batch of action messages for me to deal with. I authorized another half-million dollars for fire-fighting in the food mines, instructed Morton to get a hearing time with the Gateway Corp for our man in Brasilia, told my broker what to sell to give me a little more liquidity as a hedge against unreported fever losses. Then I let the most interesting programs report in, finishing with Albert’s latest synoptic from the Food Factory. I did all this, you understand, with great clarity and efficiency. I had accepted the fact that Essie’s chances of survival were measurably improving all the time, so I didn’t need to spare any energy for grief. And I had not, entirely, allowed myself to understand how many gobbets of flesh and bone had been gouged out of my love’s lovely body, and that saved me all sorts of expenditures, for emotions I did not want to explore.
There was a time when I went through several long years of shrinkery, in the course of which I found out a lot of places inside my head that I didn’t much like having there. That’s okay. Once you take them out and look at them-well, they’re pretty bad, but at least they’re outside, now, not still inside and poisoning your system. My old psychiatric program, Sigfrid von Shrink, said it was like moving your bowels.
He was right, far as he went-one of the things I found unlikeable about Sigfrid was that he was infuriatingly reliably right, all too much of the time. What he didn’t say was that you never got finished moving your bowels. I kept coming up with new excreta, and, you know, no matter how much of it you encounter, you never get to liking it.
I turned Harriet off, except for standby in case of something urgent, and watched some piezovision comedies for a while. I made myself a drink out of the suite’s adequate wet bar, and then I made another. I wasn’t watching the PV, and I wasn’t enjoying the drink. What I was doing was encountering another great glob of fecal matter coming out of my head. My dearest beloved wife was lying all beaten and broken in Intensive Care, and I was thinking about somebody else.
I turned off the tap-dancers and called for Albert Einstein. He popped onto the plate, his white hair flying and his old pipe in his hand. “What can I do for you, Robin?” he beamed.
“I want you to talk to me about black holes,” I said.
“Sure thing, Robin. But we’ve been over this a goad many times, you know-“
“Fuck off, Albert! Just do it. And I don’t mean in mathematics, I just want you to explain them as simply as you can.” One of these days I would have to get Essie to rewrite Albert’s program a little less idiosyncratically.
“Sure thing, Robin,” he said, cheerfully ignoring my temper. He wrinkled his furry eyebrows. “Ah-ha,” he said. “Uh-huh. Well, let’s see.”
“Is that a hard question for you?” I asked, more surprised than sarcastic.
“Of course not, Robin. I was just thinking how far back I should start. Well, let’s start with light. You know that light is made up of particles called photons. It has mass, and it exerts pressure-“
“Not that far back, Albert, please.”
“All right. But the way a black hole begins starts with a failure of light pressure. Take a big star-a blue Class-O, say. Ten times as massive as the sun. Burns up its nuclear fuel so fast that it only lives about a billion years. What keeps it from collapsing is the radiation pressure-call it the ‘light pressure’-from the nuclear reaction of hydrogen fusing into helium inside it. But then it runs out of hydrogen. Pressure stops. It collapses. It does so very, very fast, Robin, maybe in only a matter of hours. And a star that used to be millions of kilometers in diameter is all of a sudden only thirty kilometers. Have you got that part, Robin?”
“I think so. Get on with it.”
“Well,” he said, lighting his pipe and taking a couple of puffs-I can’t help wondering if he enjoys it!-“that’s one of the ways black holes get started. The classical way, you might call it. Keep that in mind, and now go on to the next part: escape velocity.”
“I know what escape velocity is.”
“Sure thing, Robin,” he nodded, “an old Gateway prospector like you. Well. When you were on Gateway, suppose you threw a rock straight up from the surface. It would probably come back, because even an asteroid has some gravity. But if you could throw it fast enough-maybe forty or fifty kilometers an hour-it wouldn’t come back. It would reach escape velocity and just fly away forever. On the Moon, you’d have to throw it a lot faster still, say two or three kilometers a second. On the Earth, faster than that-better than eleven kilometers a second.
“Now,” he said, reaching forward to tap coals out of his pipe and light it again, “if you-“ tap, tap, “if you were on the surface of some object that has a very, very high surface gravity, the condition would be worse. Suppose the gravity were such that the escape velocity were up real high, say around three hundred and ten thousand kilometers a second. You couldn’t throw a rock that fast. Even light doesn’t quite go that fast! So even light-“ puff, puff, “can’t escape, because its velocity is ten thousand kilometers a second too slow. And, as we know, if light can’t escape, then nothing can escape; that’s Einstein. If I may be excused the vanity.” He actually winked at me over his pipe. “So that’s a black hole. It’s black because it can’t radiate at all.”
I said, “What about a Heechee spaceship? They go faster than light.”
Albert grinned ruefully. “Got me there, Robin, but we don’t know how they go faster than light. Maybe a Heechee can get out of a black hole, who knows? But we don’t have any evidence of one of them ever doing it.”
I thought that over for a moment. “Yet,” I said.
“Well, yes, Robin,” he agreed. “The problem, of going faster than light, and the problem of escaping from a black hole, are essentially the same problem.” He paused. A long pause. Then, apologetically, “I guess that’s about all we can profitably say on that subject, right now.”
I got up and refreshed my drink, leaving him sitting there, patiently puffing his pipe. Sometimes it was hard to remember that there was really nothing there, nothing but a few interference patterns of collimated light, backed up by some tons of metal and plastic. “Albert,” I said, “tell me something. You computers are supposed to be lightning-fast. Why is it that you take so long to answer sometimes? Just dramatic effect?”