There had been the distortions of the sky patterns, the terrifying fluctuations of gravity, the sudden alternations between day and night, culminating in stroboscopic frenzies which stopped the heart and suspended reason.
Then had come the… snap.
For some it had been followed by a new kind of daytime, with once-familiar landscapes rearranged and the sun wildly displaced from its normal position at the zenith. For others there had come a new kind of night, with the glowing archways of the heavens replaced by millions of blue brilliants, shimmering in every design the eye wished to impose on them. And for those on the extreme edge of the world cloud there had been the first experience of night as their forebears on Earth had known it—a direct look into the spangled blackness of interstellar space.
As well as responding to the Tara’s distress, those on the spaceport worlds were communicating with each other, symbolically huddling together in the face of the unknown, seeking answers to questions which could not even have been formulated a day earlier. What had happened? Why had it happened? What was going to happen next? Were the new planets being relocated by some kind of dimensional sorcery, or were they simply ceasing to exist? Were all the planets going to disappear, or would the thinning-out process eventually stop and leave a handful of worlds in stable orbits?
For those on board the Tara, there was a set of questions in a special category of urgency: how rapidly was the world cloud dispersing? Were the disappearances evenly diffused through the cloud, or were there zonal effects which had not yet been detected? Was the dispersal taking place at a uniform rate, or was it accelerating?
In short—what were the chances of the ship reaching the safety of Hilversum before that planet blinked out of existence?
Try as he might, in spite of all his resolves to think positively and hopefully, Nicklin was unable to keep that particular question from dominating his mind.
Effectively, he lived on the control deck, leaving it as infrequently and for as short a time as possible.
On the second night of retardation, when all the lower decks were dim and quiet, he went down to the canteen to have a coffee, and was surprised to find Danea Farthing sitting at a table in the otherwise empty room. He knew she had been working flat out all day, relaying explanatory messages from Fleischer to worried families, trying to convey to them something of the pilot’s stoic optimism.
It was a task Nicklin did not envy. Little had actually been put into words, as far as he knew, but a number of the pilgrims bitterly regretted ever having heard of Corey Montane, and their feelings of resentment and betrayal were close to the surface. In particular, Nicklin dreaded having to face the Whites—but for his intervention in their lives they would still be in Beachhead City, which now seemed a haven of security.
On entering the canteen he drew a bulb of hot coffee from the dispenser. His first instinct was to leave with it in silence, but he became aware that Danea was watching him with the enigmatic and moody-eyed intentness he had noticed earlier. He decided, with some misgivings, to risk her resumption of full hostilities.
“On your own, I see,” he said, taking a seat nearby. “I suppose you miss Christine.” The words were out before he could do anything about it, and he was immediately appalled by his ineptitude. He had begun with a banality, and had swiftly progressed to tactlessness.
“I think you have more reason to miss her than I have,” Danea said mildly.
Nicklin lowered his gaze and stared at the coffee bulb as his cheeks began to tingle with embarrassment. Why had he not left the canteen while the going was good? To stand up and depart now would be the action of a complete bumpkin, and yet to remain would only increase his discomfiture.
“What’s happening up above?” Danea’s voice was neutral. “Any new developments?”
“The planets are all developing polar caps,” Nicklin said, grateful for the new conversational opportunity. “You know—caps of frost or snow at their north and south poles. It makes them look like all those old pictures of Earth.”
“That’s interesting, but it isn’t what I meant.”
“We still don’t know how fast they’re disappearing. But some pretty good telescopes and computers are working on it.”
Nicklin sipped his drink. “I think we’ll get an answer soon.”
“That’s good.” Danea smiled in a way that revealed utter weariness and her heavy-lidded eyes locked with his. “Are you sorry you left Orangefield?”
What sort of a question is that? Nicklin thought, floundering. That question could mean anything!
“Danea, I—” He was reaching out to touch her hand when there came the sound of someone on the ladder.
“I’m glad somebody else can’t sleep—do you mind if I join the party?” The speaker was the blond, bearded young man in spaceport uniform, the same man that Nicklin had encountered before and who seemed to spend most of his time wandering around the ship. Without waiting for a reply he took a drinks bulb from the dispenser and sat down beside Danea.
“Jim, have you met Per Bosshardt?” she said.
“Hi, Jim!” Bosshardt smiled broadly. “We keep seeing each other around—at odd times.”
Nicklin nodded. “Yes, we do.”
“I’ve got fifty-two pals with me to liven up the party,” Bosshardt said, producing a deck of cards from his breast pocket. “How about a game?”
“I’m sorry,” Nicklin said, rising to his feet. “I have to get back to the control room now.”
“Too bad.” Bosshardt gave him a genial wave. “See you around, Jim!”
Nicklin glanced back into the canteen as he was stepping on to the ladder. Bosshardt was already dealing cards which, because of the minimal gravity, were skittering all over the table. Danea was laughing delightedly as she trapped some of the fleeting rectangles with her forearms.
“Are you sorry you left Orangefield?” Nicklin muttered to himself as he climbed through the higher levels of the ship. “What kind of a question is that?”
As the night wore on it occurred to Nicklin that he would probably feel better were he to sleep in his bunk instead of dozing in the seat beside Megan Fleischer. The circumstances of his existence were unnatural enough without his failing to take proper rest—but he had a compulsion to remain close to the main screen at all times.
The image of the world cloud, beautiful in its symmetry, was his past, present and future. It gave the impression of being serene and eternal, but that was only because of the limitations of human perception. The Good Fairy was at work in the cloud, deciding the fate of enure planetary populations at the rate of perhaps hundreds in every passing second, and Nicklin felt that if he stared hard enough and long enough he might find evidence of her design.
Billions of human beings on those newly created and ephemeral worlds were deeply apprehensive about the future. The prospect of being magicked out of the normal continuum—perhaps of ceasing to exist at all—was a terrifying one; but it was a sad commentary on the plight of those on board the Tara that they were praying to be part of that final disposition. A plunge into the unknowable was infinitely preferable to the alternative facing those who had been lured into joining the New Eden express.