This life means giving up many things. A firm sense of time is one of them. The people who've sent me after Ching, back on Earth, are all dead. I'm a ghost, a shade, the expression of the will of a group of men, all of whom are dead—in a sense.
Man was not meant for this kind of life, thought Jacob ben Ezra sourly. This is a poor way to command the stars, a poor and pitiful way.
He laughed bitterly. This is a life fit only for Gypsies and Jews. Come to think of it, Gypsies don't have a sufficient sense of history, in the long run.
Maybe that's why so many in the Fleet are Jews. To a Jew, a thousand years is supposed to be a reasonable length of time. Or so the legends say. So they say.
But what is a Jew? There is no such thing as Judaism, anymore. There is hardly such a thing as race.
A Jew, thought Jacob ben Erza, nowadays is anyone who thinks of himself as one.
Homo interstellarus.
Ben Ezra leaned on the shoulders of a waiting attendant, and climbed down from the cubicle. His legs were a bit rubbery, but he was used to it.
Homo interstellarus
, he thought, as he made his way slowly to the conning globe, lousy Latin, but very good sense.
It was as if Jews had been training to man the Great Fleet for five thousand years. How long had they been a self-contained culture, independent of geography, living, even, in their own time stream? In the pre-stellar past, they had been feared for it, damned for it, but now, it had a purpose. Who else could isolate themselves on the twenty ships of the Great Fleet, but Jews? Knowing no planet, no time to call home?
"They, they," mumbled the admiral. Why not
we
, he thought. Heh! Peter Reed is as much a Jew as I am. What does it mean now? It means the exiles, the planetless ones, the timeless ones, defying the Universe, spitting in the face of Einstein himself.
The steps of Jacob ben Ezra became firm and sprightly.
He lit a cigarette.
"Feels good!" he said to no one in particular.
Several men were already in the conning globe—Chief Navigator Richard Jacoby, several minor crewmen, and his aide, David Steen.
"They're there, sir," said Steen. "We've got a fix on 'em."
The admiral frowned. This job was getting more odious to him every minute.
"How far behind are we?" he asked.
"About six days."
"Then they haven't made orbit yet?"
"No, sir."
"Good. That means we can keep an eye on them. Jacoby, is it possible for them to get away?"
The tall, thin navigator frowned. "Depends on what you mean, admiral. Wherever they go, of course, we can track them. Do you mean will we catch up to them before they leave orbit? Then, I'd have to say no, not if they're trying to get away."
"Can we
stop
them?" said the admiral.
"You mean
destroy
them, sir?"
"I don't mean make love to 'em, Jacoby! I know we can destroy them, but can we get close enough to disable 'em, carefully, without killing?"
"Hard to say, at six days' distance."
"That's what I was afraid of. Well, tomorrow, we'll radio 'em to heave-to and wait for us."
"Do you think they will, sir?" asked Steen.
"That depends, David, that depends. If they know why we're after Ching, they'll do
anything
to keep him. But, then, they may not know. In which case, they won't take any silly chances."
"And if they try to get away?"
Grand Admiral ben Ezra frowned. "If they try to get away, we have two choices. We can blast 'em, or we can plot their next course, and be waiting for 'em. Six days, we can easily make up on the next hop. The thing is, if we
do
blast 'em, and can't confirm that Ching was aboard, then we'll have to backtrack to Maxwell, maybe even back to Earth, and we'll never really
know
."
"But, sir," said Steen, "do you really think Reed would risk his ship for Ching,
even if
he found out?"
Jacob ben Ezra laughed, and shook his head. "I'm not sure," he said, "but I am sure that Captain Reed is as clever as I am. Which means, if he
does
find out, he'll know that we can't blast him without
knowing
that Ching is aboard. If he finds out, he'll run all right. And you know something, David?"
"What, sir?"
The admiral lit another cigarette. "I'd do the same thing myself," he said.
Captain Peter Reed cursed loudly. "Just great, just wonderful! Six days away! Six days away, and that bloody sphinx of a Ching hasn't—I've a good mind to call it a business loss and turn him over to ben Ezra."
"Sir," said the radioman fearfully, "Admiral ben Ezra is still calling—"
"Put it through to this Visor, but
don't
answer. And stop all communications with Nuova Italia. I want it to look like our radio's dead."
"Yes, sir."
"Roger!" said Reed into the communicator. "Prepare to break orbit immediately, and stand by. And get Ching up to the conning globe on the double!"
"But, sir, Ching has never been in zero gravity before, he—"
"Drag him up here by the hair, if you have to!"
It was only three minutes later when Roger Reed hauled a green-looking Ching into the conning globe.
"Captain," said Ching, "is this
really
necessary? I—"
"I want you to hear something, my tight-lipped friend," said the scowling Peter Reed. "I want you to hear it directly."
He turned on the televisor. The tired, wizened face of Jacob ben Ezra filled the screen. Ching paled, even through his nausea.
". . . Calling the
Outward Bound
. . . Calling the
Outward Bound
. Calling Captain Peter Reed . . ."\
The pale visage on the televisor paused to light a cigarette.
"Really, Peter," said Jacob ben Ezra, "this is ridiculous. I know you're reading me."
Peter Reed could not help smiling.
"Very well, Peter," said the voice of ben Ezra, "we'll play it your way. So
don't
answer me.
I'll
do the talking. You probably have a Dr. Ching pen Yee aboard. I want him. I've come all the way from Earth for him, and, by space, I'll have him, or I'll blow you to bits. You have five minutes, plus the time lag, to answer. If you don't answer
then
, I will take appropriate action."
Captain Reed turned the televisor off.
"Well, Dr. Ching," he said, "do I turn you over to ben Ezra, or do you talk?"
A new emotion crossed Ching's face. It did not seem to be fear; it was more of a manic defiance.
"You don't understand. I do not care about death, captain," he said. "I have not fled to save my life. Had I remained on Earth, my life would not have been endangered. But—"
"But
what?
You heard the admiral. You have five minutes to make up your mind."
Ching sighed. "It is my work that must go on.
That's
what they want to stop. Very well, captain, I must take the chance."
"So?"
"There is no simple way of explaining it. I have told you that I am working on a corollary to the Special Theory of Relativity. It is the Special Theory of Relativity, as you must know, which limits all speed to the speed of light. Essentially, it means that at the speed of light, mass is infinite, therefore it would take an infinite thrust to accelerate to that limit, and exceeding it would be impossible. But, as I have said, I am working on transfinite substitutions. I hope to evolve an equation—"
"Come to the point, man, come to the point!"
"There is no simple point, captain. I am engaged in the preliminaries of a work that some day may lead to a theoretical means of exceeding the speed of light within the Einsteinian Universe—"
"An
Overdrive!
" shouted Captain Reed.
"Not for a long time," said Ching pedantically. "It—"
But the captain was no longer listening.
An Overdrive!
Countless others had tried before, but Earth thought
this
man was close enough to send ben Ezra sixty light-years to . . .
Reed's trader's brain analyzed the situation with the speed born of commercial instinct. An Overdrive would be the most valuable commodity any trader ever had to sell. The
Outward Bound
could sell it again and again, on each of the sixty-seven planets inhabited by Man, each time commanding a price undreamed of in all history!
And ben Ezra would not take the chance that Ching
wasn't
on the
Outward Bound
. He would have to
know
. He couldn't . . .
"Hang on to something," shouted Peter Reed.
He yelled into the communicator: "Break orbit!
Do it
now!"
"What course, sir?" came the tinny voice. "Who cares?" roared Reed. "Just get us away from here. Raise the sails, activate the ion drive. Maximum thrust on the reaction rockets! Do it now! Now!
Now!
NOW!"
Jacob ben Ezra shook his head, with a Gallic shrug. Reed was running. What else could he do? But that means he
knows
. It must!
Ben Ezra lit a cigarette. "Change course," he said to his navigator. "Accelerate. Follow them."
"Are we going to attack?" asked Commander Dayan, floating alongside the admiral in the conning globe. His dark, mustachioed face was alight with an eagerness that ben Ezra found distasteful. But then, one could not really blame Dayan. Gunnery officers usually have nothing to do but sit around.
"Not now, at any rate," said the admiral. "Better strap in. Acceleration coming up."
Ben Ezra stared out the viewpoint at the stars.
My
stars, he thought.
Our
stars. Mine and Peter Reed's. No wonder my stomach isn't in this. Reed and I have been in space longer than anyone else. In eight hundred years, we've met just five times, and yet . . .
And yet, I feel closer to him than to all the politicians on Earth. What do
they
know about the stars? All they're interested in is preserving their petty little planet's rule over Man. They wouldn't know what an Overdrive would mean. It would mean that Man would have the Galaxy, it would mean that one wouldn't have to be a pariah, a man without a planet or a time, to be a starman.
But is that what they think of? Huh! All they see is the end of Earth's control. Of course, they're right. The only thing that makes Earth undisputed master is
time
. Earth is always generations ahead of the planets. Its head start in technology will hold up forever—
But not if there should be an Overdrive—not if Man could go from Earth to the outer ring in months, not centuries.
He glanced at David Steen, strapped in beside him. Young but intelligent. Some day—
"It's a dirty business, David," he said, almost involuntarily.
"Sir?"
"I said it's a dirty business. I never thought I'd be a hired murderer."
"But, sir, we have orders. It's a military mission. You have no reason to blame—"
"Orders! The orders of men who are all dead by now. The orders of an Earth that doesn't even give a damn about the possibility of Man
really
having the stars. Orders to destroy, orders of a willful, selfish . . . ah!"
"Admiral ben Ezra, our orders are simply to make sure Dr. Ching doesn't escape. Not necessarily to kill anyone. Besides, we're—"
"Yes," said ben Ezra bitterly, "yes, I know. We're soldiers." A new and narrow look came into his large gray eyes.
"But you have a point, David," he said. "Our orders are simply to bring back Ching, and eliminate all knowledge of his work. They don't say anything about blowing up traders, do they? I've not been ordered to kill Peter Reed."
"No, sir."
"No, indeed," said the admiral slowly.
"By all space," he roared, "we're going to carry out our orders! But we're going to do it without killing Captain Reed!"
"Well," said Manuel Olivera, "where do we go from here?"
"Out to the outer ring, I suppose," said Peter Reed. "We are in a very peculiar position. I'm
sure
that ben Ezra won't blast us without boarding. He's got to make sure he gets Ching. But wherever we go, he can plot our course, and be there first. Whatever we do, we've got to do it between now and the next planetfall."
He leaned his face in both hands, propped upon his elbows on the mahogany desk top.
Ching sat nervously in front of him, and Olivera paced the room.
"I still don't see
why
Earth wants to stop you, Dr. Ching," said Olivera.
"In a way, I do," replied Ching. "Positively speaking, the Overdrive would mean the inevitable end of Earth's domination. Without the time differential, Earth would be just another planet."
He managed a small grin. "But on the other hand," he said, "scientifically speaking, they're being most foolish. I am perhaps twenty years from an equation from which an Overdrive could be developed. All I have, right now, is a new point of view. For a thousand years, men have been searching for an Overdrive, always trying to escape from the Einsteinian Universe. Sometimes they look for a mythical thing called hyperspace, or subspace, or the fourth dimension. What I have done, is simply to begin an inquiry,
within
Relativity Theory, modifying not the question, but the substitutions."
"What is all that about?" snapped Olivera.
"I'm not sure yet," said Ching abstractedly. "But basically, if you accept the Special Theory of Relativity, the reason that the speed of light cannot be exceeded is that mass is infinite at the speed of light, hence it would take an infinite force to accelerate it to that speed.
"
But
, if there were a drive whose thrust was a function of the mass it was accelerating, then, as mass increased, thrust would increase, and at the speed of light, theoretically, where mass was infinite,
thrust
would also be infinite. And if the thrust-mass equation involved a suitable exponential function—in theory, anyway—thrust could become
transfinite
."
"Making it possible to go faster than light!" said Olivera excitedly. "Yes, yes, Dr. Ching. If there ever is an Overdrive, it will have to be developed along those lines! Tell me, how close are you?"