"Are you telling me," exclaimed Antonio Quarlos, more shocked than annoyed, "that I risked my life out there for nothing?"356Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtL0w96wNqz
"It looks that way," answered Dhala. "The unit checks out just fine. Even under 200% overload, there's no fault prediction evident."
The two men were standing in the tiny workshop/laboratory in the carrousel, which was more convenient than the bola garage for minor repairs and examinations. There was no danger here, of meeting blobs of hot solder drifting down the breeze, or of totally losing little items of equipment that had decided to go into orbit. Such things could (and did) happen in the 0-gee environment of the bola bay.
The thin, card-sized plate of the BF-46 unit lay on the bench beneath a powerful magnifying lens. It was plugged into a standard connection frame, from which a neat bundle of multicolored wire led to an automatic test set, no bigger than an ordinary desk computer. To check any unit it was only necessary to connected it up, slip in the appropriate card from the "trouble-shooting" library, and press a button. Usually the exact location of the fault would be indicated on a small display screen, with recommendations for action.356Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTBrpH4bHy5
"Try it yourself," said Dhala, in a somewhat frustrated voice.
Quarlos turned the OVERLOAD SELECT switch to Y-3 and jabbed the TEST button. At once, the screen flashed to notice: UNIT OK.
"I guess we could go on turning up the juice until we burned out the thing," he said, "but that would prove nothing. What do you make of it?"
"H.A.L.'s internal fault predictor could have made a mistake."
"It's more likely that our test rig has slipped up. Anyway, better safe than sorry. It's just as well that we replaced the unit, if there's the slightest doubt."
Dhala unclipped the wafer of circuitry, and held up to the light. The partly translucent material was veined with an intricate network of wiring and spotted with dimly visible microcomponents, so that it looked like a Beatriz Milhazes painting.
"We can't run any risks---after all, this is our link to Earth. I'll file it as N/G and drop it in the junk store. Somebody else can worry about it, when we go home."
But the worrying was to start long before that, with the next transmission from Earth.
"X-ray-Delta-One, this is Central Mission, reference our three-two-six-six. We seem to have a slight problem.
"Your report that there is nothing wrong with the Beta Phi four six unit agrees with our diagnosis. The fault could lie in the associated antenna circuits, but if that's the case that should be apparent from other tests.
"There is a third possibility, which may be more serious. Your computer may have made an error in predicting the fault. Both our own nine-triple-zeros agree in suggesting this, based upon their accumulated data. This is not necessarily cause for alarm, in view of the backup systems we have, but we would like you to watch out for any further deviations from normal performance. We have suspected several minor irregularities in the past few days, but none have been vital enough for remedial action, and they have shown no obvious patterns from which we can draw any conclusions. We are running further tests with both our computers and will report as soon as results become available. To repeat: there is no cause for alarm; the worst than can happen is that we might have to disconnect your nine-triple-zero temporarily for program analysis, and hand over control to one of our Earthside computers. The time lag will introduce problems, but our feasibility studies indicate that Earth control is perfectly satisfactory at this stage of the mission.
"X-ray-Delta-One, this is Central Mission, three-two-six-seven, transmission complete."
Antonio Quarlos, who was on watch when the message came in, thought this over in silence. He waited to see if there was any comment from H.A.L., but the computer did not attempt to challenge the implied accusation. Well, if H.A.L. wouldn't raise the subject, he did not propose to do so either.
It was almost time for the morning changeover, and normally he would wait until Quarlos joined him on the control deck. But today he broke this routine, and made his way back to the carousel.
Quarlos was already up, pouring himself some coffee from the dispenser, when Quarlos greeted him with a rather worried "bom dia." After all these months in space, they still thought in terms of the normal 24-hour cycle---though they had long since forgotten the days of the week.
"Bom dia," replied Dhala. "Como tá indo?"
Quarlos helped himself to coffee. "Bom. Are you reasonably awake?"
"I'm fine. What's up?"
By this time, each knew at once when something was wrong. The slightest interruption of the normal routine was a sign that had to be watched.
"Well," Quarlos answered slowly, "Central Mission has just dropped a little bomb on us." He lowered his voice, like a doctor discussing an illness in front of a patient. "We may have a hypochondriac in our midst."
Maybe Dhala wasn't fully away after all; it took him several seconds to get the point. Then he said. "Oh---I see. What else did they tell you?"
"That there was no cause for alarm. They said that twice, which rather spoiled the effect as far as I was concerned. And that they were considering a temporary switchover to Earth control while they run a program analysis."
They both knew, of course, that H.A.L. was hearing every word, but they could not help these polite circumlocutions. H.A.L. was their colleague, and they didn't want to embarrass him. Yet at this stage it didn't seem necessary to discuss the matter in private.
Dhala finished his breakfast in silence, while Quarlos toyed with the empty coffee container. They were both thinking furiously, but there was nothing more to say.
They could only wait for the next report from Central Mission---and wonder if H.A.L. would bring up the subject himself. Whatever happened, the atmosphere aboard the ship had subtly altered. There was a sense of strain in the air---a feeling that, for the first time, something might be going wrong.
Pesquisador was no longer a happy ship.356Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJWnYDY5gqJ
