Nowadays, one could always tell when H.A.L. was about to make an impromptu announcement. Routine, automatic reports, or replies to questions that had been put to him, had no preliminaries; but when he was initiating his own outputs there would be a brief electronic throat-clearing. It was an idiosyncrasy that he'd acquired during the last few weeks; later, if it became annoying, they might take remedial action. But it was really quite useful, as it alerted his audience to stand by for something unexpected.393Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZmIxTuuIB0
Quarlos was asleep, and Dhala was reading on the control deck, when H.A.L. announced:
"Uh---Maisam, I have a report for you."
"Yes?"
"We have another bad BF-46 unit. My fault predictor indicates failure within 24 hours."
Dhala put down his book and stared thoughtfully at the computer console. He knew, of course, that H.A.L. was not really there, whatever that meant. If the computer's personality could be said to have any location in space, it was back in the sealed room that contained the labyrinth of interconnected memory units and processing grids, near the central axis of the carousel. But there was a kind of psychological compulsion always to look toward the main console lens when one spoke to H.A.L. on the control deck, as if one were talking to him face to face. Any other attitude smacked of discourtesy.
"I don't get it, H.A.L. Two units can't blow in two days!"
"It does seem strange, Maisam. But I assure you there is an impending failure."
"Let me see the tracking alignment display."
He knew perfectly well that this would prove nothing, but he wanted time to think. The expected report from Central Mission had still not arrived; this might be the moment to do a little tactful probing.
There was the familiar view of Earth, now waxing past the half-moon phase as it swept toward the far side of the Sun and began to turn its full daylight face toward them. It was perfectly centered on the crosswires; the thin pencil of the beam still linked Pesquisador to her planet of origin. As, of course, Dhala knew it must do. If there had been any break in communication, the alarm would have already sounded.
"Have you any idea," he said, "what's causing the fault?"
It was odd for H.A.L. to pause so long. Then he answered:
"Not really, Maisam . As I said earlier, I can't localize the trouble."
"Are you sure," said Dhala cautiously, "that you haven't made a mistake? You know that we tested the other BF-46 unit thoroughly, and there was nothing wrong with it."
"Yes, I know that. But I can assure you there is a fault. If not in the unit, then likely in the entire subsystem."
Dhala drummed his fingers on the console. Yes, that was possible, though it might be very hard to prove---until a breakdown actually occurred and pinpointed the trouble.
"Well, I'll report it to Central Mission and we'll see what they advise." He paused, but there was no reaction.
"H.A.L.," he continued, "is something bothering you---something that might account for this problem?"
Again there was that odd delay. Then H.A.L. answered, in his normal tone of voice:
"Look, Maisam, I know you're trying to be helpful. But the fault is either in the antenna system---or in your procedures. My data processing is perfectly normal. If you check my record, you'll find it totally error-free."
"I know all about your service record, H.A.L.---but that doesn't mean you're right this time. Anyone can make mistakes."
"I don't want to insist on it, Maisam, but I am incapable of making mistakes."
There was no safe answer to that; Dhala merely gave up the argument.
"All right, H.A.L., he said, rather hastily. "I understand your viewpoint. We'll leave it at that."
He felt like adding "and please forget the whole thing." But that, of course, was the one thing that H.A.L. could never do.393Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjONwmkSAx2
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It was odd for Central Mission to waste radar bandwidth on vision, when a speech circuit with teletype confirmation was all that really needed. And the face that appeared on the screen was not that of the usual controller; it was the Chief Programmer, Dr. Simardo. Dhala and Quarlos knew at once that this could only mean trouble.
"Olá, X-ray-Delta One---this is Central Mission. We have completed the analysis of your BF-46 troubles, and both our H.A.L. Nine Thousands are in agreement. The report you gave in your transmission 3256 of a second failure prediction confirms the diagnosis.
"As suspected, the fault does not lie in the BF-46 unit, and there is no need to replace it again. The trouble lies in the prediction circuits, and we think that it indicates a programming conflict which we can only resolve if you disconnect your Nine Thousand and switch to Earth Control Mode. You will therefore take the following steps, beginning at 2200 Ship Time...."
The voice of Central Mission faded out. At the same moment, the Alert sounded, forming a wailing background to H.A.L's "Condition Yellow! Condition Yellow!"
"What's wrong?" called "What's wrong?" called Dhala, though he had already guessed the answer.
"As I predicted---the FB-46 unit has failed."
"Show me the alignment display, please."
For the first time since the trip began, the picture had changed. Earth had begun to drift from the crosswires; the radio antenna was no longer pointing towards its target.
Quarlos brought his fist down on the alarm cutout, and the wailing ceased. In the sudden silence that descended upon the control deck, the two men looked at each other with mingled embarrassment and worry.
"Well, I'll be damned," said Dhala at last.
"So H.A.L. was right all along?!"
"Yeah, he was. We owe him an apology."
"No need for that," interjected H.A.L. "Naturally, I'm displeased that the BF-46 unit has failed, but I hope this restores your confidence in my reliability."
"Sorry for the misunderstanding, H.A.L.," replied Dhala, rather contritely.
"Is your faith in me fully restored."
"Well, yes."
"I am relieved beyond words. You know that I have the greatest possible enthusiasm for this mission."
"I'm sure you do. Now, about that manual antenna control....?"
"Here you go, Maisam."
Dhala didn't really expect this to work, but it was worth a try. On the alignment display, Earth had now drifted totally off the screen. A few seconds later, as he juggled with the controls, it reappeared; with great difficulty, he managed to jockey it toward the central crosswires. For one instant, as the beam came into line, contact was resumed and a blurred Dr. Simardo was saying "....please notify us immediately if Circuit King R Rob." Then, once more, there was only the meaningless murmuring of the universe.
"I can't hold it," said Dhala, after several more attempts. "It's buckling like a bronco---there seems to be a spurious control signal throwing it off."
"What do we do now?"
Quarlos's question was not one that could be easily answered. They were cut off from Earth, but that by itself didn't affect the ship's safety, and he could think of many ways in which communication could be restored. If the worst came to the worst, they could jam the antenna in a fixed position and use the whole ship to aim it. That would be tricky, and a damned nuisance when they were starting their terminal maneuvers---but it could be done, if everything else failed.
He hoped that such extreme measures would never be needed. There was still one spare BF-46 unit---and maybe a second, since they had removed the first unit before it had really broken down. But they didn't dare us either one of these until they had diagnosed the trouble with the system. If a new unit was plugged in, it'd likely burn out immediately.
It was a commonplace situation, familiar to every householder. One does not replace a blown fuse---until one knows exactly why it blew in the first place.
Antonio Quarlos had been through the whole routine before, but he took nothing for granted, since, in space that was a good recipe for suicide. He made his usual thorough check of Isabel and her supply of expendables; though he would be outside for no more than 30 minutes, he made sure that there was the normal 24-hour supply of everything. Then he told H.A.L to open the airlock, and jetted out into the abyss.
The ship looked just as it had been on his previous excursion - with one vital difference. Before, the big saucer of the long-range antenna had been pointing back along the invisible road that Pesquisador had traveled - back toward the Earth, circling so close to the warm fires of the Sun.
Now, with no directing signals to orientate it, the shallow dish had automatically set itself in a neutral position, aiming forward along the ship's axis---and therefore, pointing very close to the brilliant beacon of Saturn, still months away. Quarlos wondered how many more problems would have arisen by the time Pesquisador reached her still faraway goal. If he looked carefully, he could just see that Saturn was an imperfect disk; on either side was something that no unaided human eye had ever seen before - the slight oblateness caused by the presence of the great rings. Oh, how wonderful it would be, he told himself, when that amazing environment of orbiting dust and ice filled their sky, and Pesquisador had become an eternal moon of Saturn! But it would be an empty achievement if they could not reestablish communication with Earth.
Once again he parked Isabel some 20 feet from the base of the antenna support, and switched control over to Hal before opening up.
"I'm going out now," he reported to Dhala.
"Everything's under control."
"I hope you're right. I'm anxious to see that unit."
"You'll have it on the test bench in 20 minutes, I can assure you."
There was quiet for some time as Quarlos completed his leisurely drift towards the antenna. Then Dhala, standing by the control deck, heard various puffings and gruntings.
"I may have to go back on that promise; one of these lugnuts is stuck. I must've tightened it too much---whoops uma margarida!---here it comes!"
There was a long silence, then Quarlos called out:
"H.A.L., swing the bola light round 20 degrees to the left---obrigado---that's O.K."
The very faintest of warning bells sounded somewhere down in the depths of Dhala's consciousness. There was something strange--not really alarming, just strange. He worried over it for a few seconds before he pinpointed the cause. 393Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEB5f2IFOtQ
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The very faintest of warning bells sounded somewhere far down in the depths of Bowman's consciousness. There was something strange - not really alarming, just unusual. He worried over it for a few seconds before he pinpointed the cause.
H.A.L. had executed the order, but he had not acknowledged it, as he usually did. When Quarlos had finished, they'd have to look into this.
Out on the antenna mounting, Qualros was too busy to notice anything odd. He had gripped the circuitry wafer with his gloved hands, and was worrying it out of its slot.
It came loose, and he held it up in the pale sunlight. "Here's the little desgraçado," he said to the outer space in general and Dhala especially. "It still looks perfectly O.K. to me."
Then he stopped. A sudden movement caught his eye--out here, where no movement had any right to happen.
He looked up in alarm. The illumination pattern from the bola's twin spotlights, which he'd been using to fill in the shadows cast by the sun, had begun to shift around him.
Had Isabel come adrift? Had he been careless in anchoring her?
Then, with an astonishment so great that it left no room for fear, he saw that the bola was coming directly toward him, under maximum thrust!
It was such an incredible sight that it froze his normal reflex pattern; he made no attempt to avoid the onrushing monster. At the final moment, he recovered his voice and shouted: "H.A.L.! Full braking!"
But it was too late.
At the time of impact, Isabel was still moving quite slowly; she had not been built for high accelerations.
But even at a mere 10 m.p.h., 1/2 a tone of mass can be very lethal, Earthside or in space.
Inside Pesquisador, that truncated shout over the radio made Dhala start so violently that only the restraining straps in held him in his seat.
"Antonio! O que aconteceu aqui?"
No reply.
He called again. Again no reply.
Then, outside the wide observation windows, something moved into his field of vision. He saw, with an astonishment as great as Quarlos's had been, that it was the bola--under full power, heading out toward the stars.
"H.A.L.!" he cried. "What's wrong? Full breaking thrust on Isabel! Full braking thrust!"
Nothing happened. Isabel went on accelerating on her runaway course.
Then, towed behind her at the end of the safety tether, appeared a spacesuit. One glance was sufficient to tell Dhala the worst. There was no mistaking the flaccid outlines of a suit that had lost air and was open to vacuum.
Yet he still called like an idiot, as if an incantation could raise the deceased. "Ola, Antonio....Ola Antonio....Can you read me?...Can you read me?---Wave your arms if you can hear me...….
Maybe you've got a broken transmitter....Wave your arms!"
And then, almost as if in response to his plea, Quarlos waved back.
For an instant, Dhala felt the skin prickling at the base of his scalp. The words he was about to call died on his suddenly parched lips. For he knew that his friend could not possibly be alive, and yet he waved.
The spasm of hope and fear passed instantly, as cold logic replaced emotion. The still accelerating bola was just shaking the burden that it dragged behind it.
Quarlos's gesture was an echo of Captain Ahab's when, lashed to the flanks of the white whale, his corpse had beckoned to the crew of the Pequod on their doom.
Within five minutes, the bola and its satellite had vanished among the stars. For a long time Maisam Dhala stared after it into the void that still stretched, for so many millions of miles ahead, to the goal which he now felt sure he could never reach. Only one thought kept hammering in his brain.393Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7M7z0AGTQi
Antonio Quarlos would be the first man on Saturn.393Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzuZJhG1wIy
