The year-captain,ex officio, is the head of the team that will calculate and achieve this maneuver. But he is no expert on such things; the real work of the group will be done by five other crew members. Roy and Sieglinde will handle the mathematical aspects. Paco is the master navigator. Julia programs and operates the star drive. Heinz, the ship’s designer, is the prime generalist who comprehends all of the specialties of the other members of the team; he will be the interface, the grand communicator, the true captain of the enterprise.
This first meeting of the group has been only a preliminary one. Hesper was there for the beginning of it. He has shown the others where, in normal-space reckoning, the star of Planet A is located, according to the set of correlatives that he has worked out. After Hesper goes, there is much consulting of star-maps and the ship’s navigation circuitry. There will be need for much more, before the actual jump is attempted. Ultimately the drive intelligence itself is going to do the real work of getting them there; but the intelligence, clever though it is, is as finite as the minds of its makers. It has only limited ability to compensate for bungled instructions. They must figure out precisely what it is they want to do before they authorize the drive intelligence to do it. Or as precisely as they are able to manage. And then pray. But to whom? And with what hope that their prayers will be heard?
Sieglinde’s outburst convinces the year-captain that the meeting has gone on long enough. He keeps them together only a few minutes more, so that he can summarize this day’s work and get a consensus vote for the log. Then he adjourns.
Sieglinde is the first to leave, a fraction of a second later, striding from the room without a word, the implacable stride of a Valkyrie. She was poorly named, the year-captain thinks: Brünnhilde should have been her name, not Sieglinde. Paco and Roy go out together, arm in arm, bound for the lounge and their millionth game of Go. Julia trails after them.
Heinz alone remains with the year-captain. He stands before him, rocking lightly back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Are you worried?” he asks, after a moment.
The year-captain looks up. “About what?”
“Sieglinde’s hypothesis. Drive malfunction.”
“No. Not in the slightest. Should I be?”
Heinz smiles oddly, as though he is smiling within his smile. “That drive will take us from one end of the galaxy to another, a thousand times in and out of nospace and no problem. I promise you that.”
Their eyes meet for a moment. The year-captain searches them. It is always hard to tell whether Heinz is being sincere. His eyes are blue like the year-captain’s, but much more playful, and of an altogether different kind of blueness, a soft sky-blue greatly unlike the fierce ice-blue of the year-captain’s. Both men have fair Nordic hair, but again there is a difference, Heinz’s being thick and flowing and a burnished glowing gold in color, whereas the year-captain’s is stiff and fine and almost silver, not from aging but from simple absence of pigment. They are oddly similar and yet unalike in most other ways too. The year-captain does not regard Heinz as a friend in any real sense of that word; if he were to allow himself friends, which has always been a difficult thing for him, Heinz would probably not be one of them. But there is a certain measure of respect and trust between them.
The year-captain says, after a little while, “Is there something else you want to tell me?”
“To ask, rather.”
“Ask, then.”
“I’ve been wondering if there’s some difficulty involving Noelle.”
The year-captain takes great care to show no change of expression. “A difficulty? What sort of difficulty?”
“She seems to be under unusual stress these days.”
“She is a complicated person in a complicated situation.”
“Which is true of us all,” Heinz says easily. “Nevertheless, she’s seemed different somehow in recent days. There was always a serenity about her — a saintliness, even, if you will allow me that word. I don’t see it any more. The change began, I think, about the time she started playingGo with us. Her face is so tightly drawn all the time now. Her movements are extremely tense. She plays the game with some sort of weird scary intensity that makes me very uneasy. And she wins all the time.”
“You don’t like it that she wins?”
“I don’t like it that she’s so intense about it. Roy used to win all the time too, but that was simply because he was so good that he couldn’t help winning. Noelle playsGo as if her life depends on it.”
“Perhaps it does,” the year-captain says.
Heinz shows just a flicker of vexation now at the year-captain’s constant conversational parrying. It is a standard trait of the year-captain’s, these repetitions — his automatic manner of responding, his default mode — and most people are accustomed to it. It has never seemed to bother Heinz before.
He says, “What I mean, captain, is that I think she may be approaching a breakdown of some sort, and I felt it was important to call that to your attention.”
“Thank you.”
“She is more high-strung than the rest of us. I would not like to see her in any sort of distress.”
“Neither would I, Heinz. You have my assurance of that.”
An awkward silence then. At length Heinz says, “If it were possible to find out what’s bothering her, and to offer her whatever comfort would be useful—”
“I appreciate your concern,” the year-captain says stonily. “Please believe me when I say that I regard Noelle as one of the most important members of the expedition, and I am doing everything in my power to maintain her stability.”
“Everything?”
“Everything,” the year-captain says, in a way intended unmistakably to close the conversation.
Noelle dreams that her blindness has been taken from her. Sudden light surrounds her, phenomenal white cascades of shimmering brilliance, and she opens her eyes, sits up, looks about in awe and wonder, saying to herself. This is a table, this is a chair, this is how my statuettes look, this is what my sea-urchin shell is like. She is amazed by the beauty of everything in her room. She rises, going forward, stumbling at first, groping, then magically gaining poise and balance, learning how to walk in this new way, judging the positions of things not by echoes and air currents any longer, but rather by the simple miracle of using her eyes. Information floods her. She walks around her room, picking things up, stroking them, matching shapes with actual appearances, correlating the familiar feel of her objects with the new data coming to her now through this miraculously restored extra sense. Then she leaves the cabin and moves about the ship, discovering the faces of her shipmates. Intuitively she knows who they all are. You are Roy, you are Sylvia, you are Heinz, you are the year-captain. They look, surprisingly, very much as she had always imagined them: Roy fleshy and red-faced, Sylvia fragile, the year-captain lean and fierce, Heinz handsome and constantly smiling, and so on and so on, Elliot and Marcus and Chang and Julia and Hesper and Giovanna and the rest, everyone matching expectations. Everyone beautiful. She goes to the window of which all the others talk, the one that provides a view of nospace, and looks out into the famous grayness. Yes, yes, the scene through that window is precisely as they say it is: a cosmos of wonders, a miracle of complex pulsating tones, level after level of incandescent reverberation sweeping outward toward the rim of the boundless universe. There is nothing to see, and there is everything. For an hour she stands before that dense burst of rippling energies, giving herself to it and taking it into herself, and then, and then, just as the ultimate moment of illumination toward which she has been moving throughout the entire hour is coming over her, she realizes that something is wrong. Yvonne is not with her. Noelle reaches out with her mind and does not touch Yvonne. Again. No. No contact. Can’t find her. She has somehow traded her special power for the mere gift of sight.