Collected Short Fiction, page 272
“Entering is my greatest opponent, a man who was once my most brilliant student. It is strange”—and his thin face was almost sardonic—“that the fearless captain general of the Galactic Patrol should be afraid of a mere laboratory experiment! But it seems that he is. And you shall hear his reasons—and you shall judge.”
RON GONEEN found a seat and sat listening, with a grim expression on his dark, weather-beaten visage.
“I respect the opinion of Captain Goneen,” Seru Gyroc continued. “It was at his request, transmitted over the hyperchron beam from intergalactic space, that I ceased my preliminary experiments with the Omega Effect, thirty years ago.
“I have waited patiently for the formal approval and support of the council, because the matter is very grave.
“It is true, as Captain Goneen pointed out in his request to me, that the fate from which I seek to save our universe is very remote. Yet I venture to say that every one of you has felt the painful pressure of it! For it is supremely tragic to any thinking being to know that all his cosmos must ultimately die, even if his own life is not immediately affected.
“Our universe is running down. Eventually it must stop—die! My opponents can point out that the energy of disintegrating matter still feeds the suns, whose radiation still warms the planets with the rays that sustain all life. But they cannot deny that every phase of that vital process, being subject to the second law of thermodynamics, must at last cease to be.
“In the end, they must admit, all matter—even to the last barren fragment of the last sunless planet—must dissolve into free energy. And that energy, ‘decaying’ into the feeblest dark vibrations, of longest wave length, must at last be uniformly distributed through an infinitely expanded space.
“Picture that ultimate end of the universe! A void of utter darkness, of cold almost absolute, in all of which there is no possible change, no motion, no life, no thought! Even time itself must cease to be—for time is mathematically determinable only by the direction of entropy increase.
“Doesn’t that vision of utter and illimitable death fill you with abiding horror—even if the reality does not touch your own lives?
“Can mankind ever be truly triumphant, living in a doomed universe?” Seru Gyroc swept his listeners with keen, dark eyes, in which burned a pressing challenge. “I feel that we cannot!
“I feel that the conquest of entropy is the supreme task of the human race, worth any cost, any risk short of sure disaster!”
When he paused, an awed and breathless silence filled the columned hall. His solemn eyes lifted slowly to the star-flung dome, and an uncertain patter of applause swept the floor. He waited. It swelled slowly to a tremendous ocean of sound, beating against the green colonnades.
Only Ron Goneen kept his seat, with the same grim expression behind the red beard on his unshaven face.
At last, when Seru Gyroc held up his arms for silence, the uproar subsided reluctantly.
Only one doubtful question rang from the floor: “Can it be done?”
III.
“IT CAN be done,” said the white-robed scientist gravely. “Entropy can be mastered.”
His dark eyes caught the stern, forbidding look on the face of Ron Goneen, below. He paused as if disconcerted, then caught his breath and abruptly resumed: “The first law of thermodynamics is our assurance that the dissipated energy of a run-down universe still exists. For, although energy may be expressed in many forms, from the complex atoms in the core of a young sun to the feeble, dark radiation of a dead universe, its sum total is always the same.
“It is the second so-called law of thermodynamics which informs us that any universe will run down. Yet that low has long been recognized to be merely statistical, not absolute. It is merely a statement of probability.
“Consequently, its circumvention has been the most tantalizing dream of human science. Inventors since the dawn of knowledge, vaguely sensing the hidden truth, have labored vainly to perfect machines of perpetual motion.
“There is a tradition, moreover, that a theoretical solution was imagined by an investigator whose name is now lost, at the very beginning of the Era of Science, before the race had ever left the mother planet.
“Considering the problem of a gas in a partitioned chamber, this early genius[*] conceived the idea of an entity he called a demon, who should be able to operate an ultramicroscopic door in the partition, in such a manner as to allow only the swifter-moving molecules to pass through in one direction, and only the slower-moving ones to enter the other end of the chamber.
“Thus this entity, so extraordinary of sense and agility, would be able, without doing any physical work, to accumulate fast molecules on one side of the partition, and slow ones on the other. In other words—since molecular motion is an expression of heat, of energy—the demon begins with a uniform or most probable distribution of energy, and he accumulates it, against the thermodynamic gradient, in one end of the chamber.
“This remarkable being, that is, reduces the entropy of this system of gaseous molecules. Without doing any work, he collects heat in a part of the system, and cools the rest. He reverses the normal flow of energy, to increase the organization of his system, and to make its energy once more available for useful thermodynamic interchange.
“How this unknown investigator pictured his demon,” continued the white-robed speaker, “it is now impossible to say, for any other meaning of the word is lost.
“And for a hundred thousand years this elemental problem has baffled all science. The present very highly organized—and hence, statistically, extremely improbable—state of our universe has been tantalizing proof of the existence, somewhere, at some time, of this demon. It is evident that there must have been a winding up of the universe, a building, a creative process, in which the amount of its entropy was reduced. Yet the search for it always failed.
“The first clue, I think, is to be found in the tensors I evolved less than a hundred years ago. They constitute a complete mathematical description of that demon. They apply, I am convinced, to a real phenomenon possible in the material world, which I have termed the Omega Effect.
“New forces are involved, which I have termed, again using that ultimate symbol from an ancient alphabet, the Omega Radiation. I have not yet dared to release them. That waits for your approval. And their nature, therefore, or the system of laws they will follow, is yet unknown.
“Only this much is certain: Omega Effect will alter the conditions of real probability, in whatever part of the universe in which it occurs, in such a manner that the second law of thermodynamics will no longer apply. What was formerly a state of maximum probability will become one of minimum probability, and thermodynamic processes will be altered in conformity to the new statistical situation.
“But that is enough to show the technical possibility of the experiment.”
SERU GYROC paused again. His burning eyes scanned the thousands of his listeners, beneath the golden-starred dome. Ringing eagerly now, his low voice resumed: “And think what success would mean! Freedom from the old limitation of entropy: that energy must always be lost, wasted! Our fuel and power problems solved forever!
“A man could draw heat from a mass of ice to cook his dinner! He could collect energy from the air to run his planes and vehicles—the very same energy that they had dissipated through friction—and travel forever without any cost in fuel!
“Our children—if your courage allows me to perform this experiment—can gather dark waste radiation from the void, and condense it into matter again. They can build themselves new worlds and new shining suns—forever!”
Once again the white-robed scientist waited while tremendous applause reverberated against the green columns.
“That is my plea,” he finished quietly. “This thing can be done. I grant that it will be costly; I grant some element of danger. But I am eager for your permission and your aid to do it. It is a grave matter; consider it well. Please listen now to my opponents. Then—the decision is yours!”
He went slowly to his seat.
And Ron Goneen, recognized by the presiding officer, stalked grimly forward. The mighty, red-bearded explorer of space stood for a moment silent on the dais.
“I am sorry that I must oppose this plan of my friend and teacher,” his deep voice rolled against the dome. “I am sorry to oppose any brave effort to increase the greatness of man. Perhaps it seems strange that I do. But I have been long away from the sheltered planets of the galaxy, and I have felt the blind, terrific might of the cosmic forces with which Seru proposes to tamper.”
Soberly, his deep-set, narrowed blue eyes scanned the multitude.
“I am proud of mankind,” he said. “For a hundred thousand years the human race has marched steadily upward. We have conquered all the galaxy. From a ‘minor phenomenon of planetary decay,’ as one ancient cynic put it, man has become the dominating intelligence of an entire galactic system. He has won a freedom, a power, a longevity, a perfected happiness, that would amaze his less fortunate progenitors.”
His great scarred hands knotted earnestly at his sides.
“Are we then to risk all this advance—everything that our race has ever accomplished since the first terrestrial beast rubbed two pieces of wood together and discovered fire? Are we to gamble all that upon one turn of an unknown wheel?
“And for what?”
The deep voice was husky with desperate urgency.
“To prepare against a doom that will not be imminent for a million million years? Isn’t that sheer folly?”
His rugged, stern face looked to the white-robed scientist in his seat, and back to the thousands. “Or to gain needless, fantastic powers? What is the need to cook on stoves of ice, or to collect the waste energy of friction, when we have reservoirs of atomic power to last a billion years?”
His voice rumbled deeper. “What is the need to build new worlds, when Andromeda and a million million other island universes lie waiting for the explorer and the pioneer? Is there no room for triumphant adventure, without tampering with the very foundations of the universe?”
His solemn face lifted to the vault of stars. “Since the dawn of terrestrial history, man has struggled through superstition and religion and science to solve this ultimate problem: the riddle of creation. He has never done so—and it is well that he has not!
“For our own lives are among the phenomena of increasing entropy! Let us not seek to overrun the balance of the universe, and set time itself to flowing backward—lest we perish with our success!”
Ron Goneen stepped a little backward; his voice sank lower.
“That is all I have to say. It should be enough. Think well before you act. For the future of humanity—the very life of the universe—is in your hands.”
He sat down abruptly, grim-faced as ever.
THE presiding officer again recognized Seru Gyroc, who resumed the dais to say: “Yes, the life of the universe is indeed in your hands! For, if your decision is against the experiment, I shall destroy my notes.
“And let me say that it was but a singular chance of reasoning that led me to discover the Gyroc Tensors. They are an anomaly in this universe of increasing entropy. No phenomenon guides the mind to them. It is safe to say, on grounds of mathematical probability, that my tensors will not be discovered again in this universe.”
His voice was suddenly loud and clear.
“The supreme privilege is yours! To vote for eternal life, for the power of creation itself, for the ultimate victory of mankind—or for retreat, failure, and inevitable, everlasting, changeless death!”
The presiding officer again looked inquiring at Ron Goneen. But the weather-beaten space captain sat rigid and impassive in his chair, with mighty arms folded and narrowed steel-blue eyes staring bleakly ahead, as if at some awesome vision.
Seeing that the president was about to call for the vote, Seru Gyroc rose hastily to make a final plea: “Personally, I believe that the danger of the Omega Experiment has been very much exaggerated. I would not willingly endanger other lives than my own, even in the cause of science.
“And let me assure you that if the council approves the experiment, it will be performed with every precaution for safety. All my fellow workers will be carefully protected. And the actual research will be done at some point far outside the galaxy.”
The presiding officer looked again, a little anxiously, at the space captain. But Ron Goneen still sat mute, staring—as if he already perceived the horror of the disaster of which he had spoken warning.
Somewhat reluctantly, the president called for the vote. Each member pressed a button on his desk. Tabulated automatically, the result was instantly flashed on a huge screen at the end of the chamber.
“The Galactic Council,” the sonorous and somewhat regretful voice of the official reverberated against the green columns, “has declared its approval of the plan!”
As his voice echoed and died away, a hushed restraint filled the Hall of Worlds, as if the thousands felt a stricken apprehension at what they had done.
Ron Goneen rose quietly in the silence, made his way to Seru Gyroc. He bowed, took the hand of his old master. “You have won,” he said. “It is to be. I hope my fears prove to have been without foundation. And let me be the first to volunteer my aid—for, come success or disaster, this will be the greatest adventure of man’s history.”
Seru Gyroc was trembling, with tears of emotion in his eyes.
“Thank you, Ron,” he gasped. “I am glad to have you with me again, and your aid will be priceless. And I hope”—his voice was very grave—“I hope man never regrets this day!”
Suddenly, then, a wild and tremendous wave of cheers broke through the silent Hall of Worlds.
IV.
THAT SAME DAY, the enthusiastic Galactic Council passed the necessary measures to authorize and finance the Gyroc Research Expedition, “Dispatched for the purpose of discovering a method for the controlled decrease of entropy.”
And Ron Goneen offered the use of the veteran Silver Bird. Stained with the corrosion of many atmospheres, battered with the accidents of two million light years of space, scarred from the attack of the Andromedans, it was still the most powerful existing ship.
In the busy yards of the Galactic Patrol, beneath the red-and-blue binary sun of Melchonor, it was completely refitted, and provisioned with supplies to last the expedition, if need be, for half the fifteen centuries of a normal lifetime.
Vastly elaborate machine shops and laboratories were set up aboard, equipped with many pieces of apparatus designed by Seru Gyroc that were completely new to science.
Ten years had passed when the preparations were complete, and the twelve hundred selected members of the expedition gathered on the dock beside the Silver Bird.
Before any came aboard, Seru Gyroc appeared in the entrance valve, looking frail and thin in his severe White robe, yet animated with indomitable purpose.
“One word, before we depart,” he said. “You are mostly young men and women. You represent the galaxy’s best. You were selected from millions who volunteered. You have much to lose: youth, vigor, genius! Are you prepared for great sacrifice?
“I must tell you that our destination is the tiny, sunless planet of Pyralonne, discovered by the Andromeda expedition. It lies two hundred thousand light years from the limits of the galaxy. We have selected it to minimize the danger of the experiment.
“You must all realize that our research may be fatal to some or all of you. Even otherwise, you must be prepared to spend several centuries upon dark, frozen Pyralonne, toiling in a grim exile of science. There will be no later opportunity to return. Let any who wish now withdraw. The rest will please come aboard.”
The twelve hundred pressed eagerly forward, cheering. Ron Goneen strode forward silently from among them. His tanned, rugged face very grim. He strode up the gangway, clasped the thin hand of Seru Gyroc, and entered the vessel without a word. The chosen hundreds followed, marching out of the purple twilight.
The long hull was sealed at last. Ron Goneen, standing beneath the transparent dome of his bridge, gave the order to rise. Gigantic atomic generators fed power to the kappafield coils, and the Silver Bird was off!
The red sun and then the blue rose again, as the globe of Melchonor fell behind. They dwindled to tiny disks—to a ruby point and one of sapphire. The two points merged into one, and that was lost in the silver clouds of the galaxy.
YET, swift as was the Silver Bird, plunging through millions of miles in a second, drawn into a tiny subspace of her own by the field warp of the kappa coils, seven years had passed before she approached her destination.
Little larger than the ancient Moon of the mother planet, Pyralonne had been flung by some unguessed early cataclysm from the gravitational embrace of its own parent sun.
Adrift among the stars, it had acquired, through millions of years, by the rule of equipartition of energy, the terrific velocity appropriate to its own tiny mass. Until at last, a freakish “runaway” world, it had burst free to go plunging forever into the dark gulf beyond its mother universe.
Overtaking it, the Silver Bird slanted down across cragged, barren ranges that had not changed in a million million years, to land upon a plain. Once that bleak plateau may have known the brief flash of life. But since before the birth of Earth it had been sunless, changeless, the silent abode of frigid and eternal night.
Armored against the complete vacuum and cold nearly absolute, men emerged beneath a sky utterly black, sunless, starless. In one quarter was the vague, silvery spindle of the galaxy—visible with light that had left it two thousand centuries before. Opposite was the dim tiny spiral of the Andromeda Galaxy, four times more distant.
Undismayed, however, the explorers set to work at once.
With stone quarried from that bleak plain, using tools and materials from the ship, they at once began erection of the laboratory: a great solitary tower, crowned with an immense flat dome.
