121105.fb2 Between the Strokes of Night - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 2

Between the Strokes of Night - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 2

Prolog

Gulf City; New Year 14 (29,872 A.D.)

From the diary of Charlene Bloom:

Today I received word from Kallen’s World. Wolfgang IV is dead. He was five hundred and four years old, and like his forebears he was respected by the whole planet. A picture of his own grandson came with the message. I looked at it for a long time, but blood thins across six generations. It was impossible, save in my imagination, to recognize any sign of the original (and to me the one-and-only) Wolfgang in this descendant.

My Wolfgang is dead, long dead; but the great wager goes on. On days like this I feel that I am the only person in the Universe who cares about the outcome. If Wolfgang and his friends are right, who but I will know and be here to applaud him? And if we win, who but I will know the cost of victory?

It is significant that I record this death first, before acknowledging the report of a faster-than-light drive from Beacon Four. Gulf City is throbbing with the news, but I have heard the same rumor a hundred — a thousand? — times before. For 28,000 years our struggle to escape the yoke of relativity has continued; still it binds us, as strongly as ever. In public I say that the research must go on even if Beacon Four has nothing, that the faster-than-light drive will be the single most important discovery in human history; but deep within me I deny even the possibility. If the Universe is apprehensible to the human mind, then it must have some final laws. I am not permitted to admit it, but I believe the light-speed limit is one. As humans explore the galaxy, it must be done at a sub-light crawl.

I wish I could believe otherwise. But most of all today I wish that I could spend one hour again with Wolfgang.

* * *

They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,They brought me bitter news to hearand bitter tears to shed.I wept as I remembered, how often you and IHad tired the sun with talking,and sent him down the sky.But now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,A handful of gray ashes, long, long ago at rest.Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;For death he taketh all away; but these he cannot take.

* * *