Tau Zero

For the crew of the Leonora Christine, travelling close to the speed of light on a 30-light-year journey, subjective time slows down. Then buffeting by an interstellar dust cloud damages the ship’s deceleration system and it achieves light speed, tau zero itself.

Poul Anderson

Tau Zero

SF Masterworks - 64

ePub r1.0

Watcher 24-04-2018

Original title: Tau Zero

Poul Anderson, 1970

Digital editor: Watcher

ePub base r1.2

TAU ZERO

Poul Anderson

To Fritz Leiber

CHAPTER 1

“Look— there— rising over the Hand of God. Is it?”

“Yes, I think so. Our ship.”

They were the last to go as Millesgarden was closed. Most of that afternoon they had wandered among the sculptures, he awed and delighted by his first experience of them, she bidding an unspoken farewell to what had been more a part of her life than she had understood until now. They were lucky in the weather, when summer was waning. This day on Earth had been sunlight, breezes that made leaf shadows dance on the villa walls, a clear sound of fountains.

But when the sun went down, the garden seemed abruptly to come still more alive. It was as if the dolphins were tumbling through their waters, Pegasus storming skyward, Folke Filbyter peering after his lost grandson while his horse stumbled in the ford, Orpheus listening, the young sisters embracing in their resurrection— all unheard, because this was a single instant perceived, but the time in which these figures actually moved was no less real than the time which carried men.

“As if they were alive, bound for the stars, and we must stay behind and grow old,” Ingrid Lindgren murmured.

Charles Reymont didn’t hear her. He stood on the flagstones under a birch tree, whose leaves rustled and had begun very faintly to turn color, and looked toward Leonora Christine. Atop its pillar, the Hand of God upbearing the Genius of Man lifted in silhouette against a greenish-blue dusk. Behind it, the tiny rapid star crossed and sank again.

“Are you sure that wasn’t an ordinary satellite?” Lindgren asked through quietness. “I never expected we’d see—”

Reymont cocked a brow at her. “You’re the first officer, and you don’t know where your own vessel is or what she’s doing?” His Swedish had a choppy accent, like most of the languages he spoke, that underlined the sardonicism.

“I’m not the navigation officer,” she said, defensive. “Also, I put the whole matter out of my mind as much as I can. You should do the same. We’ll spend plenty of years with it.” She half reached toward him. Her tone gentled. “Please. Don’t spoil this evening.”

Reymont shrugged. “Pardon me. I didn’t mean to.”

An attendant neared, stopped, and said deferentially: “I am sorry, we must shut the gates now.”