The Eternal Flame

principle to the energy of a single particle. A luxagen wave’s energy has nothing to do with the size of the wave; its overall size is meaningless, only its shape and its frequency matter. How could you apply Patrizia’s principle for a second time, to a wave like that? It would make no sense.”

“I see.” Onesto clearly wasn’t satisfied—but his personal sense of nature’s symmetry would have to defer to these annoying technicalities for now.

Patrizia turned to Carla. “You should be happy! Assunto wasn’t trying to dispute our results; he just found a better way to think about photons.”

“It’s an interesting theory,” Carla admitted begrudgingly. The truth was, it still felt like trespass to her: Assunto had snuck into her room and rearranged the guide ropes, and it didn’t matter whether or not he’d left them tidier than he’d found them. “We should have spotted the same pattern ourselves,” she said. The formula for the energy in a light wave was elementary optics, generations old. If she and Patrizia hadn’t been half-dazed by hunger when they’d come up with the whole idea of energy levels, they might have noticed the analogy and pursued it, long before Assunto had paid the slightest attention to their results.

“So what now?” Patrizia asked eagerly. “Maybe we could write a new paper together, re-analyzing the scattering experiment with the photons treated Assunto’s way.”

“Maybe when I get back,” Carla replied.

“Oh, of course.” In her excitement, Patrizia had forgotten about the Gnat. “In six days you’ll be—”

“Traveling through the void,” Carla said. She watched the other physicists filing out of the room, reverently collecting their copies of Assunto’s paper. “So I’ll let you know if empty space turns out to be full of some mysterious, ineradicable energy.”

22

Carlo woke so abruptly that for a moment he was sure he must have sensed some imminent danger. That idea quickly faded, but the urgency remained. He could feel the tautness of the tarpaulin above him, trapping grit against his skin, and the coolness of the bed below, the resin-caked sand clumping in places. Between these familiar, superficial sensations a third occupied the whole space of his body, a solid presence coexistent with his flesh, agitating every muscle and bone.

Eyes still shut, he reached over toward Carla, but then he stopped himself before his hand touched her shoulder. There was no point acting only to be rebuffed. He dug his fingers into his chest, trying to assuage the ache long enough to make a plan.

You’ve done enough, he could say. You’ve lit the fire with your theories; you can leave it to others to nurture the flames. Why put up with another day’s hunger? Why risk dying out there in the void? This is the time to make yourself immortal: not just loved and remembered, but living on in the flesh of your children. On and on forever, down the generations. The ancestors will hear of your discoveries, your descendants will share in your fame.

What more do you want? This is the time.

Carlo opened his eyes. He reached up and took hold of the nearest rope and pulled himself out from beneath the tarp. He stared at the clock in the moss-light until the dials became clear. It was too early to light a lamp and pretend that the day had begun.

He dragged himself out of the bedroom, then released his hold on the rope and let himself drift. The ache in his chest was as strong as ever, and the voice that spoke for it refused to be silenced. What did he have to be ashamed of? Had he locked up his co, like Tamaro? Had he contemplated a single act that went against her will? If Carla listened—if his words made sense to her—how would he have wronged her?

His skin brushed the cool stone of the floor. He scrabbled about for a suitable rope, then pulled himself into a corner. If he wasn’t going back to bed, he should at least be touching something solid that could draw away the heat.

It had been his suggestion that they sleep together, on this last night before the trip. He’d argued that the signal to her body from his presence—the reminder that she hadn’t been widowed or abandoned—would help protect her during their separation. The logic of that was impeccable, but it proved nothing about his real intentions. A different message seemed to have reached his own flesh: his co was heading into danger, and she might never return.

Carlo spread his fingers against the stone. How many times had he silently cursed Silvano’s weakness? You really couldn’t stop yourself? You really couldn’t wait? But what was his own great strength, then—being divided against himself? Despising the one act that would complete his life?

His father had died young. What if he died, himself, before his children were grown? Before they were even born?

His father’s death had been down to chance, though, brought on by a harmful influence, not some heritable disposition. He had no reason to expect the same fate. In a year or two—or three, or four—when Carla’s work was done, they’d make the decision. She wasn’t spurning him, she wasn’t leaving him, and she wasn’t going to let herself die in the void.

Let herself? As if she’d have a choice about it, when the Object lit up like a star and engulfed the Gnat in its flames.

Carlo reached up and hooked his arm around the rope, then moved his hand through a full circle; the helix of rope bit into his forearm, but he locked his hands together and let the pain drive a spike of clarity into his thoughts. If they’d woken together—side by side, eyes still closed, oblivious to the plans of their waking lives—anything might have happened. He hoped that danger was past now, but at the very least there was still a chance that he might spew out some idiotic plea to Carla to change her mind.

He would wait here until morning. Wait a bell, then light a lamp, then wake his co to wish her a safe trip and a speedy return.

The great workshop where the Gnat and the beacons that had gone before it had been built was all but empty now. From the entrance, nothing could be seen rising from the once-crowded floor but a mound of half-disassembled scaffolding. When Marzio called out a greeting from afar, the echoes were so disorienting that Carlo couldn’t stop himself looking around for accomplices in some kind of aural prank. Carla raised a hand, and held off her reply until they were closer.

“Are we early?” she asked Marzio. No one else was in sight.

“Everyone’s early,” he said. “The others are down near the airlock.”

The three of them headed off together. Carlo was glad they had a guide; in the dim light from the ceiling’s moss, this part of the workshop looked as featureless as empty space.

“Viviana and Viviano spent the last three bells conducting final checks,” Marzio offered reassuringly. “Everything’s in good order, cleaned and calibrated.”

“Thank you,” Carla replied. Carlo took some comfort in the record of the beacons: of the gross that had been launched, only three had failed to light up after their long periods of dormancy. Marzio and his team knew how to build machinery that could function in the void, and Carlo trusted the astronomers to guide the Gnat to its destination. It was only the behavior of the Object itself that lay beyond anyone’s experience.

As they approached the airlock, Carlo could see some of the people gathered there, their bodies emerging feet-first from behind the horizon of the convex ceiling. A little nearer, he understood why there were a few more legs than he’d been expecting. The crew had decreed that only their families should see them off, but three Councilors had decided to put in an appearance, regardless.

Silvano stepped forward to greet Carla effusively. There was no throng of constituents to witness the gesture, no crowd on whose behalf he could claim the Object, but this moment could still feature in later speeches. By the time the next election rolled around, whatever good had come from that lump of rock might well be seen by