Haarland’s view was anthropomorphic; the danger was not to the immense and uncaring galaxy, but to the sparse fester of life that called itself humanity.
When the race abandoned Earth, it was a gesture of revulsion. Behind them they left a planet that had decimated itself in wars; ahead lay a cosmos that, in all their searches, had revealed no truly sentient life.
Earth was a crippled world, the victim of its playing with nuclear fission and fusion. But the techniques that gave them a faster-than-light drive gave them as well a weapon that threatened solar systems, not cities; that could detonate a sun as readily as uranium could destroy a building. The child with his forbidden matches was now sitting atop a munitions dump; the danger was no longer a seared hand or blinded eye, but annihilation.
And the decision had been made: secrecy. By what condign struggles the secrecy had been enforced, the secrecy itself concealed. But it had worked. Once the radiating colonizers had reached their goals, the nucleophoretic effect had been obliterated from their records and, except for a single man on each planet, from their minds.
Why the single man? Why not bury it entirely?
Haarland said slowly, “There was always the chance that something would go wrong, you see. And—it has.”
Ross said hesitantly, “You mean the nine planets that have gone out of communication?”
Haarland nodded. He hesitated. “Do you understand it now?” he asked.
Ross shook his head dizzily. “I’m trying,” he said. “This little ship—it travels faster than light. It has been circling out here—how long? Fourteen hundred years? And you kept it secret—you and your ancestors before you because you were afraid it might be used in war?” He was frowning.
“Not ‘afraid’ it would be used,” Haarland corrected gently. “We knew it would be used.”
Ross grimaced. “Well, why tell me about it now? Do you expect me to keep it secret all the rest of my life?”
“I think you would,” Haarland said soberly.
“But suppose I didn’t? Suppose I blabbed all over the Galaxy, and it was used in war?”
Haarland’s face was suddenly, queerly gray. He said, almost to himself, “It seems that there are things worse than war.” Abruptly he smiled. “Let’s find Ma.”
They returned through the coupling and searched the longliner for the old woman. A Sonny told them, “Ma usually hangs around the meter room. Likes to see them blinking.” And there they found her.
“Hello, Haarland,” she smiled, flashing her superb teeth. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Perfect, Ma. I want to talk to you under the seal.”
She looked at Ross. “Him?” she asked.
“I vouch for him,” Haarland said gravely. “Wesley.”
She answered, “The limiting velocity is C.”
“But C2 is not a velocity,” Haarland said. He turned to Ross. “Sorry to make a mystery,” he apologized. “It’s a recognition formula. It identifies one member of what we call the Wesley families, or its messenger, to another. And these people are messengers. They were dispatched a couple of centuries ago by a Wesley family whose ship, for some reason, no longer could be used. Why?—I don’t know why. Try your luck, maybe you can figure it out. Ma, tell us the history again.”
She knitted her brows and began to chant slowly:
“In great-grandfather’s time the target was Clyde,
Rocketry firm and ores on the side.
If we hadn’t of seen them direct we’d of missed ’em;
There wasn’t a blip from the whole damn system.
That was the first.
Before great-grandfather’s day was done
We cut the orbit of Cyrnus One.
The contact there was Trader McCue,
But the sons o’ bitches missed us too.
That was the second.
My grandpa lived to see the green
Of Target Three through the high-powered screen.
But where in hell was Builder Carruthers?
They let us go by like all the others.
That was the—”
“Ma,” said Haarland. “Thanks very much, but would you skip to the last one?”
Ma grinned.
The Haarland Trading Corp. was last
With the fuel down low and going fast.
I’m glad it was me who saw the day
When they brought us down on G.C.A.
I told him the message; he called it a mystery,
But anyway this is the end of the history.
And it’s about time!
“The message, please,” Haarland said broodingly.
Ma took a deep breath and rattled off: “L-sub-T equals L-sub-zero e to the minus-T-over-two-N.”
Ross gaped. “That’s the message?”
“Used to be more to it,” Ma said cheerfully “That’s all there is now, though. The darn thing doesn’t rhyme or anything. I guess that’s the most important part. Anyway, it’s the hardest.”
“It’s not as bad as it seems,” Haarland told Ross. “I’ve asked around. It makes a very little sense.”
“It does?”
“Well, up to a point,” Haarland qualified. “It seems to be a formula in genetics. The notation is peculiar, but it’s all explained, of course. It has something to do with gene loss. Now, maybe that means something and maybe it doesn’t. But I know something that does mean something: some member of a Wesley Family a couple of hundred years ago thought it was important enough to want to get it across to other Wesley families. Something’s happening. Let’s find out what it is, Ross.” The old man suddenly buried his face in his hands. In a cracked voice he mumbled, “Gene loss and war. Gene loss or war. God, I wish somebody would take this right out of my hands—or that I could drop with a heart attack this minute. You ever think of war, Ross?”
Shocked and embarrassed, Ross mumbled some kind of answer. One might think of war,
