CONVERGENT SERIES -- A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES by Larry Niven v 1.0 (12-25-1998) (c) 1979 by Larry Niven. STORIES INCLUDED IN THIS BOOK: "Bordered in Black" "One Face" "Like Banquo's Ghost" "The Meddler" "Dry Run" "Convergent Series" "The Deadlier Weapon" "The Nonesuch" "Singularities Make Me Nervous" "The Schumann Computer" "Assimilating Our Culture, That's What They're Doing!" "Grammar Lesson" "The Subject is Closed" "Cruel and Unusual" "Transfer of Power" "Cautionary Tales" "Rotating Cylinders and the Possibility of Global Causality Violation" "Plaything" "Mistake" "Night on Mispec Moor" "Wrong Way Street" INTRODUCTION This book is my solution to a moral problem. If you've opened this book, you're already involved, and I suppose you'd better hear about it. In 1969 I published a short-story collection, The Shape of Space. It was my second collection, my fourth book in five years of writing. The stories were a varied lot, ranging from vignette to novelet length and from hard science fiction to fantasy and mainstream. Half the stories were set in a single consistent future. The Known Space timeline now covers a thousand years of the future, a huge volume of interstellar space, three collections, and four novels. In 1975 I did something a lot of friends and strangers had been nagging me to do. I gathered together all of the Known Space stories and published most of them in Tales of Known Space. Two stories were left over, and I was writing a third. Those three science-fiction/detective stories became The Long ARM of Gil Hamilton, published in 1976. Now, here's the problem. The first of the "Gil the Arm" stories, and many of the stories in Tales of Known Space, came out of The Shape of Space. About half the book. In the meantime, I keep meeting people who started reading my work during the past eight years, and have heard of The Shape of Space, and can't find it. The old paperback sells well at huckster tables during science-fiction conventions, when it can be found at all. It's easy to say that a reader can get half the stories by spending twice the money on two newer books. But what about "Convergent Series" and "The Deadlier Weapon"? People who never read them seem to know the plot lines; they get told around at parties. I finally asked some people. Shall I gather up 30,000 words of new stories and put them in a book with 30,000 words of older stories from The Shape of Space? I was told to do it. If you read The Shape of Space eight years ago... well, it's your money. You may regard this as a chance to see how my style and/or abilities have changed over the past ten years or so. I've added historical notes following some of the stories. LVCN. Bordered in Black Only one figure stood in the airlock, though it was a cargo lock, easily big enough to hold both men. Lean and sandy haired, the tiny figure was obviously Carver Rappaport. A bushy beard now covered half his face. He waited patiently while the ramp was run up, and then he started down. Turnbull, waiting at the bottom, suppressed growing uneasiness. Something was wrong. He'd known it the moment he heard that the Overcee was landing. The ship must have been in the solar system for hours. Why hadn't she called in? And where was Wall Kameon? Returning spacers usually sprinted down the ramp, eager to touch honest concrete again. Rappaport came down with slow, methodical speed. Seen close, his beard was ragged, unkempt. He reached bottom, and Turnbull saw that the square features were set like cement. Rappaport brushed past him and kept walking. Turnbull ran after him and fell into step, looking and feeling foolish. Rappaport was a good head taller, and where he was walking, Turnbull was almost running. He shouted above the background noise of the spaceport, "Rappaport, where's Kameon?" Like Turnbull, Rappaport had to raise his voice. "Dead." "Dead? Was it the ship? Rappaport, did the ship kill him?" "No." "Then what? Is his body aboard?" "Turnbull, I dxon't want to talk about it. No, his body isn't aboard. His--" Rappaport ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, like a man with a blinding headache. "His grave," he said, emphasizing the word, "has a nice black border around it. Let's leave it at that." But they couldn't, of course. Two security officers caught up with them near the edge of the field. "Stop him," said Turnbull, and they each took an arm. Rappaport stopped walking and turned. "Have you forgotten that I'm carrying a destruct capsule?" "What about it?" For the moment Turnbull really didn't understand what he meant. "Any more interference and I'll use it. Understand this, Turnbull. I don't care any more. Project Overcee is over. I don't know where I go from here. The best thing we can do is blow up that ship and stay in our own solar system." "Man, have you gone crazy? What happened out there? You-- meet aliens?" "No comment. --No, I'll answer that one. We didn't meet aliens. Now tell your comedian friends to let go." Turnbull let himself realize that the man wasn't bluffing. Rappaport was prepared to commit suicide. Turnbull, the instinctive politician, weighed changes and gambled. "If you havent decided to talk in twenty-four hours we'll let you go. I promise that. We'll keep you here 'til then, by force if necessary. Just to give you an opportunity to change your mind." Rappaport thought it over. The security men still held his arms, but cautiously, now, standing as far back as they could, in case his personal bomb went off. "Seems fair," he said at last, "if you're honest. Sure, I'll wait twenty-four hours." "Good." Turnbull turned to lead the way back to his office. Instead, he merely stared. The Overcee was red hot at the nose, glaring white at the tail. Mechs and techs were running in all directions. As Turnbull watched, the solar system's first faster-than-light spacecraft slumped and ran in a spreading, glowing pool. *** It had started a century ago, when the first ramrobots left the solar system. The interstellar ramscoop robots could make most of their journey at near light-speed, using a conical electromagnetic fleld two hundred miles across to scoop hydrogen fuel from interstellar space. But no man had ever ridden a ramrobot. None ever would. The ramscoop magnetic field did horrible things to chordate organisms. Each ramrobot had been programmed to report back only if it found a habitable world near the star to which it had been assigned. Twenty-six had been sent out. Three had reported back-- so far. ... It had started twelve years ago, when a well-known mathematician worked out a theoretical hyperspace over Einsteinian fourspace. He did it in his spare time. He considered the hyperspace a toy, an example of pure mathematics. And when has pure mathematics been anything but good clean fun? ... It had started ten years ago, when Ergstrom's brother Carl demonstrated the experimental reality of Ergstrom's toy universe. Within a month the UN had financed Project Overcee, put Winston Turnbull in charge, and set up a school for faster-than-light astronauts. The vast number of applicants was winnowed to ten "hypernauts." Two were Belters; all were experienced spacers. The training began in earnest. It lasted eight years, while Project Overcee built the ship. ... It had started a year and a month ago, when two men climbed into the almost luxurious lifesystem of the Overcee, ran the ship out to Neptune's orbit under escort, and vanished. One was back. Now his face was no stonier than Turnbull's. Turnbull had just watched his work of the last ten years melt and run like quicksilver. He was mad clean through; but his mind worked furiously. Part of him, the smaller part, was wondering how he would explain the loss of ten billion dollars worth of ship. The rest was reviewing everything it could remember about Carver Geoffrey Rappaport and William (Wall) Kameon. Turnbull entered his office and went straight to the bookshelf, sure that Rappaport was following. He pulled out a leather-bound volume, did something to the binding and poured two paper cups full of amber fluid. The fluid was bourbon, and it was more than ice cold. Rappaport had seen this bookcase before, yet he wore a faintly puzzled frown as he took a cup. He said, "I didn't think I'd ever anticipate anything again." "The bourbon?" Rappaport didn't answer. His first swallow was a gulp. "Did you destroy your ship?" "Yes. I set the controls so it would only melt. I didn't want anyone hurt." "Commendable. And the overcee motor? You left it in orbit?" "I hard-landed it on the Moon. It's gone." "That's great. Just great. Carver, that ship cost ten billion dollars to build. We can duplicate it for four, I think, because we won't be making any false starts, but you--" "Hell you wouldn't." Rappaport swirled the bourbon in his cup, looking down into the miniature whirlpool. He was twenty to thirty pounds lighter than he had been a year ago. "You build another Overcee and you'll be making one enormous false start. We were wrong, Turnbull. It's not our universe. There's nothing out there for us." "It is our universe." Turnbull let the quiet certainty show in his politician's voice. He needed to start an argument-- he needed to get this man to talking. But the certainty was real, and always had been. It was humanity's universe, ready for the taking. Over the rim of his cup Rappaport looked at him in exasperated pity. "Turnbull, can't you take my word for it? It's not our universe, and it's not worth having anyway. What's out there is--" He clamped his mouth shut and turned away in the visitor's chair. Turnbull waited ten seconds t...
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