Starplex

Starplex’s designers had planned to put the director’s office adjacent to the bridge, but Keith had insisted that be changed. The director, he felt, should be seen all over his ship, not just in one isolated area. He had ended up with a large square room, almost four meters on a side, located on deck fourteen, halfway along one of the triangular faces of habitat module two. Through the window that covered one wall, he could see module three, perpendicular to the one he was in, as well as a ninety-degree slice of the copper-colored circular roof of Starplex’s central disk sixteen floors below. That particular part of the roof was marked with Starplex’s name in wedge-shaped Waldahudar lettering.

Keith sat behind a long rectangular desk, made of real mahogany. On it were framed holos of his wife Rissa, looking exotic in an old-fashioned Spanish dancing dress, and their son Saul, wearing a Harvard sweatshirt and sporting that strange goatee that was the current fashion among young men. Next to the holos was a 1/600 scale model of Starplex. Behind his desk was a credenza with globes of Earth, Rehbollo, and Flatland on it, as well as a traditional go board with playing pieces of polished white shell and slate. Above the credenza was a framed print of an Emily Cart painting, depicting a Haida totem pole in a forest on one of the Queen Charlotte Islands. Flanking the credenza on either side were large potted plants. A long couch, three polychairs, and a coffee table were also in the room.

Keith had his shoes off, and had swung his feet up on his desk. He never emulated Thor while on the bridge, but when alone he often adopted this posture. He was leaning back in his black chair, reading a report on the signals Hek had been detecting, when the door buzzer sounded.

“Jag Kandaro em-Pelsh is here,” announced PHANTOM.

Keith sighed, sat up straight, and made a let-him-in motion with his hand. The door slid aside, and Jag walked in. After a moment, the Waldahud’s nostrils started flaring, and Keith thought perhaps Jag could smell his feet. “What can I do for you, Jag?”

The Waldahud touched the back of one of the polychairs, which configured itself to accommodate his frame. He sat down and began to bark. The translated voice said, “Few of your Earth literary characters appeal to me, but one who does is Sherlock Holmes.”

Keith lifted an eyebrow. Rude, arrogant—yes, he could see why Jag might like the guy.

“In particular,” continued Jag, “I like his ability to encapsulate mental processes into maxims. One of my favorite sayings of his is, “The truth is the residue, lacking in likelihood though it may be, that is left behind when those things that cannot be are omitted from consideration.”

That, at least, brought a smile to Keith’s face. What Connan Doyle had actually written was, “Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” but considering that the words had been translated into Waldahudar then back into English, Jag’s version wasn’t half-bad.

“Yes?” said Keith.

“Well, my original analysis, that the fourth-generation star that appeared here was a one-of-a-kind anomaly, must now be amended, since we’ve seen a second such star at Rehbollo 376A. By applying Holmes’s dictum, I believe I now know where these two green stars, and presumably the other rogue stars as well, have come from.” Jag fell silent, waiting for Keith to prod him further.

“And that is?” Keith said, irritated.

“The future.”

Keith laughed—but then, he had a barking laugh; perhaps it didn’t sound derisive to Waldahud ears. “The future?”

“It is the best explanation. Green stars could not have evolved in a universe that is as young as ours is. A single such star could have been a freak, but multiple ones are highly unlikely.”

Keith shook his head. “But perhaps they come from—I don’t know—some unusual region of space. Maybe they had been companions of a black hole, and the gravitational stresses had caused fusion reactions to proceed more quickly.”

“I thought of such things,” said Jag. “That is, I thought of probable alternative scenarios, of which that is not one. But none of them fits the facts. I have now done radiometric dating, based on isotope proportionalities, of the material Longbottle and I scooped from the atmosphere of the green star near us. The heavy-metal atoms in that star are twenty-two billion years old. The star itself is not that old, of course, but many of the atoms it is composed of are.”

“I thought all matter was the same age,” said Keith.

Jag lifted his lower shoulders. “It’s true that, excepting the small amount of matter constantly being created out of energy, and excepting that in certain reactions neutrons can essentially turn into  proton-electron pairs, and vice versa, all fundamental particles in the universe were created shortly after the big bang. But the atoms made up of those particles can be formed or destroyed at any time, through fission or fusion.”