"Yeah," said Jordan dubiously. "I'll agree about Nona. But what is she doing?"
"If there were two humans you'd call it telepathy," said Docchi. It upset his concepts too. A machine was a machine—a tool to be used. How could there ever be rapport? "One intelligence is electronic, the other organic. You'll have to dream up your own term because the only thing I can think of is extra sensory perception. It's ridiculous but that's what it is."
Jordan smiled and flexed his arms. Under the shapeless garment muscles rippled. "To me it makes sense," he said. "The power was always there but they didn't know what to do with it." The smile broadened. "It couldn't have fallen into better hands. We can use the power, or rather Nona can."
"Power?" said Anti, rising majestically. "If you mean by that what it sounds like, I don't care for it. All I want is just enough to take us to Centauri."
"You'll get there," said Docchi. "A lot of things seem clearer now. In the past why did the drive work so poorly the further out it got? I don't think anyone investigated this aspect but if they had I'm sure they'd have found that the efficiency was inversely proportional to the square of the distance from the sun.
"It's what you'd expect from a deaf, blind, mass sensitive brain, the gravity computer. It wouldn't be aware of the stars. To it the sun would seem the center of the universe and it would no more leave the system than our remote ancestors would think of stepping off the edge of a flat world.
"And now that it knows differently the drive ought to work anywhere. With Nona to direct it, even Sirius isn't far."
"What are you thinking about, doc?" said Jordan carelessly. "If I were you I'd be figuring a way to get off the ship. Remember we're going faster than man ever went before." He chuckled. "Unless, of course, you like our company and don't want to leave."
"We've got to do some figuring ourselves," said Docchi. "There's no use heading where there are no stars. We'd better determine our destination."
"A good idea," said Jordan, hoisting himself up to the charts. He busied himself with interminable calculations. Gradually his flying fingers slowed and his head bent lower over the work. Finally he stopped, his arms hanging slack.