“Very well. As soon as the mate takes over, you and Mister Keku get up here. I want to know what the devil has been going on aboard my ship.”
“You are bloody well not the only one,” said Mike the Angel.
15
Midnight, ship time.
And, as far as the laws of simultaneity would allow, it was midnight in Greenwich, England. At least, when a ship returned from an interstellar trip, the ship’s chronometer was within a second or two, plus or minus, of Greenwich time. Theoretically, the molecular vibration clocks shouldn’t vary at all. The fact that they did hadn’t yet been satisfactorily accounted for.
Mike the Angel tried to make himself think of clocks or the variations in space time or anything else equally dull, in the hope that it would put him to sleep.
He began to try to work out the derivation of the Beale equations, the equations which had solved the principle of the no-space drive. The ship didn’t move through space; space moved through the ship, which, of course, might account for the variation in time, because—
—the time is out of joint.