Free Icehenge by Kim Stanley Robinson

worried.
    After six thousand meters I climbed up to the hub and got out of the centrifuge, took a quick sponge bath. I walked down to the game room, feeling much better, tired and strong in the no-gee.
    Davydov was over in an isolated corner of the game room, sitting at a table for two, staring out the tiny port in the wall beside him. It seemed that the seasons were accelerating aboard our ship, for the room was walled in somber tones, brown and thunderhead blue and silver. I sat down beside him and we stared at the little square of stars. He got me a bulb of milk. His big dark face was lined with concern, and he didn’t meet my gaze.
    â€œEighty years isn’t very long,” I observed.
    â€œNo. It could be enough, if we’re lucky.”
    â€œBut it isn’t as much as you had hoped for.”
    â€œNo.” His mouth was set. “Not at all.”
    â€œWhat will you do?”
    He didn’t answer. He took sips from his bulb, pulled at his rough face. I had never seen such an expression of uncertainty on his face before. I thought of it. He had committed much of his long life to the idea of the starship and its voyage. Suddenly the idea was realized!—and it was not as perfect as the idea had been; thus more dangerous. And he was filled with doubts. He now saw that he could be leading people to death; I saw it in his expression. That transition, from idea to reality, had had its usual effect on him—it had clarified the possibility of failure, heightened his sense of danger, frightened him.
    â€œYou could just take it back,” I said. “You could fly it into an Earth orbit and tell the Terrans what you’ve done and why. You could advocate a real starship. The Committee wouldn’t dare attack you in Earth space.”
    He was shaking his head. “They wouldn’t have to. The American and Soviet military would do it for them. Board us and take us down and ask the Committee what they’d like done with us.”
    â€œNot if the Committee’s been overthrown by this revolt you’ve told me about.”
    â€œI doubt that will happen. The Committee controls too much, and they have the Earth powers behind them.”
    â€œWell, you’ve got eighty years—you could play hide-and-seek in the system, radio Earth and Mars and tell them about yourselves, avoid capture until you become a cause célèbre and no one will dare harm you—”
    Again he was shaking his head. “They’d just hunt us down. That isn’t what we did all this for.”
    â€œBut eighty years isn’t long enough for interstellar flight!”
    â€œYes, yes it is—”
    â€œOleg,” I said. “You can’t say it’s enough just because it might be enough to get you to one of the nearest stars. You’re going to have to search for a habitable planet, and eighty years isn’t enough time for that.”
    He stared out the window, took several sips from his bulb. “But during that time,” he said, “we’ll improve the life-support system. And that will give us more time.”
    â€œI don’t know how you can say that.”
    â€œWe’ve got a lot of equipment and parts with us, and one of the finest system-design teams ever assembled. If they’re good enough, then we’ll have all the time we’ll need.”
    I stared at him. “That’s a big if.”
    He nodded, the worried expression still on his face. “I know it is. I just have to hope that the systems team is the best one it could possibly be.”
    We sat in silence for a while longer, and then Ilene’s voice called Davydov back to some business or other, and I was left to brood over the meaning of that last statement of his. It wasn’t all that obscure, and I gritted my teeth as I felt the pressure mount.
    Later that day, still feeling the slow progress of compression and transformation, I ate dinner with Swann. He was in an