Det här är "Psyclops" , en kort historia av Brian W. Aldiss ; först publicerad i New Worlds Science Fiction # 49, juli 1956 , tillgängligt på Internetarkivet (klicka på här för nedladdningsalternativ); någon av dessa omslag ser bekanta ut?
Synpunktskaraktären är en ofödd telepatisk baby på ett rymdskepp. Det finns ingen annan ombord utom hans ofödda tvillingsyst och deras mor. Ingen är i cryosleep, men modern är inte en telepath. Barnet mottar meddelanden från sin far, även en telepath:
Where are you?
I am on a world like Earth which is ninety light-years from Earth and getting farther from you even as we communicate together.
Why? How? Don't understand. So much is now beyond my understanding; before you came everything was peaceful and dim.
Lie quiet and don't fret, son. You're doing well; you take the points quickly, you'll reach Earth yet. You are traveling toward Earth in a spaceship which left Mirone, planet where I am, sixteen days ago.
Fadern dör på den utomjordiska världen de lämnade:
We had wandered some way out from the ship when a group of natives burst out upon us.
Natives?
People who live here. They are sub-human, blue-skinned and hairless—not pretty to look at.
Picture!
I think you'd be better without one. Judy and I ran for the ship. We were nearly up to it when a rock caught me behind the knee—they were pitching rocks at us—and I went down. Judy never noticed until she was in the air-lock, and then the savages were on me. My leg was hurt; I couldn't even put up a fight.
Fartyget kommer att sakna jorden eftersom roboten pilot inte har rätt data. Mannen instruerar sin ofödda son om hur man ringer till hjälp:
Unfortunately, whereas spaceships get anywhere in time, thought has a definite limited range. Its span is as strictly governed as—well, as the size of a plant, for instance. When you are fifty light-years from Mirone, contact between us will abruptly cease.
Don't leave me. I shall be lonely!
I'll be lonely too—but not for long. But you, son, you are already halfway to Earth, or as near as I can estimate it, you are. As soon as contact between us ceases, you must call TRE.
Which means?
Telepath Radial Earth. It's a general control and information center, permanently beamed for any sort of emergency. You can raise them. I can't.
They won't know me.
I'll give you their call pattern. They'll soon know you when you telemit. You can give them my pattern for identification if you like. You must explain what is happening.
Will they believe?
Of course.
Are they real?
Of course. Tell TRE what the trouble is; they'll send out a fast ship to pick Judy and you up before you are out of range.
UPPDATERAD som svar på en kommentar från OP.
I det jag minns ligger det hela problemet att kommunicera med ett ofödat barn
You are in danger and I must help you.
Mmmmm. Must be mmmm. . . .
. . . If only there were a psychofetalist within light-years of here. . . . Well, keep trying. Wake up! You must wake up to survive!
Vem är i livmodern som upplever ett tillstånd av salighet "Mmmm".
Början:
Mmmm I.
First statement: I am I. I am everything. Everything, everywhere.
[. . . .]
Why am I having thoughts? Why am I not, as I was before, just mmmm?
Wake up! It's urgent!
No! Deny it! I am the universe. If you can speak to me you must be me, so I command you to be still. There must be only the soothing mmmm.
När den telepatiska "röst" tränger in, är det kort samtal, men efter ett tag däckar barnet från det och går tillbaka till "mmm",
You will—if nothing is done about it. But landfall will be delayed by thousands of years.
You are growing fainter. Strain too much. Must mmmm.
och där berättar historien.
Det var slutet på den telepatiska konversationen men inte historien. Slutet på historien:
Father! Wait, wait, look, see, I can move. I've just discovered I can turn, Father!
No answer now. Just a stream of silence. I have got to call TRE.
Plenty of time. Perhaps, if I turn first. . . . Easy. I'm only six months, he said. Maybe I could call more easily if I was outside, in the real universe. If I turn again,.
Now if I kick. . . .
Ah, easy now. Kick again. Good. Wonder if my legs are blue.
Kick.
Something yielding.
Kick. . . .