“It surely is coincidence,” she agreed. “But I understand. There must be no question about the safety of projection, before the System trusts its billions to it. If there were accruing physical complications in those who projected—”
“Precisely. It will be necessary to test it thoroughly, not merely for efficacy of travel, but for the subtle effects on personnel. My consultants inform me that a suitable test would consist of perhaps a hundred thousand living people, from all races and of all ages and cultures, traveling perhaps a hundred times each, back and forth across the System. This would of course be expensive in the material sense, but the greater problem is to find that number of volunteers to take such a risk. I think that if any planet were to provide the volunteers, the rest of it could be organized.”
“A hundred thousand lives,” she murmured. “And a formidable staff to manage the logistics of the projections, and the feeding and care of the volunteers. The records alone would require a heroic effort.”
“And the services of many doctors and specialists,” I agreed. “There must be no question at all of incompetence or incompleteness. The major projector at Triton should be ready by the end of the decade; by then there must be no question of safety.”
“Earth has the requisite numbers and diversity,” she said. “Are you saying that such a unit of personnel made available for such testing would constitute an acceptable entry for the project? That we could share in the colonization of the galaxy?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t even hesitate. “I shall issue a call for volunteers. It will take several months to process them and establish the initial records of age, culture, and health.”
“It will take a similar period to establish the testing stations,” I said. “This is apt to be pretty dull work for the volunteers; they will simply be shipping back and forth across the System, without pause for tourism.”
“But those volunteers, once proved out, will be the first to be granted visas for emigration to the galaxy, if they choose,” she said. “But I think it would be better, Tyrant, if you could make appearances at certain sites to present the case. You are known throughout this planet; there will be a greater diversity of volunteers if they hear it from you personally, as it were. My government is necessarily somewhat remote from portions of the globe.”
“I shall be glad to,” I said.
We shook I hands. All of this was unofficial, but we had our understanding. Earth would join the Triton Project.
• • •
We took a genuine airplane flight to the State of China. There are airplanes at the big planets, of course, but they fly from bubble to bubble, never touching land. This craft took off from land and returned to it, a novelty to us.
Most of the Chinese had emigrated to South Saturn centuries ago, but the Prime Minister was right: many remained. The expanding population of India had taken over most of the land surface, but certain regions had been designated reservations for the original cultures, and these were pretty solidly oriental. Things were peaceful; those who did not like this state of existence had emigrated.
I gave a public address at the great city of Peiping, with Forta translating, and explained the need for volunteers. “Only a few will be chosen,” I cautioned them. “For those it will be a risk, for we do not know the long-term effects of repeated projection. But we must be sure that each race of man can survive projection in health, before we allow emigration to the galaxy. You have the chance to do a significant service for humanity.”
They did not react significantly, and I thought they were cool to the notion. But I discovered that this was merely the polite reserve they showed to the visitor; before I departed China, more than a million volunteers had registered. Perhaps no more than thirty thousand of these would be accepted for the program; but it was a rousing vote of confidence.
We went on to Moskva of the Soviet State, which reminded me eerily of its equivalent on Saturn. Here I addressed them directly in Russian, and here they knew me. “Tyrant! Tyant!” they cried in unison. As Tyrant of Jupiter I had first opposed Saturn by force of arms, then established a détente; but they were thinking of my current status as a representative of Saturn. It was evident that the people of Earth identified with their colonies in the System, and kept track of them, exactly as the colonies identified with their origins of Earth. I was touched, and it showed, and there was no sin in that. They knew that I would not betray the people of Saturn, or of this state. I had become a statesman, in the manner of an attorney: I was for hire, but I was loyal to my employer and the interests of that employer.
We moved on, to the city of London in the State of England, a Saxon enclave. I pondered briefly whether to take a side trip north, but was afraid I’d find ley lines and an assassin waiting. Even Smilo seemed a trifle nervous about that.
Then we flew across the Atlantic Ocean, a body of liquid so monstrous that a moon could fit in it. The three of us gaped down at it, mesmerized. I think this was the strangest of all the strange features of Earth: the hugeness of its oceans of water, so incredibly extensive that their expanse was greater than the total of the land area. Leviathans could dwell in it, storms could form on it, ships could sail on it, using cloth structures to catch the wind instead of gee-shields to block gravity, and never see land for days at a time. Waves rippled on it, stirred by the wind, always traveling but never arriving. Water— perhaps the most precious substance in the System, for the purposes of man. The stuff of life itself, normally frozen fast to the surface of some barren moon, or dissolved in the turbulent atmosphere of a planet too solid to approach without gee-shielding. Water, the magic fluid. I could have watched it forever.
We landed in the bubble, uh, city of New York in the American enclave, where I was welcomed again. Then we rented a car, so as to take a drive down the continent to the region of Florida, the analogue of Sunshine on Jupiter. We needed no driver; we had a programmed vehicle, so we could ride the Appalachian Highway and see the scenery. Smilo, too big for this vehicle, was to be put under pacification and shipped down to meet us there. He would be entertained at a zoo, where there was a compatible mini-landscape, and contemporary tigers. The proprietors were interested in whether one of his breed could or would mate with a modern tigress. I suspected that Smilo would not be bored.
Spirit, Forta, and I got into the car. Its doors closed and it started up. We watched, intrigued, as it drove itself through the city and to the nearest access to the Continental Highway. There were no stoplights of the type that history texts describe; cars shot through the intersections, programmed to avoid collisions, at a velocity that would have been disastrous for human piloting. We winced as cars passed at right angles just before and just after ours; only the master traffic controller could guarantee their courses. We were relieved when the car peeled off into the access; now we were free of the cross-traffic.
Our vehicle picked up speed and soon was traveling at better than a hundred miles an hour, in the local measurement. It climbed to the elevated ramp, and we looked out across the checkered terrain of this local continent. How green it was!
After an hour, our necks were sore from our constant turning and gazing at the wonders of the world. Now we were heading into a darkling cloud, in fact a thundercloud, and soon rain was spattering on the transparent dome. What an experience! Actual, natural rain! A jag of lightning showed ahead of us for an instant. “Oh, lovely!” Spirit breathed.
“I wonder why man ever left Earth,” I inquired rhetorically. Indeed, it seemed a foolish thing, at this moment.
We came to an intersection, and the car curved west. “That’s odd,” Forta said. “I thought we were programmed for Florida.”
“We are,” Spirit said.
“Then why did we just take the turnoff to Kentucky?”
“It must be on the way,” I suggested.
“It isn’t.”
“Verify our programmed destination,” Spirit said. Forta touched buttons. The car’s little s
creen came to life. DATA INSUFFICIENT, it said.
“I smell a rat,” I muttered.
“Stop the car,” Spirit said.
Forta sat in the driver’s seat and touched the MANUAL OVERRIDE button. But the car did not turn over the control. Instead the screen showed UNAUTHORIZED INPUT.
“We’re captive of the vehicle,” Forta said. “I hate to say this, but—”
“Nomenklatura,” Spirit and I said together.
“Must have had a mole in Earth’s vehicle-programming department, who slipped in a false routing,” Forta agreed.
“Which means we are headed for their destination, not ours,” Spirit said. “It could be a hideout to hold hostages—”
“Or a stone wall at a hundred miles an hour,” I concluded. “Arranged to resemble an accident. An accident of vehicle programming.”
“Which accident we blithely walked into,” Spirit said grimly.
“And which we had better walk out of,” I said.
We pondered ways and means, and experimented. The car remained unresponsive to our directives; we could not guide it. It was moving at a hundred miles an hour, which made any attempt to leave it suicidal. It had a radio contact with the traffic satellite for this region, so as to coordinate it with the programs of the other cars on the highway, but it refused us access to that radio.
“We could start smashing the wiring from inside,” Forta suggested.
“And careen out of control and into a collision with another vehicle,” Spirit said. “That may be what they want.”
“They want us dead, any which way,” I said.
“Perhaps we could open a panel and short out the remote control,” Forta suggested. “Then we could contact the satellite, and get a corrected program.”
We tried it. But as soon as we pried at the panel, a warner blazed on the screen: UNAUTHORIZED INPUT—SELF DESTRUCT IF PARAMETER BREACHED.
“Which means we wreck if we get in,” Spirit said dryly. “They aren’t novices.”
“They probably hired a crack unit,” I said. “The equivalent of Spetsnaz. Professionals.”
“We need to think of something they haven’t anticipated.”
“If this were in space, I’d signal SOS to another ship,” I said.
Spirit laughed without humor. “I am getting homesick for space.”
“But maybe—” Forta said.
We looked at her. “You want to signal a ship?” I asked.
“Not a ship. A car. If there are any military vets here, or merchant marine retirees—”
“I think you just earned your day’s pay,” I said.
Spirit took the rear, I the front. We took down the archaic rearview mirrors that were useless for a programmed vehicle but still required by archaic regulations, and used them to flash in the sunlight that had returned after the storm passed. The domes of the other cars were transparent, like ours, or translucent, depending on the occupants’ desire for privacy. That desire did not seem to be strong; we had seen a woman doing up her hair in one car, and children playing in another, and a couple making love in a third. No one seemed to care what went on in neighboring vehicles; it was the privacy of indifference. With reasonable luck, we could penetrate that isolation.
I flashed at the car directly ahead, shining my beam into its canopy. I used my hand to interrupt it. FLASH ... FLASH ... FLASH FLASH-FLASH-FLASH FLASH ... FLASH ... FLASH, in the ancient SOS pattern. I attracted the attention of a child, who faced back and stuck his tongue out at me. I switched to the next car over, as this was a multilane highway, and tried again. This one simply rendered its canopy opaque to shut out the intrusion. I tried a third, but its occupant was asleep. Those were all I could reach at the moment; I would have to wait for the pattern to shift, introducing a new car into my range.
“Got a nibble,” Spirit murmured. “Teenager, maybe up on code.”
I turned around and watched. The kid jogged his mother, who evidently was not amused; the canopy went opaque. Another down. This was not as easy as we had thought it would be.
How much time did we have before our guidance program brought us to its mischief? It might be hours yet, or minutes. We could not afford to assume the former.
Then a car drew up beside us, and a man peered through. Evidently he had heard about the way we were harassing other cars. I wished I had a poster to write on, so that I could display a message, but I did not. So I used hand signals. SHIP OUT OF CONTROL, I signaled.
The man looked blank. But I saw him using his radio. Even if he thought we were pranksters, that could help; if a police car came to investigate—
Another car approached, drawing up behind the other. This one had a woman in uniform.
“Navy!” Spirit breathed. “Earth coast guard by the look; she’ll know signals.” And she began hand signals of her own.
The woman returned the signals. She did know them! Soon Spirit conveyed to her the essence of our problem. The woman went to her radio, then returned with this news: The program for our car was classified, and could not be touched. The station would not revise our route.
“Because we are VIP visitors,” I groaned. “They are protecting our secrecy.”
But Spirit was already following up. She signaled that we were in trouble, and had to be rescued, regardless of what the satellite said.
The woman was doubtful. “How can I be sure this is not a prank?” she asked, approximately, in signals.
“We’ll have to tell her,” I said.
Spirit made the signals for top man and for Jupiter, and pointed to me. I faced the other vehicle as squarely as possible, and assumed my most Tyrantish expression.
The woman stared, recognizing me, but disbelieving. What was the Tyrant of Jupiter doing in a car on Earth? Evidently she had not been paying attention to recent news.
I focused on her, tuning in as well as I could through the two domes and the intervening space. As her doubt strengthened I shook my head no; as her belief returned I nodded yes. She knew the Tyrant could read people, and she realized that I was accurately reading her. It was enough.
She got on her radio and summoned help. Now at last a police car arrived. The officer evidently had a picture of the, Tyrant on his screen; he peered closely at me, verifying it. He spoke into his radio, and the woman answered. Then she signaled us: “You’re really in trouble?”
“Programmed for wrong destination,” we agreed. “Possible assassination attempt.”
She relayed that to the officer, who evidently did not understand signals. He considered, then made his decision.
“He will lose his job if this is a ruse,” the woman signaled. “But he will take you out manually.” I repeat, this is only approximate; signals lack the grammar of spoken language.
“No ruse!” we signaled back.
Another police car arrived. The first one drew in front of us and slowed. Our car slowed automatically to avoid contact; that was a built-in feature. But the second police car closed from the rear, preventing escape. This was no doubt the way they took out illicit drivers who refused to honor police signals. The two cars sandwiched us, and though our car tried to escape, it could not; magnetic clamps were now attached, and it was captive.
They brought us to the side, and then to a substation, where we stopped. The woman who had helped us pulled in behind. We were released. Now direct verbal communication was possible. We identified ourselves, and the screen verified us. In a moment the local chief of police came on the screen. “Tyrant, your vehicle malfunctioned, and you summoned assistance by means of hand signals to this woman?” he asked.
“True,” I agreed. “Without the assistance of this woman, we would have remained captive of our program. I would appreciate it if you could ascertain what that program had in mind for us.”
The chief had obtained the authority to override the classification of our program. He glanced at the readout, and whistled. “Tyrant, that program would have had you driving into a deep lake, your vehicle sealed. Then
it was set to self-erase. You would have suffocated before we managed to find you, and it would have been an inexplicable accident.”
“Then I think we owe this woman our lives,” I said. “Can she be rewarded?”.
“I did not seek reward!” the woman protested. “I didn’t even know for sure that the crisis was genuine!”
“Perhaps a paid vacation to the planet of her choice, with her family?” I asked the chief.
“If you request it, Tyrant,” the chief said.
“Put it through,” I said. “I’m no longer young, but still value my life.” And I turned and gravely saluted the woman.
She almost fainted. Then, confused, she returned my salute, though this was of course backwards; in any military system, I ranked her enormously. Realizing this, she looked flustered, so I stepped up and kissed her. “Farewell, good woman,” I said. She would have a story to tell her grandchildren.
Reports of this episode of the malprogrammed car were of course exaggerated. News spread about that a bomb had been aboard, and that I had broken open a window and climbed to the roof and leaped to another car, appropriating it for rescue purpose. I confess I rather liked that story, but it was of course ludicrous; I simply was in no physical condition to do such a thing. The truth, as usual, was relatively tame; I record it here merely so that the final record can be accurate.
The State of America arranged alternate transport for us, and we arrived in Florida in good order. We stopped by the zoo to see Smilo; he was glad to see me, but it seemed he had not completed his business with the tigress, who was coming into heat, so we left him for a few more days. We spent a couple of days touring the origins of our Sunshine experience on Jupiter; it was fascinating. We even took a hop to the island of Hispaniola, which to me was Callisto, and to Haiti, where Spirit and I had figuratively been born, knowing it as Halfcal. What a strange returning! I spoke there, and the people welcomed me screamingly, knowing the affinity. I might have been born on a moon of Jupiter, but I was indeed of Haitian stock, and they knew it. I felt as though my life could end at this moment, and it would be complete.