In the company of Karina Spektor, Thorn floated through the emptiness and silence towards the defective manipulator. Their suits, fitted with steering nozzles, enabled them to navigate precisely. They slipped across the docks of the vast spaceport embraced by the tower-like construction of the space station, wide as a freeway. Three moon shuttles were currently anchored on the ring – two of them fixed to airlocks, Thorn’s spaceship in the parking position – and also the eight plane-like evacuation pods. Basically the whole ring was one great switching yard, around which the spaceships constantly changed location to keep the symmetrically constructed station in balance.
Thorn and Spektor had left Torus-2, the distributor module in the centre of the port, and headed for one of the external locks not far from the shuttle. White and massive, with opened loading hatches, it rested in the sunlight. The frozen arm of the manipulator loomed high above them, bent abruptly at the elbow and disappearing into the cargo zone. Huros-ED-4 hung motionless by its anchor platform. With his gaze fixed on the blocked joint, there was something unsettling about his posture. Only at the very last moment did he move slightly to the side so that they could get a glimpse of the damage. Of course his behaviour was not the result of cybernetic peevishness, as a Huros doesn’t even have the beginning of a notion of selfhood, but his images were now surplus to requirements. From now on what mattered were the impressions that the helmet-cameras sent to the control room.
‘So?’ Haskin asked. ‘What do you think?’
‘Bad.’ Spektor gripped the frame of the manipulator and drew herself closer to it. Thorn followed her.
‘Odd,’ he said. ‘It looks to me as if something’s brushed against the arm and torn this gaping hole, but the electronics seem to be undamaged.’
‘Then it should move,’ Haskin objected.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Spektor. She spoke English with a Slavic smoothness, rather erotic, Thorn thought. A shame, in fact, that he couldn’t stay another day. ‘The impact must have released lot of micro-debris. Perhaps our friend is suffering from constipation. Did the Huros perform an environmental analysis?’
‘Slight contamination. What about the splinters? Could they have caused the blockage?’
‘It’s possible. They probably come from the arm itself. Perhaps something’s got twisted, and it’s under tension.’ The astronaut studied the joint carefully. ‘On the other hand, this is a manipulator, not a pastry fork. The object would have been seven or eight millimetres long at the most. I mean it wasn’t an actual collision, it should really be able to cope with something like that.’
‘You certainly know your way around these things,’ Thorn said appreciatively.
‘Party trick,’ she laughed. ‘I hardly deal with anything else. Space debris is our biggest problem up here.’
‘And what about this?’ He leaned forward and pointed to a spot where a tiny, bright shard protruded. ‘Could that come from a meteorite?’
Spektor followed his outstretched index finger.
‘At any rate it comes from the thing that hit the arm. The analyses will tell you more.’
‘Exactly,’ said Haskin. ‘So get a move on. I suggest you get the thing out with the ethanol blower.’
‘Have we got one of those?’ Thorn asked.
‘The Huros does,’ Spektor replied. ‘We can use his left arm, there are tanks inside and nozzles on the effectors. But it’ll take two of us, Vic. Have you ever worked with a Huros?’
‘Not directly.’
‘I’ll show you. We’ll have to turn him off partially if we want to use him as a tool. That means one of us will have to help stabilise him, while the other—’
At that moment the manipulator stirred into life.
The huge arm stretched out of the loading-space, pushed backwards, swivelled, grabbed the Huros-ED and shoved it away as if it had had enough of its company. Thorn automatically pushed his companion downwards and out of the collision zone, but couldn’t keep the robot from striking her shoulder and whirling her around. At the last second Spektor managed to cling on to the frame, then the manipulator crashed into Thorn, dragged him away from her and from the ring and catapulted him into space.
Back! He had to get back!
Fingers flying, he tried to regain control over his steering nozzles. He was followed by the pirouetting torso of the Huros-ED, which was getting closer and closer, as Haskin and Spektor’s shouts rang in his ear. The robot’s abdomen hit his helmet. Thorn somersaulted and started circling helplessly as he was slung over the edge of the ring-level and hurtled from the space station at terrifying speed. He realised with horror that in attempting to protect his companion he had lost his only chance of saving himself. In wild panic he reached around him, found the switches for the steering nozzles, turned them on to stabilise his flight-path with short blasts, to slow his circling trajectory, found he couldn’t breathe, realised that his suit had been damaged, that it was all over, waved his arms around, tried to scream—
His scream froze.
Vic Thorn’s body was carried out into the silent, endless night, and everything changed in the seconds of his death, everything.
19 May 2025
THE ISLAND
Isla de las Estrellas, Pacific Ocean
The island wasn’t much more than a rocky outcrop, set on the equator like a pearl on a string. Compared with other nearby islands, its charms were rather modest. In the west a quite impressive cliff rose from the sea, crowned by tropical rainforest, which clung dark and impenetrable to jagged volcanic slopes, and was inhabited almost exclusively by insects, spiders and an unusually ugly species of bat. Streams had dug cracks and gorges, collected into waterfalls and poured thundering into the ocean. On the eastern side, the landscape fell in terraces, intermingled with rocky elevations and largely bare. You would have looked in vain for palm-lined beaches. Black basalt sand marked the few bays that gave access to the interior. Rainbow-coloured lizards sunned themselves on stone pillars amidst the crashing waves. Their day consisted of catapulting themselves several metres into the air and snapping for insects, the meagre climax of an otherwise unclimactic repertoire of natural spectacles. Overall, the Isla had hardly anything to offer that didn’t exist in more beautiful, bigger and higher forms elsewhere.
On the other hand its geographical location was impeccable.
It actually lay exactly at the middle of the Earth, where the northern and southern hemispheres met, 550 kilometres west of Ecuador and thus far from any air routes. There were no storms in this part of the world. Major accumulations of cloud were a rarity, lightning never flashed. During the first half of the year it sometimes rained, violently and for hours at a time, without the air growing particularly cooler. Temperatures hardly ever fell below twenty-two degrees Celsius, and usually they were significantly higher than that. Because the island was uninhabited and economically useless, the Ecuadorian parliament had been more than happy to lease it, for the next forty years in return for an invigorating boost to the state economy, to new tenants whose first job was to rename Isla Leona as Isla de las Estrellas: Stellar Island: island of the stars.
Subsequently part of the eastern slope disappeared under an accumulation of glass and steel that promptly united the fury of all animal conservationists. But the building had no effect on the island’s ecology. Flocks of noisy seabirds, unperturbed by the evidence of human presence, daubed cliff and architecture alike with their guano. The creatures were untroubled by ideas of beauty, and the humans had their minds on higher things than swallow-tailed gulls and ringed plovers. In any case, not many people had set foot on the island for a long time, and everything indicated that it would remain a rather exclusive place in future as well.
At the same time, nothing fired the imagination of the whole of humanity as much as this island.
It might have been a rough pile of bird-shit, but at the same time it was considered the most extraordinary, perhaps the most hopeful place in the world. In fact the actual mag
ic emanated from an object about two nautical miles off the coast, a gigantic platform resting on five house-sized pontoons. If you approached it on misty days, at first you couldn’t see what was so special about it. You saw flat structures, generating plants and tanks, a helicopter landing pad, a terminal with a tower, aerials and radio telescopes. The whole thing looked like an airport, except that there was no runway to be seen. Instead, a massive cylindrical construction grew from the centre, a gleaming colossus with bundles of pipes meandering up its sides. Only by narrowing your eyes could you make out the black line that emerged from the cylinder and soared steeply upwards. If the clouds were low, they engulfed it after a few hundred metres, and you found yourself wondering what you would see if the sky cleared. Even people who knew better – in principle, then, anyone who had managed to get through the high-security area – expected to see something where the line ended, a fixed point on which the overstretched imagination could settle.
But there was nothing.
Even in bright sunshine, when the sky was deep blue, you couldn’t see the end of the line. It became thinner and thinner until it seemed to dematerialise in the atmosphere. Through field-glasses it just disappeared a little higher up. You stared until your neck ached, with Julian Orley’s now legendary observation in your ears, that the Isla de las Estrellas was the ground floor of eternity – and you started to sense what he had meant by it.
Carl Hanna strained his neck too, craning from the seat of the helicopter to look up stupidly into the blue, while below him two finback whales ploughed the azure of the Pacific. Hanna didn’t waste a glance on them. When the pilot pointed out the rare animals yet again, he heard himself murmuring that there was nothing less interesting than the sea.
The helicopter curved round and roared towards the platform. The line blurred briefly in front of Hanna’s eyes, seemed to dissolve, and then it was clearly visible in the sky again, as straight as if drawn by a ruler.
A moment later it had doubled.
‘There are two of them,’ observed Mukesh Nair.
The Indian brushed the thick black hair off his forehead. His dark face glowed with delight, the nostrils of his cucumber-shaped nose flared as if to inhale the moment.
‘Of course there are two.’ Sushma, his wife, held up her index and middle fingers as if explaining something to a child in reception class. ‘Two cabins, two cables.’
‘I know that, I know!’ Nair waved her impatiently away. His mouth twisted into a smile. He looked at Hanna. ‘How amazing! Do you know how wide those cables are?’
‘Just over a metre, I think.’ Hanna smiled back.
‘For a moment they were gone.’ Nair looked out, shaking his head. ‘They simply disappeared.’
‘That’s true.’
‘You saw that too? And you, Sushma? They flickered like a mirage. Did you see—’
‘Yes, Mukesh, I saw it too.’
‘I thought I was imagining it.’
‘No, you weren’t,’ Sushma said benignly and rested a small, paddle-shaped hand on his knee. Hanna thought the two of them looked as if they’d been created by the painter Fernando Botero. The same rounded physiques, the same short, inflated-looking extremities.
He looked out of the window again.
The helicopter stayed an appropriate distance from the cables as it drifted past the platform. Only authorised pilots from NASA or Orley Enterprises were allowed to fly this route when they brought guests to the Isla de las Estrellas. Hanna tried to catch a glimpse of the inside of the cylinder, where the cables disappeared, but they were too far away. A moment later they had left the platform behind, and were swinging in towards the Isla. Below them, the shadow of the helicopter darted across deep blue waves.
‘That cable must be really thin if you can’t see it from the side,’ Nair reflected. ‘Which means it must actually be flat. Are they cables at all?’ He laughed and wrung his hands. ‘They’re more like tapes, really, aren’t they? I’ve probably got it all wrong. My God, what can I say? I grew up in a field. In a field!’
Hanna nodded. They had fallen into conversation on the flight here from Quito, but even so he knew that Mukesh Nair had a very close relationship with fields. A modest farmer’s son from Hoshiarpur in Punjab, who liked eating well but preferred a street stall to any three-star restaurant, who thought more highly of the concerns and opinions of simple people than of small-talk at receptions and gallery openings, who preferred to fly Economy Class and who craved expensive clothes as much as a Tibetan bear craves a tie. At the same time Mukesh Nair, with an estimated private fortune of 46 billion dollars, was one of the wealthiest people in the world, and his way of thinking was anything but rustic. He had studied agriculture in Ludhiana and economics at Bombay University, he was a holder of the Padma Vibhushan, the second-highest Indian order for civilian merits, and an unchallenged market leader when it came to supplying the world with Indian fruit and vegetables. Hanna was intimately acquainted with the CV of Mr Tomato, as Nair was generally known, having studied the careers of all the guests who were travelling in for the meeting.
‘Now look, just look at that!’ shouted Nair. ‘That’s not bad, is it?’
Hanna craned his neck. The helicopter hovered along the eastern slope of the island so that they could enjoy a perfect view of the Stellar Island Hotel. Like a stranded ocean steamer it lay on the slopes, seven receding storeys piled up on top of one another, overlooking a prow with a huge swimming-pool. Each room had its own sun terrace. The highest point of the building formed a circular terrace, half covered by a huge glass dome. Hanna could make out tables and chairs, loungers, a buffet, a bar. Amidships lay a part that had been left level, plainly the lobby, bounded to the north by the stern-shaped construction of a helicopter landing pad. Architecture alternated with sections of rough stone, as if the architects had been trying to beam up a cruise-ship right in front of the island, and had miscalculated by a few hundred metres towards the centre. It seemed to Hanna that parts of the hotel grounds must have been blown into the mountain with explosives. A footpath, interrupted by flights of steps, wound its way down, crossed a green plateau whose design looked too harmonious to be of natural origin, then led further down and opened up into a path running along the coast.
‘A golf course,’ Nair murmured in delight. ‘How wonderful.’
‘I’m sorry, but I thought you liked things simple.’ And when the Indian looked at him in amazement, Hanna added, ‘According to yourself. Plain restaurants. Simple people. Third-class travel.’
‘You’re getting things muddled.’
‘If the media are to be trusted, you’re surprisingly modest for a public figure.’
‘Such nonsense! I try to keep out of public life. You can count the number of interviews that I’ve given over the past few years on one hand. If Tomato gets a good press, I’m happy. The main thing is that no one tries to get me in front of a camera or a microphone.’ Nair frowned. ‘By the way, you’re right. Luxury isn’t something I need to live. I come from a tiny village. The amount of money you have is irrelevant. Deep down, I’m still living in that village, it’s just got a bit bigger.’
‘By a few continents on either side of the Indian Ocean,’ Hanna teased. ‘Got you.’
‘So?’ Nair grinned. ‘As I said, you’re getting things muddled.’
‘What?’
‘Look, it’s quite simple. The platform we just flew over – things like that occupy my heart. The fate of the entire human race may hang on those cables. But this hotel fascinates me the way theatre might fascinate you. It’s fun, so you go there from time to time. Except that most people, as soon as they get some money, start thinking theatre is real life. Ideally they’d like to live on stage, dress up again every day and play a part. That makes me think; you know the joke about the psychologist who wants to catch a lion?’
‘No.’
‘Quite easy. He goes into the desert, sets up a cage, gets in and decides that inside is outside.’
Hanna grinned. Nair shook with laughter.
‘You see, I have no interest in that, it was never my thing. I don’t want to sit in a cage or live out my life on a stage. Nonetheless, I shall enjoy the next two weeks, you can bet on that. Before it gets going tomorrow, I’ll play a round of golf down there and love it! But once the fourteen days are over I’ll go back home to where you laugh at a joke because it’s good and not because a rich person’s telling it. I’ll eat things that taste good, not things that are expensive. I’ll talk to people because I like them, not because they’re important. Many of those people don’t have the money to go to my restaurants, so I’ll go to theirs.’
‘Got it,’ said Hanna.
Nair rubbed his nose. ‘At the risk of depressing you – I don’t actually know anything about you at all.’
‘Because you’ve spent the whole flight talking about yourself,’ Sushma observed reproachfully.
‘Have I? You must excuse my need to communicate.’
‘That’s fine,’ Hanna said with a wave of his hand. ‘There isn’t so much to say about me. I tend to work in silence.’
‘Investment?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Interesting.’ Nair pursed his lips. ‘What fields?’
‘Mostly energy. And a bit of everything.’ Hanna hesitated. ‘It might interest you to know that I was born in New Delhi.’
The helicopter lowered itself towards the heliport. The landing pad had room for three helicopters that size and was marked with a fluorescent symbol, a silvery O with a stylised orange moon around it: the company logo of Orley Enterprises. At the edge of the heliport Hanna spotted people in uniform, taking reception of passengers and luggage. A slim woman in a light-coloured trouser suit broke away from the group. The wind in the rotor-blades tugged at her clothes, her hair glistened in the sun.
‘You come from New Delhi?’ Sushma Nair, visibly taken with Hanna’s unexpected revelation, edged closer. ‘How long did you live there?’