Like all great reporters, Maxine Duval was not emotionally detached from the events that she observed. She could give all points of view, neither distorting nor omitting any facts she considered essential. Yet she made no attempt to conceal her own feelings, though she did not let them intrude.
She admired Morgan enormously, with the envious awe of someone who lacked all real creative ability. Ever since the building of the Gibraltar Bridge, she had waited to see what the engineer would do next; and she had not been disappointed.
But though she wished Morgan luck, she did not really like him. In her opinion, the sheer drive and ruthlessness of his ambition made him both larger than life and less than human. She could not help contrasting him with his deputy, Warren Kingsley. Now there was a thoroughly nice, gentle person (“and a better engineer than I am,” Morgan had once told her, more than half seriously). But no one would ever hear of Kingsley; he would always be a dim and faithful satellite of his dazzling primary. As he was perfectly content to be.
It was Kingsley who had patiently explained to Duval the surprisingly complex mechanics of the descent. At first sight, it appeared simple enough to drop something straight down to the equator from a satellite hovering motionless above it. But astrodynamics was full of paradoxes. If you tried to slow down, you moved faster. If you took the shortest route, you burned up the most fuel. If you aimed in one direction, you traveled in another. . . . And that was merely allowing for gravitational fields. This time, the situation was much more complicated. No one had ever before tried to steer a space probe trailing forty thousand kilometers of wire. But the Ashoka program had worked perfectly, all the way down to the edge of the atmosphere. In a few minutes, the ground controller on Sri Kanda would take over for the final descent. No wonder Morgan looked tense.
“Van,” said Duval softly but firmly over the private circuit. “Stop sucking your thumb. It makes you look like a baby.”
Morgan registered indignation, then surprise—and finally relaxed with a slightly embarrassed laugh.
“Thanks for the warning,” he said. “I’d hate to spoil my public image.”
He looked with rueful amusement at the missing joint, wondering when self-appointed wits would stop chortling “Ha! The engineer hoist by his own petard!” After all the times he had cautioned others, he had grown careless and had managed to slash himself while demonstrating the properties of hyperfilament. There had been practically no pain, and surprisingly little inconvenience. One day he would do something about it; but he simply could not afford to spend a whole week hitched up to an organ regenerator, just for two centimeters of thumb.
“Altitude two five zero,” said a calm, impersonal voice from the control hut. “Probe velocity one one six zero meters per second. Wire tension nine zero percent nominal. Parachute deploys in two minutes.”
After his momentary relaxation, Morgan was once again tense and alert—like a boxer, Duval could not help thinking, watching an unknown but dangerous opponent.
“What’s the wind situation?” he snapped.
Another voice answered, this time far from impersonal.
“I can’t believe this,” it said in worried tones. “But Monsoon Control has just issued a gale warning.”
“This is no time for jokes.”
“They’re not joking. I’ve just checked back.”
“But they guaranteed no gusts above thirty kilometers an hour!”
“They’ve just raised that to sixty—correction, eighty. Something’s gone badly wrong. . . .”
“I’ll say,” Duval murmured to herself. She instructed her distant eyes and ears: “Fade into the woodwork. They won’t want you around—but don’t miss anything.” Leaving her Rem to cope with these somewhat contradictory orders, she switched to her excellent information service.
It took her less than thirty seconds to discover which meteorological station was responsible for the weather in the Taprobane area. And it was frustrating, but not surprising, to find that it was not accepting incoming calls from the general public.
Leaving her competent staff to break through that obstacle, she switched back to the mountain. And she was astonished to find how much, even in this short interval, conditions had worsened.
The sky had become darker; the microphones were picking up the faint, distant roar of the approaching gale. Duval had known such sudden changes of weather at sea, and more than once had taken advantage of them in her ocean racing. But this was unbelievably bad luck. She sympathized with Morgan, whose dreams and hopes might all be swept away by this unscheduled—this impossible—blast of air.
“Altitude two zero zero. Probe velocity one one five zero meters per second. Wire tension nine five percent nominal . . .”
So the tension was increasing—in more ways than one. The experiment could not be called off at this late stage; Morgan would simply have to go ahead, and hope for the best. Duval wished that she could speak to him, but knew better than to interrupt him during this crisis.
“Altitude one nine zero. Probe velocity one one zero zero. Wire tension one zero zero percent. First parachute deployment—NOW!”
So—the probe was committed; it was a captive of the Earth’s atmosphere. Now the little fuel that remained must be used to steer it into the catching net spread out on the mountainside. The cables supporting that net were already thrumming as the wind tore through them.
Abruptly, Morgan emerged from the control hut and stared up at the sky. Then he turned and looked directly at the camera.
“Whatever happens, Maxine,” he said slowly and carefully, “the test is already ninety-five percent successful. No—ninety-nine percent. We’ve made it for thirty-six thousand kilometers, and have fewer than two hundred to go.”
Duval made no reply. She knew that the words were not intended for her, but for the figure in the complicated wheelchair just outside the hut. The vehicle proclaimed the occupant; only a visitor to Earth would have need of such a device. The doctors could now cure virtually all muscular defects, but the physicists could not cure gravity.
How many powers and interests were now concentrated upon this mountaintop! The very forces of Nature, the Bank of Narodny Mars, the Autonomous North African Republic, Vannevar Morgan (no mean natural force himself)—and those gently implacable monks in their wind-swept aerie.
Duval whispered instructions to her patient Rem, and the camera tilted smoothly upward. There was the summit, crowned by the dazzling white walls of the temple. Here and there along its parapets she could catch glimpses of orange robes fluttering in the gale. As she had expected, the monks were watching.
She zoomed toward them, close enough to see individual faces. Though she had never met the Mahanayake Thero (a request for an interview had been politely refused), she was confident that she would be able to identify him. But there was no sign of the prelate. Perhaps he was in the sanctum sanctorum, focusing his formidable will upon some spiritual exercise.
Duval was not sure if Morgan’s chief antagonist indulged in anything so naïve as prayer. But if he had prayed for this miraculous storm, his request was about to be answered.
The Gods of the Mountain were awakening from their slumbers.
29
Final Approach
“With increasing technology goes increasing vulnerability. The more man conquers [sic] Nature the more liable he becomes to artificial catastrophes. . . . Recent history provides sufficient proof of this: for example, the sinking of Marina City (2127), the collapse of the Tycho B dome (2098), the escape of the Arabian iceberg from its towlines (2062), and the melting of the Thor reactor (2009). We can be sure that the list will have even more impressive additions in the future.
“Perhaps the most terrifying prospects are those that involve psychological, not just technological, factors. In the past, a mad bomber or sniper could kill only a handful of people; today, it would not be difficult for a deranged engineer to assassinate a city.
“The narrow escape of O’Neill Sp
ace Colony II from such a disaster in 2047 has been well documented. Such incidents, in theory at least, could be avoided by careful screening and fail-safe procedures, though all too often these live up only to the first half of the name.
“There is also a most interesting, but fortunately rare, event in which the individual concerned is in a position of such eminence, or has such unique powers, that no one realizes what he is doing until it is too late. The devastation created by such mad geniuses (there seems no other good term for them) can be world-wide, as in the case of A. Hitler (1889–1945). In a surprising number of instances, nothing is heard of their activities, thanks to a conspiracy of silence among their embarrassed peers.
“A classic example has recently come to light with the publication of Dame Maxine Duval’s eagerly awaited and much postponed memoirs. Even now, some aspects of the matter are not entirely clear. . . .”
J. K. Golitsyn
Civilization and Its Malcontents
Prague, 2175
“Altitude one five zero. Probe velocity nine five. Repeat, nine five. Heatshield jettisoned.”
So the probe had safely entered the atmosphere, and got rid of its excess speed. But it was far too soon to start cheering. Not only were there a hundred and fifty vertical kilometers to go, but three hundred horizontal ones—with a howling gale to complicate matters. Though the probe still carried a small amount of propellant, its freedom to maneuver was very limited. If the operator missed the mountain on the first approach, he could not go around and try again.
“Altitude one two zero. No atmospheric effects yet.”
The little probe was spinning itself down from the sky like a spider descending its silken ladder. I hope, Duval thought, that they have enough wire. How infuriating if they run out only a few kilometers from the target! Just such tragedies had occurred with some of the first submarine cables.
“Altitude eight zero. Approach nominal. Tension one zero five percent. Some air drag.”
So, the upper atmosphere was beginning to make itself felt, though as yet only to the sensitive instruments aboard the tiny vehicle.
A small, remotely controlled telescope had been set up beside the control truck and was now automatically tracking the still-invisible probe. Morgan walked toward it, and Duval’s Rem followed him like a shadow.
“Anything in sight?” Duval whispered quietly, after a few seconds. Morgan shook his head impatiently, and kept on peering through the eyepiece.
“Altitude six zero. Moving off to the left. Tension one zero five percent—correction, one one zero percent.”
Well within limits, thought Duval. But things were starting to happen up there on the other side of the stratosphere. Surely, Morgan had the probe in sight now.
“Altitude five five. Giving two-second impulse correction.”
“Got it!” exclaimed Morgan. “I can see the jet.”
“Altitude five zero. Tension one two five percent. Hard to keep on course. Some buffeting.”
It was inconceivable that, with a mere fifty kilometers to go, the little probe would not complete its thirty-six-thousand-kilometer journey. But how many aircraft, and spacecraft, had come to grief in the last few meters?
“Altitude four five. Strong shear wind. Going off course again. Three-second impulse.”
“Lost it,” said Morgan in disgust. “Cloud in the way.”
“Altitude four zero. Buffeting bad. Tension peaking at one five zero percent. I repeat, one five zero percent.”
That was bad. Duval knew that the breaking strain was two hundred percent. One bad jerk, and the experiment would be over.
“Altitude three five. Wind getting worse. One-second impulse. Propellent reserve almost gone. Tension still peaking. Up to one seven zero percent.”
Another thirty percent, thought Duval, and even that incredible fiber would snap, like any other material when its tensile strength had been exceeded.
“Range three zero. Turbulence getting worse. Drifting badly to the left. Impossible to calculate correction. Movements too erratic.”
“I’ve got it!” Morgan cried. “It’s through the clouds!”
“Range two five. Not enough propellent to get back on course. Estimate we’ll miss by three kilometers.”
“It doesn’t matter,” shouted Morgan. “Crash where you can!”
“Will do soonest. Range two zero. Wind force increasing. Losing stabilization. Payload starting to spin.”
“Release the brake. Let the wire run out!”
“Already done,” said that maddeningly calm voice. Duval could have imagined that a machine was speaking, if she had not known that Morgan had borrowed a top space-station traffic controller for the job.
“Dispenser malfunction. Payload spin now five revs per second. Wire probably entangled. Tension one eight zero percent. One nine zero. Two zero zero. Range one five. Tension two one zero. Two two zero. Two three zero . . .”
It can’t last much longer, thought Duval. Only a dozen kilometers to go, and the damned wire has got tangled up in the spinning probe . . .
“Tension zero. Repeat, zero.”
That was it. The wire had snapped, and now must be slowly snaking back toward the stars. Doubtless the operators on Ashoka would wind it in again, but Duval had now glimpsed enough of the theory to realize that this would be a long and complicated task.
And the little payload would crash somewhere down there in the fields and jungles of Taprobane. Yet, as Morgan had said, it had been more than ninety-five percent successful. Next time, when there was no wind . . .
“There it is!” someone shouted.
A brilliant star had ignited, between two of the cloud galleons sailing across the sky. It looked like a daylight meteor, falling down to earth. Ironically, as if mocking its builders, the flare installed on the probe to assist terminal guidance had automatically triggered. Well, it could still serve some useful purpose: it would help in locating the wreckage.
Duval’s Rem slowly pivoted so that she could watch the blazing day-star sail past the mountain and disappear into the east. She estimated that it would land less than five kilometers away. “Take me back to Dr. Morgan,” she said. “I’d like a word with him.”
She had intended to make a few cheerful remarks—loud enough for the Martian banker to hear—expressing her confidence that next time the lowering would be a complete success. Duval was still composing her little speech of reassurance when it was swept out of her mind. . . .”
She was to play back the events of the next thirty seconds until she knew them by heart. But she was never quite sure if she fully understood them.
30
The Legions of the King
Vannevar Morgan was used to setbacks—even disasters—and this was, he hoped, a minor one. His real worry, as he watched the flare vanish over the shoulder of the mountain, was that Narodny Mars would consider its money wasted. The hard-eyed observer in his elaborate wheelchair had been extremely uncommunicative; earth’s gravity seemed to have immobilized his tongue as effectively as his limbs. But now he addressed Morgan before the engineer could speak to him.
“Just one question, Dr. Morgan. I know that this gale is unprecedented—yet it happened. So it may happen again. What if it does after the Tower is built?”
Morgan thought quickly. It was impossible to give an accurate answer at such short notice, and he could still scarcely believe what had happened.
“At the very worst, we might have to suspend operations briefly: there could be some track distortion. No wind forces that ever occur at this altitude could endanger the Tower structure itself. Even this experimental fiber would have been perfectly safe if we’d succeeded in anchoring it.”
He hoped that this was a fair analysis; in a few minutes, Warren Kingsley would let him know whether it was true or not.
To his relief, the banker answered with apparent satisfaction: “Thank you; that was all I wanted to know.”
Morgan was determined, however, to drive the
lesson home.
“And on Mount Pavonis, of course, such a problem couldn’t possibly arise. The atmospheric density there is less than a hundredth—”
Not for decades had he heard the sound that now crashed upon his ears, but it was one that no man could ever forget. Its imperious summons, overpowering the roar of the gale, transported Morgan halfway around the world.
He was no longer standing on a wind-swept mountainside. He was beneath the dome of the Hagia Sophia, looking up in awe and admiration at the work of men who had died sixteen centuries ago. And in his ears sounded the tolling of the mighty bell that had once summoned the faithful to prayer.
The memory of Istanbul faded. He was back on the mountain, more puzzled and confused than ever.
What was it that the monk had told him? That Kalidasa’s unwelcome gift had been silent for centuries, and was allowed to speak only in time of disaster? There had been no disaster here; as far as the monastery was concerned, precisely the opposite.
Just for a moment, the embarrassing possibility occurred to Morgan that the probe might have crashed into the temple precincts. No, that was out of the question. It had missed the peak with kilometers to spare. And, in any event, it was much too small an object to do any serious damage as it half fell, half glided out of the sky.
He stared up at the monastery, from which the voice of the great bell still challenged the gale. The orange robes had all vanished from the parapets; there was not a monk in sight.
Something brushed delicately against Morgan’s cheek, and he automatically flicked it aside. It was hard even to think while that dolorous throbbing filled the air, and hammered at his brain. He supposed he had better walk up to the temple and politely ask the Mahanayake Thero what had happened. . . .
Once more, that soft, silken contact against his face, and this time he caught a glimpse of yellow out of the corner of his eye. His reactions had always been swift; he grabbed, and did not miss.