Rama: The Omnibus

by Arthur C. Clarke

  As always, he listened carefully to the tape before duping it, to make sure that it was applicable to both his families. It was strange to think that he did not know which of them he would see first; usually, his schedule was determined at least a year in advance, by the inexorable movements of the planets themselves.

  But that was in the days before Rama; now nothing would ever be the same again.

  CHAPTER 42

  TEMPLE OF GLASS

  'IF WE TRY IT,' said Karl Mercer, 'do you think the biots will stop us?'

  'They may; that's one of the things I want to find out. Why are you looking at me like that?'

  Mercer gave his slow, secret grin, which was liable to be set off at any moment by a private joke he might or might not share with his shipmates.

  'I was wondering, Skipper, if you think you own Rama. Until now, you've vetoed any attempt to cut into buildings. Why the switch? Have the Hermians given you ideas?'

  Norton laughed, then suddenly checked himself. It was a shrewd question, and he was not sure if the obvious answers were the right ones.

  'Perhaps I have been ultra-cautious—I've tried to avoid trouble. But this is our last chance; if we're forced to retreat we won't have lost much.'

  'Assuming that we retreat in good order.'

  'Of course. But the biots have never shown hostility; and except for the Spiders, I don't believe there's anything here that can catch us—if we do have to run for it.'

  'You may run, Skipper, but I intend to leave with dignity. And incidentally, I've decided why the biots are so polite to us.'

  'It's a little late for a new theory.'

  'Here it is, anyway. They think we're Ramans. They can't tell the difference between one oxy-eater and another.'

  'I don't believe they're that stupid.'

  'It's not a matter of stupidity. They've been programmed for their particular jobs, and we simply don't come into their frame of reference.'

  'Perhaps you're right. We may find out—as soon as we start to work on London.'

  Joe Calvert had always enjoyed those old bank-robbery movies, but he had never expected to be involved in one. Yet this was, essentially, what he was doing now.

  The deserted streets of 'London' seemed full of menace, though he knew that was only his guilty conscience. He did not really believe that the sealed and windowless structures ranged all around them were full of watchful inhabitants, waiting to emerge in angry hordes as soon as the invaders laid a hand on their property. In fact, he was quite certain that this whole complex—like all the other towns—was merely some kind of storage area.

  Yet a second fear, also based on innumerable ancient crime dramas, could be better grounded. There might be no clanging alarm bells and screaming sirens, but it was reasonable to assume that Rama would have some kind of warning system. How otherwise did the biots know when and where their services were needed?

  'Those without goggles, turn your backs,' ordered Sergeant Myron. There was a smell of nitric oxides as the air itself started to burn in the beam of the laser torch, and a steady sizzling as the fiery knife sliced towards secrets that had been hidden since the birth of man.

  Nothing material could resist this concentration of power, and the cut proceeded smoothly at a rate of several metres a minute. In a remarkably short time, a section large enough to admit a man had been sliced out.

  As the cut-away section showed no signs of moving, Myron tapped it gently—then harder—then banged on it with all his strength. It fell inwards with a hollow, reverberating crash.

  Once again, as he had done during that very first entrance into Rama, Norton remembered the archaeologist who had opened the old Egyptian tomb. He did not expect to see the glitter of gold; in fact, he had no preconceived ideas at all, as he crawled through the opening, his flashlight held in front of him.

  A Greek temple made of glass—that was his first impression. The building was filled with row upon row of vertical crystalline columns, about a metre wide and stretching from floor to ceiling. There were hundreds of them, marching away into the darkness beyond the reach of his light.

  Norton walked towards the nearest column and directed his beam into its interior. Refracted as through a cylindrical lens, the light fanned out on the far side to be focused and refocused, getting fainter with each repetition, in the array of pillars beyond. He felt that he was in the middle of some complicated demonstration in optics.

  'Very pretty,' said the practical Mercer, 'but what does it mean? Who needs a forest of glass pillars?'

  Norton rapped gently on one column. It sounded solid, though more metallic than crystalline. He was completely baffled, and so followed a piece of useful advice he had heard long ago: 'When in doubt, say nothing and move on.'

  As he reached the next column, which looked exactly like the first, he heard an exclamation of surprise from Mercer.

  'I could have sworn this pillar was empty—now there's something inside it.'

  Norton glanced quickly back. 'Where?' he said. 'I don't see anything.'

  He followed the direction of Mercer's pointing finger. It was aimed at nothing; the column was still completely transparent.

  'You can't see it?' said Mercer incredulously. 'Come around this side. Damn—now I've lost it!'

  'What's going on here?' demanded Calvert. It was several minutes before he got even the first approximation to an answer.

  The columns were not transparent from every angle or under all illuminations. As one walked around them, objects would suddenly flash into view, apparently embedded in their depths like flies in amber—and would then disappear again. There were dozens of them, all different. They looked absolutely real and solid, yet many seemed to occupy the identical volume of space.

  'Holograms,' said Calvert. 'Just like a museum on Earth.'

  That was the obvious explanation, and therefore Norton viewed it with suspicion. His doubts grew as he examined the other columns, and conjured up the images stored in their interiors.

  Hand-tools (though for huge and peculiar hands), containers, small machines with keyboards that appeared to have been made for more than five fingers, scientific instruments, startlingly conventional domestic utensils, including knives and plates which apart from their size would not have attracted a second glance on any terrestrial table … they were all there, with hundreds of less identifiable objects, often jumbled up together in the same pillar. A museum, surely, would have some logical arrangement, some segregation of related items. This seemed to be a completely random collection of hardware.

  They had photographed the elusive images inside a score of the crystal pillars when the sheer variety of items gave Norton a clue. Perhaps this was not a collection, but a catalogue, indexed according to some arbitrary but perfectly logical system. He thought of the wild juxtapositions that any dictionary or alphabetized list will give, and tried the idea on his companions.

  'I see what you mean,' said Mercer. 'The Ramans might be equally surprised to find us putting … ah … camshafts next to cameras.'

  'Or books beside boots', added Calvert, after several seconds' hard thinking. One could play this game for hours, he decided, with increasing degrees of impropriety.

  'That's the idea,' replied Norton. 'This may be an indexed catalogue for 3-D images—templates—solid blueprints, if you like to call them that.'

  'For what purpose?'

  'Well, you know the theory about the biots … the idea that they don't exist until they're needed and then they're created—synthesized—from patterns stored somewhere?'

  'I see,' said Mercer slowly and thoughtfully. 'So when a Raman needs a left-handed blivet, he punches out the correct code number, and a copy is manufactured from the pattern in here.'

  'Something like that. But please don't ask me about the practical details.'

  The pillars through which they had been moving had been steadily growing in size, and were now more than two metres in diameter. The images were correspondingly larger; it was obv
ious that, for doubtless excellent reasons, the Ramans believed in sticking to a one-to-one scale. Norton wondered how they stored anything really big, if this was the case.

  To increase their rate of coverage, the four explorers had now spread out through the crystal columns and were taking photographs as quickly as they could get their cameras focused on the fleeting images. This was an astonishing piece of luck, Norton told himself, though he felt that he had earned it; they could not possibly have made a better choice than this Illustrated Catalogue of Raman Artifacts. And yet, in another way; it could hardly have been more frustrating. There was nothing actually here, except impalpable patterns of light and darkness; these apparently solid objects did not really exist.

  Even knowing this, more than once Norton felt an almost irresistible urge to laser his way into one of the pillars, so that he could have something material to take back to Earth. It was the same impulse, he told himself wryly, that would prompt a monkey to grab the reflection of a banana in a mirror.

  He was photographing what seemed to be some kind of optical device when Calvert's shout started him running through the pillars.

  'Skipper—Karl—Will—look at this!'

  Joe was prone to sudden enthusiasms, but what he had found was enough to justify any amount of excitement.

  Inside one of the two-metre columns was an elaborate harness, or uniform, obviously made for a vertically-standing creature, much taller than a man. A very narrow central metal band apparently surrounded the waist, thorax or some division unknown to terrestrial zoology. From this rose three slim columns, tapering outwards and ending in a perfectly circular belt, an impressive metre in diameter. Loops equally spaced along it could only be intended to go round upper limbs or arms. Three of them…

  There were numerous pouches, buckles, bandoliers from which tools (or weapons?) protruded, pipes and electrical conductors, even small black boxes that would have looked perfectly at home in an electronics lab on Earth. The whole arrangement was almost as complex as a spacesuit, though it obviously provided only partial covering for the creature wearing it.

  And was that creature a Raman? Norton asked himself. We'll probably never know; but it must have been intelligent—no mere animal could cope with all that sophisticated equipment.

  'About two and a half metres high,' said Mercer thoughtfully, 'not counting the head—whatever that was like.'

  'With three arms—and presumably three legs. The same plan as the Spiders, on a much more massive scale. Do you suppose that's a coincidence?'

  'Probably not. We design robots in our own image; we might expect the Ramans to do the same.'

  Joe Calvert, unusually subdued, was looking at the display with something like awe. 'Do you suppose they know we're here?' he half-whispered.

  'I doubt it,' said Mercer. 'We've not even reached their threshold of consciousness—though the Hermians certainly had a good try.'

  They were still standing there, unable to drag themselves away, when Pieter called from the Hub, his voice full of urgent concern.

  'Skipper—you'd better get outside.'

  'What is it—biots heading this way?'

  'No—something much more serious. The lights are going out.'

  CHAPTER 43

  RETREAT

  WHEN HE HASTILY emerged from the hole they had lasered, it seemed to Norton that the six suns of Rama were as brilliant as ever. Surely, he thought, Pieter must have made a mistake … that's not like him at all…

  But Pieter had anticipated just this reaction.

  'It happened so slowly,' he explained apologetically, 'that it was a long time before I noticed any difference. But there's no doubt about it—I've taken a meter reading. The light level's down forty per cent.'

  Now, as his eyes readjusted themselves after the gloom of the glass temple, Norton could believe him. The long day of Rama was drawing to its close.

  It was still as warm as ever, yet Norton felt himself shivering. He had known this sensation once before, during a beautiful summer day on Earth. There had been an inexplicable weakening of light as if darkness was falling from the air, or the sun had lost its strength—though there was not a cloud in the sky. Then he remembered; a partial eclipse was in progress.

  'This is it,' he said grimly. 'We're going home. Leave all the equipment behind—we won't need it again.'

  Now, he hoped, one piece of planning was about to prove its worth. He had selected London for this raid because no other town was so close to a stairway; the foot of Beta was only four kilometres away.

  They set off at the steady, loping trot which was the most comfortable mode of travelling at half a gravity. Norton set a pace which, he estimated, would get them to the edge of the plain without exhaustion, and in the minimum of time. He was acutely aware of the eight kilometres they would still have to climb when they had reached Beta, but he would feel much safer when they had actually started the ascent.

  The first tremor came when they had almost reached the stairway. It was very slight, and instinctively Norton turned towards the south, expecting to see another display of fireworks around the Horns. But Rama never seemed to repeat itself exactly; if there were any electrical discharges above those needle-sharp mountains, they were too faint to be seen.

  'Bridge,' he called, 'did you notice that?'

  'Yes, Skipper—very small shock. Could be another attitude change. We're watching the rate gyro—nothing yet… Just a minute! Positive reading! Can just detect it—less than a microradian per second, but holding.'

  So Rama was beginning to turn, though with almost imperceptible slowness. Those earlier shocks might have been a false alarm but this, surely, was the real thing.

  'Rate increasing five microrad. Hello, did you feel that shock?'

  'We certainly did. Get all the ship's systems operational. We may have to leave in a hurry.'

  'Do you expect an orbit change already? We're still a long way from perihelion.'

  'I don't think Rama works by our textbooks. Nearly at Beta. We'll rest there for five minutes.'

  Five minutes was utterly inadequate, yet it seemed an age. For there was now no doubt that the light was failing, and failing fast.

  Though they were all equipped with flashlights, the thought of darkness here was now intolerable; they had grown so psychologically accustomed to the endless day that it was hard to remember the conditions under which they had first explored this world. They felt an overwhelming urge to escape—to get out into the light of the Sun, a kilometre away on the other side of these cylindrical walls.

  'Hub Control!' called Norton. 'Is the searchlight operating? We may need it in a hurry.'

  'Yes, Skipper. Here it comes.'

  A reassuring spark of light started to shine eight kilometres above their heads. Even against the now fading day of Rama, it looked surprisingly feeble; but it had served them before, and would guide them once again if they needed it.

  This, Norton was grimly aware, would be the longest and most nerve-wracking climb they had ever done. Whatever happened, it would be impossible to hurry; if they overexerted themselves, they would simply collapse somewhere on that vertiginous slope, and would have to wait until their protesting muscles permitted them to continue. By this time, they must be one of the fittest crews that had ever carried out a space mission; but there were limits to what flesh and blood could do.

  After an hour's steady plodding they had reached the fourth section of the stairway, about three kilometres from the plain. From now on, it would be much easier; gravity was already down to a third of Earth value. Although there had been minor shocks from time to time, no other unusual phenomena had occurred, and there was still plenty of light. They began to feel more optimistic, and even to wonder if they had left too soon. One thing was certain, however; there was no going back. They had all walked for the last time on the plain of Rama.

  It was while they were taking a ten-minute rest on the fourth platform that Joe Calvert suddenly exclaimed: 'What's that
noise, Skipper?'

  'Noise! I don't hear anything.'

  'High-pitched whistle—dropping in frequency, you must hear it.'

  'Your ears are younger than mine—oh, now I do.'

  The whistle seemed to come from everywhere. Soon it was loud, even piercing, and falling swiftly in pitch. Then it suddenly stopped.

  A few seconds later it came again, repeating the same sequence. It had all the mournful, compelling quality of a lighthouse siren sending out its warnings into the fog-shrouded night. There was a message here, and an urgent one. It was not designed for their ears, but they understood it. Then, as if to make doubly sure, it was reinforced by the lights themselves.

  They dimmed almost to extinction, then started to flash. Brilliant beads, like ball lightning, raced along the six narrow valleys that had once illuminated this world. They moved from both Poles towards the Sea in a synchronized, hypnotic rhythm which could have only one meaning. 'To the Sea!' the lights were calling, 'To the Sea!' And the summons was hard to resist; there was not a man who did not feel a compulsion to turn back, and to seek oblivion in the water of Rama.

  'Hub Control!' Norton called urgently. 'Can you see what's happening?'

  The voice of Pieter came back to him; he sounded awed, and more than a little frightened.

  'Yes, Skipper. I'm looking across at the Southern continent. There are still scores of biots over there—including some big ones. Cranes; Bulldozers … lots of Scavengers. And they're all rushing back to the Sea faster than I've ever seen them move before. There goes a Crane—right over the edge! Just like Jimmy, but going down a lot quicker … it smashed to pieces when it hit … and here come the Sharks; they're tearing into it … ugh; it's not a pleasant sight…'

  'Now I'm looking at the plain. Here's a Bulldozer that seems to have broken down … it's going round and round in circles. Now a couple of Crabs are tearing into it, pulling it to pieces … Skipper, I think you'd better get back right away.'