“Maybe that’s the explanation,” Koffield said. “But even our clothing and hairstyles are similar enough that they fit right in. The local accents are not that different from the way some of the Dom Pedro’s crew speak.”
Norla-shrugged. “You’re right. Now that you point it out, it is strange. I can’t explain it, but it is odd.” She turned and smiled at him. “At least it means they can understand us. Maybe we should just be grateful for small favors and leave it at that.”
Koffield smiled back, but didn’t reply. She was probably right. But he knew himself well enough to know he couldn’t leave it at that. Now that he was aware of it, the mystery would nag at him until he knew, until he understood.
They walked on in silence beneath the trees of the strangely familiar forest and the utterly alien sky.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO A Thousand Times
When they got back from their walk, Norla was both amused and pleased to see that Koffield had indeed been missed. A half dozen scientists pounced on him as soon as he came through the door, each with a complicated and obscure question to ask.
The questioning went on all throughout the evening meal in the refectory. How was this value derived? What further information did he have about Ulan Baskaw? Was he aware of the proposals for the latest Mars recovery project? How did he think his new mathematical models would affect that work? One working group had already applied the Baskaw-Koffield formulae to the available data for three historical ecocollapses, all of which had been explained away as freak accidents. The B-K formulae could have predicted all three of them. Did he have any comment? Several specialists were having trouble deriving useful data from sub-formula B of formula six. Would it be possible for him to look over their work and see if he could point out the difficulty?
The poor man scarcely had a chance to eat, but, if Norla had developed any skill at all in reading Anton Koffield, that very private man was extremely gratified— not because of the attention paid to him, but because that attention clearly signaled that all that he had done, all that he had sacrificed, had not been in vain. He had gotten the message through.
It was not until after dinner, when the locals started slipping away from the refectory, that things settled down. But even then Koffield was the center of attention.
Norla, sitting next to him, watched as the last of the group settled themselves at their table, and engaged him in casual conversation.
Strange, strange, and strange again how people worked. Ever since Circum Central, people had pointed at him, whispered behind his back, because he happened to be there when the mysterious Intruders had wreaked their havoc. Koffield had done nothing but his job, and yet people had blamed him, and not the Intruders, for the disaster. Now here he was surrounded by admirers, not because he had made a great discovery, but merely because he had found it in a book, and read it, understood it, found a way to use it, and brought it to their attention.
“You come at a most fortunate time, Admiral,” one of the group was telling him. Norla had to think for a moment to come up with the woman’s name. Mandessa Orlang, that was it. The director of the Greenhouse Institute. “Or,” Orlang went on in her somewhat booming voice, “perhaps a most unfortunate one. You and Officer Chandray will have the chance to see something quite spectacular and rare, if you wish to see it. Something we all wish was much rarer than it is. Something that is, unfortunately, closely related to the discoveries you have brought to our attention.”
“What would that be?” Koffield asked.
“They are going to blow a dome,” Vandar replied, before Orlang could speak. No doubt Orlang would have used three times as many words to relay the same information.
But Professor Orlang was not at all put out by Vandar’s stealing her thunder. “Not just any dome,” she said. “One of the oldest and most diverse domed habitats on Greenhouse.” She paused, and spoke again, in grand and theatrical tones. “It is, in fact, Founder’s Dome.”
There was a moment’s silence around the table. The solemn looks and the downcast gazes told Norla that Founder’s Dome meant a lot to the locals. Of course, the name told her that much as well. Theirs was a people who set great store by their history, their heritage. Things would have to get to a sorry state indeed before they would be willing to destroy anyplace with the word Founder’s in the name.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Koffield said, with obvious sincerity.
“It’s not going to do much good for morale, that’s for sure,” said Vandar.
“I can’t imagine that my showing up now, with all my warnings of doom and gloom, will make the situation any easier,” said Koffield.
“No,” Vandar said. “Not your fault, of course, but it won’t. The ghost at the banquet, and all that. Before you showed up, we could all tell ourselves it was just bad luck that Founder’s had to go. Now we know the problem is systemic. Now the death of Founder’s will just serve to remind us that all the domes, all the habitats, all the worlds, are going to go.”
“I am not sure I agree, Dr. Vandar,” said Orlang. “Who can say? Maybe a one-two punch of hard-edged theory and grim reality will focus people’s attention. Perhaps Planetary Executive Kalzant can use the failure of Founder’s Dome to get the attention of the people, so that they can listen to the news you’ve brought us.”
“Perhaps,” Koffield said, plainly noncommittal.
“Excuse me, Dr. Orlang,” said Wandella Ashdin. “Founder’s Dome. That is where DeSilvo’s Tomb is, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course. It is one of our most important heritage sites. There is a great deal of concern that it might be damaged when the dome is blown, but there is very little that can be done to get in and protect it, now that the dome is sealed down.”
Koffield looked up sharply at Ashdin. “Wait a moment,” he said. “DeSilvo’s Tomb? He’s buried here?”
“His ashes are here, in an urn inside the tomb. I suppose that means that tomb isn’t exactly the right word, but that’s what everyone calls it.”
“How the devil did his ashes come to be here?”
“It was in his will. When he died for the last time, his body was cremated, the ashes sealed in the urn and shipped to Greenhouse.”
“Died for the last time?” Norla asked. “How many times did he die?”
“ ‘A coward dies a thousand times,’ “ said Koffield, half to himself. He was only half-paying attention to the conversation. It was obvious that something had caught him by surprise, made him see something. “ ‘A hero dies but once.’ “
“What in the world is that supposed to mean?” Ashdin asked suspiciously.
“It’s an old quotation,” Koffield said absently, not aware that he had given offense. “It’s from an early near-ancient poet, I believe. One of those things that’s been translated over and over again across the millennia. The words change as it moves from one language to another, but the sense of the words stays the same. It means if you spend too much time worrying about the dangers, you’ll never dare take chances or do what needs doing.”
Ashdin sniffed audibly, and Norla could not help but smile. Ashdin took it hard when Koffield made it clear he did not share her affection for Oskar DeSilvo.
“Heroes and cowards to one side, how many times did DeSilvo die?” Norla asked.
“And when did DeSilvo die permanently?” Koffield asked, as if the question might be of special importance.
“Dr. DeSilvo was clinically dead at least five times, and subsequently revived,” Ashdin said stiffly. “He died absolutely—that is, finally and without revival—thirteen years after your departure for Solace. However, he was not active during all of those years. He spent much of them in temporal confinement, and made at least one interstellar round-trip—presumably in cryosleep—during that time. No one has ever been able to ascertain where he went on that trip, but I suppose that is beside the point. He died in his offices, at his desk, at work, in the Grand Library. His remains were cremated and transported here, in accordan
ce with his will.”
Koffield stared intently at Ashdin, but, somehow, did not actually seem to see her. His eye was focused on things unseen, things beyond the horizon and buried in the past. At last, he came to himself, then turned to address Orlang. “You said the dome was sealed. Is it no longer possible to get into the dome?”
“That is not precisely correct. Once a dome is sealed down, it is no longer possible to get out of it. It is sealed because we fear biological contaminants coming out through the airlock system and infecting other domes.”
“So it is at least possible to go in.”
Orlang was obviously baffled. “Theoretically, yes, I suppose. But whoever went in would have to remain inside until the dome was blown. It is a fairly complex process, blowing a dome. First they place powerful heaters throughout the dome and cut off the cooling system. They run the in-dome temperature up to one hundred twenty degrees centigrade and hold it there for twelve hours. Then they use shaped charges, strategically placed all over the surface of that dome, to produce explosive compression. That, plus exposure to near vacuum, provides near-total sterilization.”
“But a man in a suit, an armored pressure suit, carrying spare oxygen and food and water, could go in, so long as he was willing to remain inside until the dome was blown?”
Orlang nodded vaguely. “I suppose. If he knew how to protect himself against the heat and the decompression blasts.”
“Then I must go into that dome, now. I must see that tomb, and examine it carefully, before it suffers any damage from explosive decompression or heating.”
“But whatever for?” Orlang asked.
“I’d rather not say,” Koffield replied.
“But this is absurd,” Orlang protested. “I can’t just let you wander around a contaminated zone for a week without any explanation.”
“I know it sounds absurd.” Koffield paused for a moment. “I’m reluctant to discuss my suspicions because I could well go in there and discover nothing at all, and then I would have raised unreasonable, unfair expectations—or fears.” Koffield shrugged. “Or it might be that I find something absolutely vital.”
Orlang glared at him balefully. “I must say, your behavior is highly presumptuous, especially considering how brief a time you have been here. Why should I grant you special access to Founder’s Dome when you will not extend to me sufficient trust or respect to explain why you want to go?”
Anton Koffield looked her straight in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I can say no more than I have. I do not ask you to put anyone else at risk, or to do yourself any harm. But I must get a look at that tomb, and do so before you blow the dome. Decompression and heat sterilization might—might—damage or destroy something vital.”
Norla could see, if not what Koffield saw, at least the fire that was suddenly ablaze in his eyes. She could not see what it was that excited him, but she could read him well enough to understand the excitement, the need to reach out for—for something that had eluded him far too long.
“Why in heaven’s name should I agree?” Orlang asked. “Just because you ask?”
“Because he’s Anton Koffield,” Norla heard herself saying. “Because he’s crossed unimaginable distances of time and space to bring you a warning that only he saw, that only he knew was important. Because he risked everything, lost everything, sacrificed everything he had for the sake of getting the facts to you, for the sake of truth, and of doing what was right. Because before that, he did his job, and did it well, and his reward was being turned into a boogey man. Glistern parents tell their children the Koffield-monster will get them if they don’t behave. Because, after all that, he’s still willing to take risks for others.
“And because someone has tried again and again to stop him.” She looked around the table. “Have you thought to wonder why? Why would anyone try so hard to hurt him? Why sabotage his ship and steal his evidence? Why maroon him in the future a second time when he’s already lost his own time into a still-more-distant future?”
“I don’t know,” said Orlang stiffly. “What do you think?”
“Perhaps,” said Norla, “because someone is afraid of what he might find. Perhaps they think he’s still a threat. And he is. When a man like that thinks he might find something worthwhile in Founder’s Dome, I’d listen to him, if I were you.”
Everyone at the table, everyone still in the room, was staring at her. Anton Koffield himself looked at her in more than slight amazement. In the sudden quiet, Norla realized she couldn’t blame any of them a bit. If it were possible, she’d be staring at herself. What in space had pulled that impassioned speech out of her?
“Well,” said Mandessa Orlang. “I am impressed. Anyone who can inspire that sort of defense certainly ought to be someone who should be taken seriously. And Officer Chandray does remind me that we do owe the admiral more than just a small favor.” She thought for a moment. “Let me consider this,” she said. “Maybe—just maybe—we can accommodate you after all, Admiral.”
After a bit of negotiating, it was agreed that Koffield would be allowed in twenty-four hours before the dome was blown. It was obviously imprudent, from a safety viewpoint, for anyone to spend that long alone sealed in a pressure suit in a contaminated zone. Someone would have to go with him, and obviously enough, that person would likely be privy to whatever it was that Koffield hoped to find.
That last point was enough to explain why Wandella Ashdin volunteered to go with him, but even after repeated sessions with the suit techs, it was plain that, though she could probably look after herself in a suit, she was not anything close to mechanically competent enough to be much use to Koffield if his suit malfunctioned. Strangely enough, however, Koffield wanted Ashdin along, a quite remarkable development, given that he had next to no patience with the woman’s fascination with DeSilvo. And, by virtue of some sequence of arguments, offers, bluffs, and counteroffers, Norla Chandray found that she had volunteered to make up the third of the party without exactly meaning to do it. And so Norla found herself, five days later, her skin still raw and tingling from the ferociously hot and brisk shower that was going to be her last for a while, climbing into what she would have called a pressure suit. The local techs called it an environment suit, or e-suit. It had a number of modifications that made it more suitable for work in a contamination zone, but it still bore a close family resemblance to the sort of pressure suit she had worn all her working life. It was downright peculiar that her knowledge of suit design from the past century and another star system would be of any use at all to her here and now.
The main link between Research Dome and Founder’s Dome was a nondescript underground runnel, but that access-way had been sealed off some time ago. Orlang’s people did not wish there to be any chance of blow-back contamination popping out of the airlock that sealed in Founder’s Dome and then drifting down the tunnel into Research. The three of them would have to take the overland route, walking, not through pressurized domes and tunnels and corridors, but across the near vacuum of Greenhouse’s surface, and making a shortcut through another dome that had been blown long ago. It was not likely to be the easiest or most pleasant of journeys.
“Ready?” Koffield asked her as the suit techs finished their last adjustments. Both of them were fully suited up, but their faceplates were still open.
“As ready as I’ll be,” Norla replied. “I think Dr. Ashdin is just about ready to claw the airlock open herself if we don’t get moving soon.”
“She does seem just a trifle eager, doesn’t she?” Koffield replied. Ashdin had hurried through her suit-up and headed for the lock chamber five minutes before. “Let’s go find her before she gets completely out of control.”
The two of them said their thanks to the suit techs and headed down the hall to the lock chamber. Ashdin was there all right, her faceplate down and her suit sealed. Even through the bulky suit, even with her face half-hidden by the faceplate, it was obvious how eager and excited she was. She was paci
ng back and forth, peeking through the porthole by the airlock one moment, chatting with the airlock techs the next, and saying farewell to the Research Dome scientists who had come to see them off the next.
Mandessa Orlang and Milos Vandar were there as part of the send-off committee, and so was Yuri Sparten. Norla had been not altogether surprised that Sparten had tried to get himself included on their miniexpedition, and even less surprised that Koffield had kept him from going. There were undercurrents there.
“Good luck to you, Admiral,” Orlang said as she offered her hand to Koffield. “Be careful, won’t you? Things are likely to get a trifle warm where you’re going.”
“And the atmosphere will get a bit rarefied after that,” Vandar said.
Koffield took Orlang’s hand and bowed slightly. “Thank you, Director Orlang,” he said. “Believe me, we’ll be careful. I’m interested in gathering information, not taking risks.”
“See you in a couple of days, then,” Vandar said.
“Good-bye,” said Sparten, and left it at that.
The three of them wrapped up their good-byes, and the visitors were herded out of the airlock operations room by a very polite, but very firm, no-nonsense, suit technician.
The tech then ushered the three travelers into the lock chamber proper. Norla noted that their equipment roller, in essence an oversize wheelbarrow packed with spares and supplies, was already in the lock. As soon as they were in the lock chamber, the tech got started with the final check-over. “Okay,” he said. “Suits ready for check. Seal ‘em up and turn ‘em on.”
Ashdin already had her suit sealed and running. Norla and Koffield closed their suits. Each then switched on main power on the other’s main chest panels.
“Suit ready for check,” Norla said.
“Ready for check,” Koffield agreed.
“Um, ah, me too,” said Ashdin, plainly both nervous and excited.
“Very well,” said the tech. “Beacons are confirmed ac-tivej” he said as he checked a small datapage. “Comm system functional. You have a short-range intercom channel linking your three suits. That’s marked chan 1 on the panel on the control panel on your suit’s left forearm. Chan 2 is the general operations channel. Lots of traffic on that channel, so it’s not easy to hold a conversation. Chan 3 keys you through to your base station here. We can patch you through to a private link to someone in another suit, or to pretty much anyone else.” He consulted the telemetry display on his datapage again, and checked the readout on their suit panels. “Oxy mix and air pressure okay. Cooling system up and running. Suit integrity confirmed...”
The Depths of Time Page 42
