"Yes, I think so," George said. He was beginning to understand, and beginning to be annoyed at the teachers who hadn't shown him this. George, a lover of gadgets and machines and machinery, was getting his first introduction to the greatest clockwork toy there was—the complex and orderly dance of the skies.
"Good," Morelles said. Unconsciously, he had taken on his classroom persona, and all his words and movements became more and more exaggerated. Twenty years of dealing with students had taught him the value of a loud voice, careful enunciation, and expressive hand gestures. "Now, since we've got a large enough piece of card, I can draw a whole other solar system on it, with a sun and planets and satellites and so on. Notice it's all still on one flat piece of paper, everything still moving in one plane. Now I've drawn in the orbits of the planets around the second sun. Let me drawn in one more orbit."
He started his pencil on one of the two suns and drew a wide circle that went through it and the other sun, so that the two of them were one hundred eighty degrees apart. Directly in the center of this big circle, he drew a dot. "That dot is the barycenter, the center of gravity, the balance point for the whole system. Now, imagine the two suns orbiting each other around that barycenter, and the planets orbiting their respective suns, everything in the same plane. This sort of arrangement is what most binary star systems look like. That's clear enough to see. Here s where we get to the unusual features of your Nova Sol system."
Nova Sol A
Only southern hemisphere populated: outpost never visible.
Nova Sol B is only visible from the uninhabited northern hemisphere of Capital. Nova Sol B is never visible from the inhabited southern hemisphere of Capital.
Morelles took his pencil again and marked one solar system Alpha and the other Beta. Then he took the scissors and cut along the orbit of the outer planet in each. He was left with two circles of cardboard, each with a sun marked by a dot in the center and the planetary orbits drawn around the sun. He picked up the system marked Beta in his left hand and Alpha in his right. "Now we work in three dimensions instead of two."
Morelles held Alpha perpendicular to the floor and turned the Beta system this way and that. "You can see that I can put the plane of the Beta solar system at any angle to the plane of Alpha's solar system, and this has nothing whatever to do with the plane in which the two stars revolve about each other. Now I'm holding the Beta system at ninety degrees to Alpha, now forty-five, now parallel, now one hundred thirty-five degrees. No matter how I turn it, you can still imagine a circle, a mutual orbit, joining the two suns. They can go around each other no matter what, and don't care about the planes of the planets' orbits."
George nodded enthusiastically. "I see it."
"Good!" Morelles said, beaming. "Now, we have one last step. Let me see. Ah! I see the way." He dropped Alpha and Beta on the top of the round coffee table, then ran back to his office for a pair of thumbtacks. He scooped up the Alpha disk and shoved a pin through its center, through the dot that marked the sun. Then he crouched by the coffee table, and poked the pin through the rim of the table, so the piece of cardboard was perpendicular to the tabletop. The table was a lazy-Susan arrangement, and he spun it around on its pivot until Alpha was on the far side of the table from him. He poked another pin through the Beta system's sun, and shoved that pin into the rim of the table as well. He gave the tabletop another push, and it spun round and round.
Two disks of cardboard, directly across the diameter of the table from each other, held perpendicular to the table-top and parallel to each other, whirled around and around.
As each went past him, Morelles reached out his hand and set the disks spinning around their pushpins.
"There you have it, gentlemen, a first crude armillary, a mechanical representation of Capital's star system. The two stars, which are represented by the push pins, revolve around each other in their mutual orbit, the circumference of which is the rim of my coffee table. The planets orbit around the stars, the pushpins, in the planes of motion represented by the two cardboard disks. The orbital plane of the solar systems are, as Commander Metcalf noted, precessed. They are firmly attached to the rim of my coffee table, and move as it moves. As the two stars revolve through three hundred sixty degrees, a full circle, in their mutual orbit, the orbital planes of the two star systems rotate three hundred sixty degrees."
"Hold it," George said, staring at the model. "If I've got this straight, that means the northern hemisphere of Capital is always pointed at this other star? The other star is always visible from there? And the southern, populated hemisphere is always pointed away from it—which is why we never see it?"
"Right. And the northern lights are like a dawn that never happens—the other sun is just below the horizon, fighting up the sky but never rising," Metcalf put in. He gave the table a spin, and stood up. "Doctor Morelles, I thank you. You might have just solved a big problem."
Metcalf and the astronomer shook hands. "What will you do now?" Morelles asked.
"Start a search through all the catalogs, I guess," Metcalf said. "We'll look for pairs of distant binary stars where one of the stars is the right mass and temperature to support life."
Morelles smiled. "That is my proper work. With all due respect, I am sure I could do a far more sophisticated search than a non-astronomer. Please allow me to do the job. I'd be delighted to do so—and before you say it, I know they'll slap a Top Secret on this at least, and that's fine. I have clearance. I'll get started on it right now."
Movement of Capital around the barycenter of the Nova Sol System. Nova Sol B and Outpost are omitted for clarity.
"Doctor, it's urgent but it isn't that urgent," Metcalf said. "It can wait until morning."
Morelles smiled. "You're forgetting, Commander. Astronomers always work nights."
CHAPTER ELEVEN Aboard Ariadne
"Gee, Doc, all over a sudden I'm feeling much better." Lucy threw the sheets off the stretcher, got to her feet, and produced a gun out of nowhere in one fluid motion.
Dr. Angus Willoughby found himself with the slim barrel of a laser pistol stuck up his nose. Instinctively, he tried to step back, but Lucy tugged on the pistol and he came back to where he was.
Ariadne's sick bay wasn't much, and neither was her doctor. Willoughby meant well enough, and cared for his charges as well as could be expected, but he was a short, middle-aged, pale, chubby sort of fellow, more given to blubbering than blustering when faced with a crisis.
Lucy knew all that and was glad of it. Pulling her off Outpost hadn't been rough; illness was easy to fake, especially with Gustav to back her up. Getting rushed to the infirmary was straightforward, and Willoughby was easy enough to scare. But if he had been made of sterner stuff, there could have been problems.
And Lucy had problems enough as it was. But one thing at a time. "Okay, Doctor." She pulled a pressure syringe out of her hip pocket. "You get a double dose of some feelgoods, and I’ll be on my way. Roll up your sleeve."
"But I all—all—"
"Do it, or I clean out your nasal passages." Did that sound dumb to him, too, or was he too scared?
Willoughby pulled his shirt sleeve up without further debate. Lucy slammed the hypo down and the powerful narcotic forced itself through his skin and into his bloodstream.
He dropped a little faster than Lucy had figured. Maybe he just fainted.
That was square one. She stood in the tiny room, waiting for long moments. No sound. She opened the door a bit and peeked out into the corridor. The stretcher-bearers were gone, back at their regular duties. There had been enough cases come up from Outpost, cuts and burns and carbon-dioxide shock, that it was all pretty routine to them. Pull the casualty off the lander, get the stretcher to the doc, and then back to work.
She locked the door, shoved the laser pistol into her belt, and checked on dear old Doctor Willoughby. He was folded up in the corner, gently snoring, out of the game for quite a while.
Now started the scary part. The sic
k bay had a standard terminal station, hooked into Ariadne's computer systems. The CIs had been working over that computer system for quite a while now. Lucy powered it up, requested the calculator, tried to figure the square root of negative 43, then asked for the base-8 equivalent of her parent's phone number back on Earth. Then she typed in:
Operate Gremloid
There was a brief delay, and then the computer responded.
EXPOSE YOURSELF
Sydney Sally
ALIAS?
Ned Fine
PROVE IT—WHERE WAS YOUR FATHER BORN?
Liverpool, Pommieland
WE'VE GOT YOU LINED, SAL. WHAZZUP?
The whole Gremloid system was like that, with the computer handing out and expecting slang and inside jokes. Gremloid was buried deep inside the computer system, and only after one of several cuing routines would the computer system even admit it existed.
But even if Gremloid was buried deep, he could reach into lots of places.
Lucy typed in:
hooper Snooper Straitslace Sue
SHE BE LINED.
Good. Straitslace Sue—more commonly known as Cynthia Wu—was at a terminal somewhere, working. Now to get Gremloid to send her a message. So far no one aboard Ariadne knew who had been aboard that medical shuttle. Lucy had to let Cynthia know what was up.
Gremloid, C.Q. Straitslace Sue
ITS IN THE HOPPERS-COOL YOUR JETS
There was a brief pause, and then a new line popped on the screen
S. SUE RESPONDS: WHO AND WHAT IS IT?
Gremloid had cut into the regular operations of Cynthia's terminal, told her someone on the Gremnet wanted to talk to her, and sent her reply back.
Lucy had no time to jigger around with the usual jargoned-up lingo of the Gremnet. She had to get some very precise information across.
Cyn—this is Lucy. No time to explain why, but I came here to steal a ship and land it on Outpost. Once there, I will use a beacon set at a frequency equal to your birthdate, Earth calendar, divided by three. No time for questions. I'm in sick bay. Where is closest prepped lander and can you create diversion to draw sentries from same? There was a longish pause. It might have been Cynthia thinking, or a Guard asking her what was going on, or Cyn carefully checking the computer files to see what landers were where. Lucy didn't know or care. She just prayed for Cyn to hurry.
Cynthia Wu felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. The Gremnet always had that effect on her, as if she was talking to a ghost, a disembodied voice, but this was worse than usual. Lucy was supposed to be a thousand kilometers away, straight down, on the planet's surface. Cynthia was at her regular post in the radar room, monitoring the comings and goings of ships. It was a lonely post, especially during the night watch. No one else was on duty, just Cynthia and her keeper, a Private Wendell.
She glanced up at him, then looked back at her console screens. What the hell was Lucy doing here? But it wasn't time for questions. She used Gremloid to call up the sabotage and surveillance files. The s&s files were the most carefully hidden part of the CI's underground computer net. The names, the call-up procedures, the security techniques, were constantly being changed. That was part of how they maintained its security. Lucy had been away far too long to know how to use the current incarnation. Come on, come on—ah, there we go, a lander nice and close in Bay Three. Cynthia keyed in her reply, willing that her sentry stick to his comic book for another five minutes.
THERE IS A HERO-CLASS LANDER AT LOCK 6, BAY THREE FUELED AND AT GO. I WILL INSTRUCT COMPUTER TO WARN OF FUEL LEAK AND EXPLOSION DANGER IN THAT COMPARTMENT IN TEN MINUTES. GO NOW. GOOK LUCK.
Lucy breathed a sigh of relief. That was why she had tried Cynthia first. No gush of questions to slow things down, she was just ready with what was needed when it was needed. Levelheaded common sense taken to an extreme state.
God bless you, Cynthia. I'll explain some day, if I can, Lucy typed.
I KNOW YOU WILL. GO NOW. HURRY.
Lucy cut the power on the terminal and slipped out into the corridor. It was the night shift on Ariadne—all the corridor lights dimmed, the constant background noises of the station's machinery subdued. All was gloomy and still. Quietly, quickly, going by side corridors and ducking out of sight whenever she heard a noise, she made her way toward the docking bays in the zero-gee section.
A Hero-Class in Bay Three. And the sentries ought to be scared out of there in about seven more minutes. That only left a few problems—like operating the Guard controls—she had seen them, but never run them—and making a landing someplace where C'astille's people could find her. And convincing the Guards that she was dead and not worth going after. There was a way, but it was tricky. Dangerous. But grabbing a Hero would help. The Guard pilots had nicknamed them Neros, because the ships had a tendency to bum. No doubt that was part of why Cynthia had chosen a Hero for Lucy.
Through this corridor to the elevator banks—good! There was a car waiting. She rushed from a shadowy comer into the car and punched the button for the zero-gee section. The door shut and up she went.
The elevator travelled up to the zero-gee section and the doors opened. The lights were dimmed here, too, and Lucy felt a cool, metallic tang in the air, as if she could sense the vacuum held back by the airlocks. A silly idea. Her head seemed to be full of them tonight. She had just about three minutes to get herself inside Bay Three before Cyn's bogus explosion warning would scare everyone out. No time to hide and skulk in comers at the sound of a voice now. She had on the right sort of uniform. She'd just have to trust to the gloomy lighting and hope that she didn't run into a Guard who would recognize her face.
Lucy rushed along the corridors, swarming along the handholds at top speed. She hadn't been in zero-gee for months, but it all came back to her now. Like riding a bicycle, or so went the expression. Lucy hadn't ever learned to ride a bike.
Bay One. Bay Two. Bay Three. Here. In here.
Lucy stopped herself and hung in mid-air at the personnel hatch to the bay. Bay Three. This was where the CIs—no, they had still thought of themselves as Survey Service back then—this was where the Survey Service group had been put aboard Ariadne when they were taken off Venera.
Well, if this was where she got on, it was also where she got off And no way to sneak in. There was a small viewport set in the hatch, and Lucy cautiously peeked into it.
The interior of the bay was in darkness. One small light shone in the corner—the two sentries playing gin rummy being very careful of the cards in zero-gee. Good. Their eyes would be adjusted for light, not dark. Lucy took as good a look as she could at the dim interior. When the Venera survivors had been piled in here, the vast storage and transfer space had been completely empty, stripped bare. Now there was cargo stored everywhere, in crates and cases and pressure vessels lashed down and stacked and secured on every inch of deck space. It was a maze of hiding places.
The hatch was closed but not dogged shut. Slowly, with exquisite care, she opened the hatch. It creaked just a little as it swung outward, a bare little chirp of a noise. She swung the hatch open just for enough to let her slip through it. Hugging close to the deck, she pulled it shut behind her. Floating noiselessly through zero-gee, she pulled herself along the deck and hid behind a convenient stack of cases.
Now it was time for Cynthia to come through.
At that moment, Cynthia was in a cold sweat—doing her best to have a pleasant chat with Private Wendell, who had suddenly tired of his comic. He was a nice enough kid who probably had a crush on her. She blanked her terminal's screen the moment he had come over to talk about the movie that had been shown the night before, a rather pedestrian Guardian comedy that had proven humor was incompatible with censorship. Wendell had loved it, which probably proved that taste was likewise incompatible.
She tried to shut him up politely, get him back to his reading "—Listen," she interrupted gently, "I've got to watch my screens, or else get shot when some pair of ships crack up out there."
"Huh? I thought things were pretty quiet tonight."
"They are, but I want to keep it that way. And with one thing and another I've barely had a chance to monitor. I've really got to pay strict attention for a while, until I know what's going on out there. I need to get caught up."
"Okay. Could I maybe get you a cuppa coffee? It'd gimme something t'do.'
Please, please do, you silly kid. Anything to leave me alone, Cynthia thought. But she couldn't seem eager. "Isn't that against regs? You're supposed to be keeping an eye on me.'
"Hell, you've been here close to a year and you've never tried anything. I'll just go to the galley and back. Stretch my legs. Be back in five minutes.'
"Well!—how about tea instead?"
Wendell displayed a grin hill of buck teeth. "Sure. I'll go get it."
Cynthia called up Gremloid before he was out the door. What the hell was Lucy doing back on station? Where had she come from? And what the devil did she need to steal a ship for? No time for that. Cynthia hurriedly instructed Gremloid to slip the bogus emergency to the main computer through the ship's environmental monitor circuits.
Lucy was probably in or near Bay Three by now—the sick bay was close to the elevator banks, and Luce was fast in zero-gee. But Cynthia didn't dare stage a phony alert in the time Wendell was gone. Too suspicious. She told Gremloid to run the fake in ten minutes. That would give Wendell plenty of time to spill the tea, mop it up, make it again, and bring it to her.
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