Orbitsville Departure o-1

by Bob Shaw

  Tm busy tomorrow," he said, his voice unexpectedly loud.

  "Perhaps some other evening would…"

  "My wife and I never go out." Dallen strode out of the studio and into the adjoining room, where he found Renard studying some botanical prints clustered on a wall. The high-ceilinged room seemed mellow and cool, part of another age.

  "Ready to go?" Renard looked quizzical. "I thought an art lover like you would have been in there for ages. What have you been doing to this young man, Silvia?"

  "Thanks for your help with the glass," she said to Dallen, entering the room behind him, and it seemed to him that her manner was now overly correct. "The cartons are quite heavy."

  "No trouble. If you’ll excuse me — I have an appointment in town." Dallen went out to the front of the house, prepared to leave the premises on foot, but Renard caught up with him and within a minute — after an exchange of formalities with Silvia — they were in the car and rolling silently between banks of foliage. Warm air currents touched Dallen's forehead. The world looked subtly different to him, as in the first moment after stepping out of a bar in daytime. He felt that something momentous had happened, but what made it unsettling was the lack of evidence that anything at all had taken place. It was a matter of interpretation. He had never met a woman quite like Silvia London before, and could have been misreading the signals because of unfamiliarity or male egotism. Or perhaps sheer sexual deprivation. When he had mentioned Cona's frequent masturbation to Roy Picciano the doctor had suggested that it could cease if they resumed a physical relationship, but Dallen had found the idea repugnant beyond words…

  "That was a nice little divertimento for all concerned." Renard said. "What went on in there?"

  "Meaning?"

  "The two of you came out of the studio like robots." Renard looked amused. "Did you try to touch her?" Dallen sighed in exasperation. "Stop the car and let me out."

  "No need to get huffy, old son," Renard said, accelerating out into the street. "It's two years since her old man went off to the Big O to the, and nobody has got near our Silvia in all that time. It's a criminal waste, really, but she has compensated by inventing this game called New Morality Musical Beds. Cumbersome title, but I've just made it up. When the music stops — by music I mean Kara T’s emphysematic rattling — there's going to be one hell of a scramble, and Silvia wants the field to be as large as possible. I’m going to win, of course. It's a foregone conclusion, but she doesn't want to admit that Co herself. I guess the illusion of choice gives her a bit of a lift."

  The tone and content of what he had just heard outraged Dallen on behalf of Silvia, but he was distracted by new information. "I didn't realise Karal London lives on Orbitsville."

  Renard nodded. "A place near Port Napier. He only appears in holomorph form at Silvia's little soirees, you know. Personally, I find it somewhat distasteful."

  "A sensitive person like you would."

  "Unkind, Carry, unkind."

  "What's this about emphysema?"

  "That's what is kilting him. I'm told he can barely cross a room."

  "But…" Dallen began to feel overwhelmed. "Why?"

  "Why is he allowing himself to the of a disease which can be cured? Why didn't he either stay here or take Silvia to Big O with him?" Renard glanced at Dallen, arched teeth gleaming. "Obviously she didn't have enough time to get on to hobbyhorse number two otherwise you'd know all about it. That would have been something else for you to find… urn… fascinating."

  "Forget I asked," Dallen said, his patience fading.

  "It's all part of the Great Experiment, man!" Renard laughed aloud, alerting the part of Dallen's mind that remained permanently on guard against being ribbed. "Haven't you heard you're going to live for ever?"

  "I think somebody from Nazareth may have mentioned the idea."

  "This is nothing to do with religion, old son," Renard said, apparently for once deciding to impart straight information. "Old Karal is anti-religious and anti-mystical. He set up his Anima Mundi Foundation a few years back with the express purpose of…

  "Garry? Have you got your ears on?" The voice came from Dallen's implanted transceiver. "This is Jim Mellor."

  "I’m listening," Dallen sub-vocalised, shocked by the unexpected communication from his deputy after weeks of radio silence. "Is something wrong?"

  "I've got some bad news for you," Mellor said. "Beaumont has escaped."

  "Escaped!" Dallen felt old preoccupations take over his mind. "Pick him up again."

  "It's too late for that," Mellor replied, sounding both angry and embarrassed. "It happened three days back, but Lashbrook only told me a few minutes ago. Beaumont will be back in Cordele by this time."

  Dallen closed his eyes. "So I go to Cordele."

  "What's the matter with you?" Renard said loudly from beside Dallen, an intruder from another dimension. "Are you talking to yourself?"

  Dallen shut him out, concentrating on the exchange with his deputy. "Get a ship ready for me, Jim — I'll be with you in a few minutes."

  "But…"

  "In a few minutes, Jim." Dallen made the practised sideways movement of his jaw which switched off his transceiver, then tried to relax into the deep cushions of the seat. He felt a cold, pleasurable anticipation which — even though he could recognise it as a sickness — restored lost illusions of purpose.

  Chapter 7

  The Valley was not really a valley. It was a narrow strip, almost a kilometre in length, where Orbitsvilles soil and bedrock had been scooped away to reveal a substantial area of shell material. Ylem was dark and non-reflective, so at night the strip had the appearance of a cold black lake. The research buildings anchored along it on suction foundations, continuously illuminated, looked like a flotilla of boats linked by power and communications cables.

  Dan Cavendish had worked in the Valley for more than forty years, but he still got a contemplative pleasure from walking its length, knowing that only a few centimetres — the thickness of shell — beneath the soles of his boots was the edge, of interstellar space. Since the death of his wife three years earlier he had found it difficult to sleep the night through, and had developed the habit of patrolling the strip from end to end in the darkness, meditating and remembering. Although devoid of stars, the Orbitsville night sky had a beauty of its own which was conducive to an old man's evaluation of his life.

  The popular conception of the Big O was of a thin shell of ylem, 320 million kilometres in diameter, completely englobing a small sun, but scientists were very much aware of a second concentric sphere without which the entire system would not have been viable. It was much smaller than Orbitsville and non-material in nature, a globular filigree of force fields capable of blocking the sun's outpourings of light and heat. It was composed of narrow strips, effectively opaque, whose function was to case great bars of shadow on the grasslands of Orbitsville, producing the alternating periods of light and darkness, day and night, necessary to the growth of vegetation. The inner sphere could not be stuthed directly, but its structure was observable in the bands of light and darkness moving across the far side of Orbitsville, roughly two astronomical units away. During a day period the banding showed as a delicate ribbed effect, barely noticeable, but at dusk the alternations of paler and deeper blue stood out vividly. And at night the hundreds of slim curving ribs became the dominant feature of the sky, swirling across it from two opposite points on the horizon, merging into a prismatic haze where they dipped behind denser levels of air.

  Cavendish's life — all ninety-two years of it — had been spent on Orbitsville without his tiring of its beauty or its mystery. There were many questions about the incredible construct and he had refused to become dispirited over the fact that no answers had been forthcoming in spite of all the Optima Thule Science Commission's efforts. It was an article of his personal faith that a breakthrough was bound to come eventually, and if possible he wanted to be on hand when it happened. That was why he was dinging to his job in
defiance of all efforts to make him retire. Now that Ruth was gone his work was all that was left to him, and he had no intention of giving it up for anybody. In particular, he was not going to be squeezed out by Phil Vigus, the senior technical manager, with whom he had been conducting a private feud for several years. The intrusive thought of Vigus caused him to snort with anger.

  "Thinks I'm over the hill, does he?" Cavendish said to the encompassing darkness at the eastern end of the Valley. "I'll show the schmuck who's over the hill."

  He unfolded his portable stool and sat down to rest, dismissing from his mind the stray thought that talking aloud to himself could be evidence that Vigus's claims were justified. It was a fine night, with just a few wisps of cloud drawn across the striated sapphire of the sky, and he had the place to himself. All other staff members had gone to their bungalow homes and the absence of lights on the slopes surrounding the Valley showed they were in bed and asleep. Cavendish repressed a pang of envy and regret as he recalled the deep comfort of waking in the darkness and staying awake just long enough to touch Ruth's shoulder and be reassured. They had had a good life together and he was not going to betray her at this stage by starting to feel sorry for himself. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and submerged his identity in the numinous magic of his surroundings, the glowing enigma that was Optima Thule at night.

  So many unanswered questions…

  Who had built Orbitsville? And why? Was it really an artefact, in the limited human sense of the word, or was it — as some religious thinkers maintained — evidence of a Creator who worked in diverse modes? Could it be a manifestation of Nature in a form which only seemed strange to men because of the paucity of their experience?

  As a native of Orbitsville, Cavendish was instinctively inclined to the belief that it was a natural object, yet he had always been perplexed by certain salient features. There was, for example, the question of gravity. By means which no man could begin to understand, the thin shell of ylem generated gravity on the sphere's inner surface — and none on the outer surface — which suggested that Orbitsville had been designed as a habitat. There was also the matter of the portals. To a logical being there could be only one explanation for the three bands of circular apertures. They had to be entrances — but that led to the tricky concept of God as Engineer.

  Some could accept that idea easily; others objected on the grounds that divine engineering should be divinely perfect, whereas there were unaccountable irregularities connected with the portals. Orbitsville itself was exactly spherical, a symmetry to satisfy any theologian, but why were there 207 portals on the equator instead of some number more suggestive of ethereal harmony? Why were the northern and southern bands not at precisely the same latitude, and why were there 173 portals in the former and only 168 in the latter? Furthermore, why did the portals themselves vary a little in size and spacing? The arguments had been raging for two centuries, with numerologists in particular mining their richest lode since the heyday of the Great Pyramid, but nothing was settled. Spherology continued with its record of non-achievement. Nobody understood why radio communications were impossible within the Big O. Nobody had analysed the mechanisms which kept the great shell in a stable relationship with the enclosed sun and its remote outer planet. Cavendish was an inorganic chemist and therefore was not professionally concerned with the problems of macro-spherology, but on the personal level he had his yearning for an advance, even a single step forward, to be made in the time that was left to him. It would compensate for the forty-plus years of frustration he had experienced since coming to the Valley.

  His lean frame balanced uneasily on the stool, Cavendish gazed along the line of buildings floating on their lake of ink. Some had been stripped down and rebuilt several times as series of experiments were terminated and others took their places. A number of the buildings and machines had inverted counterparts of themselves, like mirror images, clinging to the outside of the Orbitsville shell and positioned by dead reckoning from the edge of the nearest portal. Although separated from each other by a mere eight centimetres of ylem, no machine had ever been able to communicate with its opposite number. Cavendish was usually positive in his outlook, but there were times when he suspected that his field of endeavour, shell structure, was the least promising in the Commission's programme.

  On a night like this, when the breeze was cool and it was difficult to remember his wife's voice, he could believe that more centuries would pass before ylem yielded any of its secrets — and by then it might be too late. Mankind would have dispersed into and been absorbed by Orbitsville's infinite meadows. A thousand times a thousand rural tribes would be permanently busy re-inventing the steam and internal combustion engines, and would have no use for the blueprints of the ultimate machine. Cavendish gave a low sigh, deciding that he should be in bed. He got to his feet and was stooping to pick up the stool when the surface on which he was stand ing blinked with green radiance. A tine of light, glowing on the full width of the Valley's floor, swept by him, travelled the length of the strip and vanished at its western end in a fraction of a second.

  "What the…!" Cavendish stared into the familiar backdrop of night, suddenly feeling unsafe.

  He had lived all his life on the Orbitsville shell and knew the material to be totally inert, changeless, more stable by far than any planetary crust. It was not supposed to pulse with green light… because if that could happen other changes might occur… and he could almost fed the ylem dissolving beneath his feet… hurling his unprepared and unprotected body downwards and outwards… into the space between the stars…

  Mark Denmark was obviously unhappy. He squared up various stacks of paper on his desk, frowning ail the while, then went to the window of his office and rocked on the balls of his feet while he inspected the view. The Valley and its wide-caved buildings and the surrounding slopes reflected the sun's vertical rays, looking exactly as they always did, embalmed in brilliance which had an ancient Egyptian quality to it. Denmark shook his head as though something outside had failed to pass muster, returned to his chair and began tapping his front teeth with a pen.

  "Dan, we've checked every read-out from every instrument," he finally said. "There aren't any spikes. There aren't any blips or dips. In fact, there is simply no trace of any abnormal event."

  "That's not surprising — considering we don't have any photometers aimed at the shell." Cavendish spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, concealing his disappointment over the lack of corroborative readings. He had been awake all night, voyaging on mental oceans of surmise, elated by the near-certainty that the science of spherology was about to take that long-awaited step forward. Now it was beginning to look as though he had taken a step backwards, lost ground in the battle over his delayed retirement.

  Denmark leaned forward, hunching his shoulders. "Dan, I don't need to tell you that light can't come into being by itself. What you described sounded like an excitation phenomenon, but nothing got excited — except maybe your optic nerves."

  "I'm perfectly healthy," Cavendish snapped. "Don't try that stuff on me."

  "I'm only trying to stop you making a pig's ass of yourself. If you insist on your report going on log you'll draw a lot of attention, then you'll really find out what it's like to be under pressure. Christ, Dan, if everybody else can accept retirement at eighty, why can't you?"

  "Because I'm not ready."

  "Ready or not, one of these days… The Commission can insist, you know."

  Cavendish glanced around the office in feigned surprise. "Have I come to the wrong place? Are you the chief scientist or the personnel manager?"

  Denmark's grey eyes clouded with annoyance and his mouth withered into a thin line. Watching the change of expression. Cavendish wondered if he had gone too far. Denmark was a natural researcher whose temperament had been poisoned by the constant struggle to keep all his projects functioning on dwindling budgets, and in the past months he had become moody and unpredictable. Att it takes is one word
from him. Cavendish thought, becoming alarmed. Just one interoffice memo and Fm out in the cold with nothing but…

  "Good morning, men!"

  The unexpected voice, coming from the open door, provided what Cavendish hoped would be a welcome diversion. He turned towards it and his spirits sank as he saw the stubby, bull-necked form of his old adversary, technical manager Phil Vigus, entering the office. Vigus, who was ultimately responsible for the reliability of all equipment, took every complaint as a personal insult — a trait which had often brought him into conflict with Cavendish. He had long regarded Cavendish as a cantankerous geriatric, and at that particular moment was the last person Cavendish wanted to see.

  "Take a seat, Phil," Denmark said. "I'm glad you dropped by."

  "Really?" Vigus lowered his bulk into a chair. "What have I got that you want?"

  Denmark gave him a cold fleeting smile. "You've got millions of monks' worth of equipment strung out along the Valley, and I've just been informed by Mr. Cavendish here — who else? — that it's a load of crap. I used to think the shell material was inert, didn't you? Well, apparently ylem can become so agitated that it lights up like a traffic sign, and not one of your piss-poor instruments even gives a quiver. What do you think of that?"

  "That's not what I said," Cavendish protested, shocked by the sheer crudity of Denmark's attack and deducing from it that he had landed himself in a genuine crisis. This was a tailor-made chance for Vigus to come down on him with both feet, to add his managerial clout to that of Denmark. Both men working in unison could have him issued with his walking papers in a couple of hours.

  "I presume, from the scuttlebutt I picked up this morning, that we're talking about Dan's wonderful green flash." Vigus's lips twitched in amusement. "They're already calling it his nocturnal emission."