The bomb was a cylinder about ten metres long and three in diameter—by a strange coincidence, almost the same proportions as Rama itself. It was attached to the framework of the carrier vehicle by an open latticework of short I-beams. For some reason, probably to do with the location of the centre of mass, it was supported at right angles to the axis of the carrier, so that it conveyed an appropriately sinister hammerhead impression. It was indeed a hammer, one powerful enough to smash a world.
From each end of the bomb, a bundle of braided cables ran along the cylindrical side and disappeared through the latticework into the interior of the vehicle. All communication and control was here; there was no antenna of any kind on the bomb itself. Rodrigo had only to cut those two sets of cables and there would be nothing here but harmless, inert metal.
Although this was exactly what he had expected, it still seemed a little too easy. He glanced at his watch; it would be another thirty seconds before the Hermians, even if they had been watching when he rounded the edge of Rama, could know of his existence. He had an absolutely certain five minutes for uninterrupted work—and a ninety-nine per cent probability of much longer than that.
As soon as the scooter had drifted to a complete halt, Rodrigo grappled it to the missile framework so that the two formed a rigid structure. That took only seconds; he had already chosen his tools, and was out of the pilot’s seat at once, only slightly hampered by the stiffness of his heavy-insulation suit.
The first thing he found himself inspecting was a small metal plate bearing the inscription:
DEPARTMENT OF POWER ENGINEERING
Section D, 47, Sunset Boulevard, Vulcanopolis, 17464
For information apply to Mr. Henry K. Jones
Rodrigo suspected that, in a very few minutes, Mr. Jones might be rather busy.
The heavy wire-cutters made short work of the cable. As the fist strands parted, Rodrigo gave scarcely a thought to the fires of hell that were pent up only centimetres away; if his actions triggered them, he would never know.
He glanced again at his watch; this had taken less than a minute, which meant that he was on schedule. Now for the back-up cable—and then he could head for home, in full view of the furious and frustrated Hermians.
He was just beginning to work on the second cable assembly when he felt a faint vibration in the metal he was touching. Startled, he looked back along the body of the missile.
The characteristic blue-violet glow of a plasma thruster in action was hovering round one of the attitude control jets. The bomb was preparing to move. The message from Mercury was brief, and devastating. It arrived two minutes after Rodrigo had disappeared around the edge of Rama.
COMMANDER ENDEAVOUR FROM MERCURY SPACE CONTROL, INFERNO WEST.
YOU HAVE ONE HOUR FROM RECEIPT OF THIS MESSAGE TO LEAVE VICINITY OF RAMA. SUGGEST YOU PROCEED MAXIMUM ACCELERATION ALONG SPIN AXIS.
REQUEST ACKNOWLEDGEMENT.
MESSAGE ENDS.
Norton read it with sheer disbelief, then anger. He felt a childish impulse to radio back that all his crew were inside Rama, and it would take hours to get everyone out. But that would achieve nothing—except perhaps to test the will and nerve of the Hermians.
And why, several days before perihelion, had they decided to act? He wondered if the mounting pressure of public opinion was becoming too great, and they decided to present the rest of the human race with a fait accompli. It seemed an unlikely explanation; such sensitivity would have been uncharacteristic.
There was no way in which he could recall Rodrigo, for the scooter was now in the radio shadow of Rama and would be out of contact until they were in line of sight again. That would not be until the mission was completed—or had failed.
He would have to wait it out; there was still plenty of time—a full fifty minutes. Meanwhile, he had decided on the most effective answer to Mercury.
He would ignore the message completely, and see what the Hermians did next. Rodrigo’s first sensation, when the bomb started to move, was not one of physical fear; it was something much more devastating. He believed that the universe operated according to strict laws, which not even God Himself could disobey—much less the Hermians. No message could travel faster than light; he was five minutes ahead of anything that Mercury could do.
This could only be a coincidence—fantastic, and perhaps deadly, but no more than that. By chance, a control signal must have been sent to the bomb at about the time he was leaving Endeavour; while he was travelling fifty kilometres, it had covered eighty million.
Or perhaps this was only an automatic change of attitude, to counter overheating somewhere in the vehicle. There were places where the skin temperature approached fifteen hundred degrees, and Rodrigo had been very careful to keep in the shadows as far as possible.
A second thruster started to fire, checking the spin given by the first. No, this was not a mere thermal adjustment. The bomb was re-orientating itself, to point towards…
Useless to wonder why this was happening at this precise moment in time. There was one thing in his favour; the missile was a low-acceleration device. A tenth of a gee was the most that it could manage. He could hang on.
He checked the grapples attaching the scooter to the bomb framework, and re-checked the safety line on his own suit. A cold anger was growing in his mind, adding to his determination. Did this manoeuvre mean that the Hermians were going to explode the bomb without warning, giving Endeavour no chance to escape? That seemed incredible—an act not only of brutality but of folly, calculated to turn the rest of the solar system against them. And what would have made them ignore the solemn promise of their own Ambassador?
Whatever their plan, they would not get away with it.
The second message from Mercury was identical with the first, and arrived ten minutes later. So they had extended the deadline—Norton still had one hour. And they had obviously waited until a reply from Endeavour could have reached them before calling him again.
Now there was another factor; by this time they must have seen Rodrigo, and would have had several minutes in which to take action. Their instructions could already be on the way. They could arrive at any second.
He should be preparing to leave. At any moment, the sky-filling bulk of Rama might become incandescent along the edges, blazing with a transient glory that would far outshine the sun.
When the main thrust came on, Rodrigo was securely anchored. Only twenty seconds later, it cut off again. He did a quick mental calculation; the delta vee could not have been more than fifteen kilometres an hour. The bomb would take over an hour to reach Rama; perhaps it was only moving in close to get a quicker reaction. If so, that was a wise precaution; but the Hermians had left it too late.
Rodrigo glanced at his watch, though by now he was almost aware of the time without having to check. On Mercury, they would now be seeing him heading purposefully towards the bomb, and less than two kilometres away from it. They could have no doubt of his intentions, and would be wondering if he had already carried them out.
The second set of cables went as easily as the first; like any good workman, Rodrigo had chosen his tools well. The bomb was disarmed; or, to be more accurate, it could no longer be detonated by remote command.
Yet there was one other possibility, and he could not afford to ignore it. There were no external contact fuses, but there might be internal ones, armed by the shock of impact. The Hermians still had control over their vehicle’s movements, and could crash it into Rama whenever they wished. Rodrigo’s work was not yet completely finished.
Five minutes from now, in that control room somewhere on Mercury, they would see him crawling back along the exterior of the missile, carrying the modestly-sized wire-cutters that had neutralized the mightiest weapon ever built by man. He was almost tempted to wave at the camera, but decided that it would seem undignified; after all, he was making history, and millions would watch this scene in the years to come. Unless, of course, the Hermians destroyed the recor
ding in a fit of pique; he would hardly blame them.
He reached the mounting of the long-range antenna, and drifted hand-over-hand along it to the big dish. His faithful cutters made short work of the multiplex feed system, chewing up cables and laser wave guides alike. When he made the last snip, the antenna started to swing slowly around; the unexpected movement took him by surprise, until he realized that he had destroyed its automatic lock on Mercury. Just five minutes from now, the Hermians would lose all contact with their servant. Not only was it impotent; now it was blind and deaf.
Rodrigo climbed slowly back to the scooter, released the shackles, and swung it round until the forward bumpers were pressing against the missile, as close as possible to its centre of mass. He brought thrust up to full power, and held it there for twenty seconds.
Pushing against many times its own mass, the scooter responded very sluggishly. When Rodrigo cut the thrust back to zero, he took a careful reading of the bomb’s new velocity vector.
It would miss Rama by a wide margin and it could be located again with precision at any future time. It was, after all, a very valuable piece of equipment.
Lieutenant Rodrigo was a man of almost pathological honesty. He would not like the Hermians to accuse him of losing their property.
41. Hero
“Darling,” began Norton, “this nonsense has cost us more than a day, but at least it’s given me a chance to talk to you.”
“I’m still in the ship, and she’s heading back to station at the polar axis. We picked up Rod an hour ago, looking as if he’d just come off duty after a quiet watch. I suppose neither of us will ever be able to visit Mercury again, and I’m wondering if we’re going to be treated as heroes or villains when we get back to Earth. But my conscience is clear; I’m sure we did the right thing. I wonder if the Ramans will ever say ‘thank you’.”
“We can stay here only two more days; unlike Rama, we don’t have a kilometre-thick skin to protect us from the sun. The hull’s already developing dangerous hotspots and we’ve had to put out some local screening. I’m sorry—I didn’t want to bore you with my problems…”
“So there’s time for just one more trip into Rama, and I intend to make the most of it. But don’t worry—I’m not taking any chances.”
He stopped the recording. That, to say the least, was stretching the truth. There was danger and uncertainty about every moment inside Rama; no man could ever feel really at home there, in the presence of forces beyond his understanding. And on this final trip, now that he knew they would never return and that no future operations would be jeopardized, he intended to press his luck just a little further.
“In forty-eight hours, then, we’ll have completed this mission. What happens then is still uncertain; as you know, we’ve used virtually all our fuel getting into this orbit. I’m still waiting to hear if a tanker can rendezvous with us in time to get back to Earth, or whether we’ll have to make planet-fall at Mars. Anyway, I should be home by Christmas. Tell Junior I’m sorry I can’t bring a baby biot; there’s no such animal…”
“We’re all fine, but we’re very tired. I’ve earned a long leave after all this, and we’ll make up for lost time. Whatever they say about me, you can claim you’re married to a hero. How many wives have a husband who saved a world?”
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.
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 crystalli
ne. 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.
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