The meeting had not been a success; nor had the second, arranged at considerable expense and difficulty aboard the space hospital itself – indeed, in this very room. Chris had been twenty then, and had just married; if there was one thing that united Floyd and Caroline, it was disapproval of his choice.
Yet Helena had turned out remarkably well: she had been a good mother to Chris II, born barely a month after the marriage. And when, like so many other young wives, she was widowed by the Copernicus Disaster, she did not lose her head.
There was a curious irony in the fact that both Chris I and II had lost their fathers to space, though in very different ways. Floyd had returned briefly to his eight-year-old son as a total stranger; Chris II had at least known a father for the first decade of his life, before losing him for ever.
And where was Chris these days? Neither Caroline nor Helena – who were now the best of friends – seemed to know whether he was on Earth or in space. But that was typical; only postcards date-stamped CLAVIUS BASE had informed his family of his first visit to the Moon.
Floyd's card was still taped prominently above his desk. Chris II had a good sense of humour – and of history. He had mailed his grandfather that famous photograph of the Monolith, looming over the spacesuited figures gathered round it in the Tycho excavation, more than half a century ago. All the others in the group were now dead, and the Monolith itself was no longer on the Moon. In 2006, after much controversy, it had been brought to Earth and erected – an uncanny echo of the main building – in the United Nations Plaza. It had been intended to remind the human race that it was no longer alone; five years later, with Lucifer blazing in the sky, no such reminder was needed.
Floyd's fingers were not very steady – sometimes his right hand seemed to have a will of its own – as he unpeeled the card and slipped it into his pocket. It would be almost the only personal possession he would take when he boarded Universe.
'Twenty-five days – you'll be back before we've noticed you're gone,' said Jerry. 'And by the way, is it true that you'll have Dimitri onboard?'
'That little Cossack!' snorted George. 'I conducted his Second Symphony, back in '22.'
'Wasn't that when the First Violin threw up, during the largo?'
'No – that was Mahler, not Mihailovich. And anyway it was the brass, so nobody noticed – except the unlucky tuba player, who sold his instrument the next day.'
'You're making this up!'
'Of course. But give the old rascal my love, and ask him if he remembers that night we had out in Vienna. Who else have you got aboard?'
'I've heard horrible rumours about press gangs,' said Jerry thoughtful1y.
'Greatly exaggerated, I can assure you. We've all been personally chosen by Sir Lawrence for our intelligence, wit, beauty, charisma, or other redeeming virtue.'
'Not expendability?'
'Well, now that you mention it, we've all had to sign a depressing legal document, absolving Tsung Spacelines from every conceivable liability. My copy's in that file, by the way.'
'Any chance of us collecting on it?' asked George hopefully.
'No – my lawyers say it's iron-clad. Tsung agrees to take me to Halley and back, give me food, water, air, and a room with a view.'
'And in return?'
'When I get back I'll do my best to promote future voyages, make some video appearances, write a few articles – all very reasonable, for the chance of a lifetime. Oh yes – I'll also entertain my fellow passengers – and vice versa.'
'How? Song and dance?'
'Well, I hope to inflict selected portions of my memoirs on a captive audience. But I don't think I'll be able to compete with the professionals. Did you know that Yva Merlin will be on board?'
'What! How did they coax her out of that Park Avenue cell?'
'She must be a hundred and – oops, sorry, Hey.' 'She's seventy, plus or minus five.'
'Forget the minus. I was just a kid when Napoleon came out.'
There was a long pause while each of the trio scanned his memories of that famous work. Although some critics considered her Scarlett O'Hara to be her finest role, to the general public Yva Merlin (née Evelyn Miles, when she was born in Cardiff, South Wales) was still identified with Josephine. Almost half a century ago, David Griffin's controversial epic had delighted the French and infuriated the British – though both sides now agreed that he had occasionally allowed his artistic impulses to trifle with the historical record, notably in the spectacular final sequence of the Emperor's coronation in Westminster Abbey.
'That's quite a scoop for Sir Lawrence,' said George thoughtfully.
'I think I can claim some credit for that. Her father was an astronomer – he worked for me at one time – and she's always been quite interested in science. So I made a few video calls.'
Heywood Floyd did not feel it necessary to add that, like a substantial fraction of the human race, he had fallen in love with Yva ever since the appearance of GWTW Mark II.
'Of course,' he continued, 'Sir Lawrence was delighted – but I had to convince him that she had more than a casual interest in astronomy. Otherwise the voyage could be a social disaster.'
'Which reminds me,' said George, producing a small package he had been not very successfully hiding behind his back. 'We have a little present for you.'
'Can I open it now?'
'Do you think he should?' Jerry wondered anxiously.
'In that case, I certainly will,' said Floyd, untying the bright green ribbon and unwrapping the paper.
Inside was a nicely framed painting. Although Floyd knew little of art, he had seen it before; indeed, who could ever forget it?
The makeshift raft tossing on the waves was crowded with half-naked castaways, some already moribund, others waving desperately at a ship on the horizon. Beneath it was the caption:
THE RAFT OF THE MEDUSA
(Theodore Géricault, 1791-1824)
And underneath that was the message, signed by George and Jerry: 'Getting there is half the fun.'
'You're a pair of bastards, and I love you dearly,' said Floyd, embracing them both. The ATTENTION light on Archie's keyboard was flashing briskly; it was time to go.
His friends left in a silence more eloquent than words. For the last time, Heywood Floyd looked around the little room that had been his universe for almost half his life.
And suddenly he remembered how that poem ended:
'I have been happy: happy now I go.'
8 – Starfleet
Sir Lawrence Tsung was not a sentimental man, and was far too cosmopolitan to take patriotism seriously – though as an undergraduate he had briefly sported one of the artificial pigtails worn during the Third Cultural Revolution. Yet the planetarium re-enactment of the Tsien disaster moved him deeply, and caused him to focus much of his enormous influence and energy upon space.
Before long, he was taking weekend trips to the Moon, and had appointed his son Charles (the thirty-two-million-so! one) as Vice-President of Tsung Astrofreight. The new corporation had only two catapult-launched, hydrogen-fuelled ramrockets of less than a thousand tons empty mass; they would soon be obsolete, but they could provide Charles with the experience that, Sir Lawrence was quite certain, would be needed in the decades ahead. For at long last, the Space Age was truly about to begin.
Little more than half a century had separated the Wright Brothers and the coming of cheap, mass air transportation; it had taken twice as long to meet the far greater challenge of the Solar System.
Yet when Luis Alvarez and his team had discovered muon-catalysed fusion back in the 1950s, it had seemed no more than a tantalizing laboratory curiosity, of only theoretical interest. Just as the great Lord Rutherford had pooh-poohed the prospects of atomic power, so Alvarez himself doubted that 'cold nuclear fusion' would ever be of practical importance. Indeed, it was not until 2040 that the unexpected and accidental manufacture of stable muonium-hydrogen 'compounds' had opened up a new chapter of human history – exactly as t
he discovery of the neutron had initiated the Atomic Age.
Now small, portable nuclear power plants could be built, with a minimum of shielding. Such enormous investments had already been made in conventional fusion that the world's electrical utilities were not – at first – affected, but the impact on space travel was immediate; it could be paralleled only by the jet revolution in air transport of a hundred years earlier.
No longer energy-limited, spacecraft could achieve far greater speeds; flight times in the Solar System could now be measured in weeks rather than months or even years. But the muon drive was still a reaction device – a sophisticated rocket, no different in principle from its chemically fuelled ancestors; it needed a working fluid to give it thrust. And the cheapest, cleanest, and most convenient of all working fluids was – plain water.
The Pacific Spaceport was not likely to run short of this useful substance. Matters were different at the next port of call – the Moon. Not a trace of water had been discovered by the Surveyor, Apollo, and Luna missions. If the Moon had ever possessed any native water, aeons of meteoric bombardment had boiled and blasted it into space.
Or so the selenologists believed; yet clues to the contrary had been visible, ever since Galileo had turned his first telescope upon the Moon. Some lunar mountains, for a few hours after dawn, glitter as brilliantly as if they are capped with snow. The most famous case is the rim of the magnificent crater Aristarchus, which William Herschel, the father of modem astronomy, once observed shining so brightly in the lunar night that he decided it must be an active volcano. He was wrong; what he saw was the Earthlight reflected from a thin and transient layer of frost, condensed during the three hundred hours of freezing darkness.
The discovery of the great ice deposits beneath Schroter's Valley, the sinuous canyon winding away from Anstarchus, was the last factor in the equation that would transform the economics of space-flight. The Moon could provide a filling station just where it was needed, high up on the outermost slopes of the Earth's gravitational field, at the beginning of the long haul to the planets.
Cosmos, first of the Tsung fleet, had been designed to carry freight and passengers on the Earth-Moon-Mars run, and as a test-vehicle, through complex deals with a dozen organizations and governments, of the still experimental muon drive. Built at the Imbriurn shipyards, she had just sufficient thrust to lift off from the Moon with zero payload; operating from orbit to orbit, she would never again touch the surface of any world. With his usual flair for publicity, Sir Lawrence arranged for her maiden flight to commence on the hundredth anniversary of Sputnik Day, 4 October 2057.
Two years later, Cosmos was joined by a sister ship. Galaxy was designed for the Earth-Jupiter run, and had enough thrust to operate directly to any of the Jovian moons, though at considerable sacrifice of payload. If necessary, she could even return to her lunar berth for refitting. She was by far the swiftest vehicle ever built by man: if she burned up her entire propellant mass in one orgasm of acceleration, she would attain a speed of a thousand kilometres a second – which would take her from Earth to Jupiter in a week, and to the nearest star in not much more than ten thousand years.
The third ship of the fleet – and Sir Lawrence's pride and joy – embodied all that had been learned in the building of her two sisters. But Universe was not intended primarily for freight. She was designed from the beginning as the first passenger liner to cruise the space lanes – right out to Saturn, the jewel of the Solar System.
Sir Lawrence had planned something even more spectacular for her maiden voyage, but construction delays caused by a dispute with the Lunar Chapter of the Reformed Teamsters' Union had upset his schedule. There would just be time for the initial flight tests and Lloyd's certification in the closing months of 2060, before Universe left Earth orbit for her rendezvous. It would be a very close thing: Halley's Comet would not wait, even for Sir Lawrence Tsung.
9 – Mount Zeus
The survey satellite Europa VI had been in orbit for almost fifteen years, and had far exceeded its design life; whether it should be replaced was a subject of considerable debate in the small Ganymede scientific establishment.
It carried the usual collection of data-gathering instruments, as well as a now virtually useless imaging system. Though still in perfect working order, all that this normally showed of Europa was an unbroken cloudscape. The overworked science team on Ganymede scanned the recordings in 'Quick Look' mode once a week, then squirted the raw data back to Earth. On the whole, they would be rather relieved when Europa VI expired and its torrent of uninteresting gigabytes finally dried up.
Now, for the first time in years, it had produced something exciting.
'Orbit 71934,' said the Deputy Chief Astronomer, who had called van der Berg as soon as the latest data-dump had been evaluated. 'Coming in from the nightside – heading straight for Mount Zeus. You won't see anything for another ten seconds, though.'
The screen was completely black, yet van der Berg could imagine the frozen landscape rolling past beneath its blanket of clouds a thousand kilometres below. In a few hours the distant Sun would be shining there, for Europa revolved on its axis once in every seven Earth-days. 'Nightside' should really be called 'Twilight-side', for half the time it had ample light – but no heat. Yet the inaccurate name had stuck, because it had emotional validity: Europa knew Sunrise, but never Lucifer-rise.
And the Sunrise was coming now, speeded up a thousandfold by the racing probe. A faintly luminous band bisected the screen, as the horizon emerged from darkness.
The explosion of light was so sudden that van der Berg could almost imagine he was looking into the glare of an atomic bomb. In a fraction of a second, it ran through all the colours of the rainbow, then became pure white as the Sun leapt above the mountain – then vanished as the automatic filters cut into the circuit.
'That's all; pity there was no operator on duty at the time – he could have panned the camera down and had a good view of the mountain as we went over. But I knew you'd like to see it – even though it disproves your theory.'
'How?' said van der Berg, more puzzled than annoyed.
'When you go through it in slow motion, you'll see what I mean. Those beautiful rainbow effects – they're not atmospheric – they're caused by the mountain itself. Only ice could do that. Or glass – which doesn't seem very likely.'
'Not impossible – volcanoes can produce natural glass – but it's usually black... of course!'
'Yes?'
'Er – I won't commit myself until I've been through the data. But my guess would be rock crystal – transparent quartz. You can make beautiful prisms and lenses out of it. Any chance of some more observations?'
'I'm afraid not – that was pure luck – Sun, mountain, camera all lined up at the right time. It won't happen again in a thousand years.'
'Thanks, anyway – can you send me over a copy? No hurry – I'm just leaving on a field trip to Perrine, and won't be able to look at it until I get back.'
Van der Berg gave a short, rather apologetic laugh.
'You know, if that really is rock crystal, it would be worth a fortune. Might even help solve our balance of payments problem...'
But that, of course, was utter fantasy. Whatever wonders – or treasures – Europa might conceal, the human race had been forbidden access to them, by that last message from Discovery. Fifty years later, there was no sign that the interdiction would ever be lifted.
10 – Ship of Fools
For the first forty-eight hours of the voyage, Heywood Floyd could not really believe the comfort, the spaciousness – the sheer extravagance of Universe's living arrangements. Yet most of his fellow passengers took them for granted; those who had never left Earth before assumed that all spaceships must be like this.
He had to look back at the history of aeronautics to put matters in the right perspective. In his own lifetime, he had witnessed – indeed, experienced – the revolution that had occurred in the skies of the planet now d
windling behind him. Between the clumsy old Leonov and the sophisticated Universe lay exactly fifty years. (Emotionally, he couldn't really believe that – but it was useless arguing about arithmetic.)
And just fifty years had separated the Wright Brothers from the first jet airliners. At the beginning of that half-century, intrepid aviators had hopped from field to field, begoggled and windswept on open chairs; at its end, grandmothers had slumbered peacefully between continents at a thousand kilometres an hour.
So he should not, perhaps, have been astonished at the luxury and elegant decor of his stateroom, or even the fact that he had a steward to keep it tidy. The generously sized window was the most startling feature of his suite, and at first he felt quite uncomfortable thinking of the tons of air pressure it was holding in check against the implacable, and never for a moment relaxing, vacuum of space.
The biggest surprise, even though the advance literature should have prepared him for it, was the presence of gravity. Universe was the first spaceship ever built to cruise under continuous acceleration, except for the few hours of the mid-course 'turnaround'. When her huge propellant tanks were fully loaded with their five thousand tons of water, she could manage a tenth of a gee – not much, but enough to keep loose objects from drifting around. This was particularly convenient at mealtimes – though it took a few days for the passengers to learn not to stir their soup too vigorously.
Forty-eight hours out from Earth, the population of Universe had already stratified itself into four distinct classes.
The aristocracy consisted of Captain Smith and his officers. Next came the passengers; then crew – non-commissioned and stewards. And then steerage...
That was the description that the five young space scientists had adopted for themselves, first as a joke but later with a certain amount of bitterness. When Hoyd compared their cramped and jury-rigged quarters with his own luxurious cabin, he could see their point of view, and soon became the conduit of their complaints to the Captain.
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