Macroscope

by Pierce Anthony

  The macroscope was the major UN effort. More international interests were crucially involved there than in any other area. Borland surely had seen its potential, and had acted to make it his own. It represented a ready way to make good on all his commitments, while benefiting the world as a whole. And perhaps he had intended to do just that, for altruistic reasons. (Ivo had not expected this tack.) Perhaps his ambition had gone beyond power, since he was in a position to appreciate how desperately the world needed help. Perhaps the answer to the ruin forecast by the Sung planet’s example had been Borland: someone to organize a more practical application of the immense knowledge available. Who could say for sure, now?

  But Borland had died, and in the worst possible manner. He had not trusted hearsay evidence; he had not really believed that the destroyer could bring him down. So he had called its bluff — and lost. The UN would believe that the station personnel had murdered him, perhaps by tricking him into confrontation with that killer from space.

  Trouble? As the international eggs began to fall and splatter, the need would grow very strong for an international scapegoat. The seeming cause of crisis: the macroscope.

  Now they were both suited and Ivo had still not discovered what they were going about so urgently.

  Afra was at the storeroom, moving things about with apparent abandon in the fractional gravity. Ivo spied crates of drugs, spices, grains, bandages and cheese, as well as cylinders of oxygen and liquid nutrient. “What’s your blood type?” she demanded of him.

  “O-positive.” What could he do, but answer?

  She selected a canister and dumped it near the door. Ivo looked at it: CONDENSED BLOOD O-POSITIVE. There was more technical description, but he averted his eyes, feeling unpleasantly giddy. Presumably there were ways to adjust for the myriad other factors involved in the matching of blood safely. What made her think he would need this?

  The storeroom supervisor sat at his desk, head drooping forward as though he were asleep. “Shouldn’t he be checking this stuff out?” Ivo inquired.

  “I fed him a mickey,” Afra said. “Or were you being facetious?”

  Ivo did not know how to answer that, so didn’t try. There was so much he didn’t know about this situation!

  Afra turned to Groton. “I’ll shape this up here and move it with the powercart. You get the personal junk assembled. Better make it one box each, limit.”

  “What do you need?” Groton asked Ivo.

  So many unanswered questions, but he had to do the answering! “If you mean what do I take with me when I leave this place, nothing. I have my flute with me.”

  “I forgot — you’re already suited,” Afra said. “I’ll select some clothing for you; more efficient that way.” She turned to Groton. “Better fetch Joseph.”

  Ivo started. “Joseph! Isn’t that the souped-up rocket?”

  “Right,” Groton agreed. “Come on.”

  He and Ivo jetted across to the huge rocket much as Brad had demonstrated the first trip to the macroscope proper, except for the necessary change in course this time. Spurts from a cylinder of hydrogen peroxide took care of the propulsion.

  Joseph’s hull was like a planetoid, seeming much vaster than it was, since there were no nearby objects to contrast for size. Ivo managed to land on his feet, having gained from his prior experience, and the magnetic shoe-bands took hold so that he could walk. They marched to the control compartment airlock and knocked.

  The interior was larger than that of the shuttle. Joseph had been gutted and rebuilt, so that the layout was like nothing Ivo had seen in space. Evidently the atomic equipment occupied less volume than had the chemical fuel before it, so that one of the monster internal tanks could be used for living space. He could almost imagine that he was in a futuristic submarine.

  In a manner of thinking, this was a futuristic sub.

  “Course correction,” Groton said to the attendant. “Can you hitch this baby up to the scope?”

  “Sure, in a couple of days,” the man said amicably.

  “This is an emergency. Two hours.”

  “I can move it there, but I can’t hitch it up in that time. Take a trained crew of twenty men to do that.”

  Groton rolled his eyes. “Ouch! Well, you move it over and I’ll do what I can. Ivo, better jet back to the scope and tell Afra, while I check with Kovonov. This is going to be sticky.”

  The attendant held up a hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, naturally — but don’t you think you’d better see Miss Summerfield?”

  “No. Ivo doesn’t—” Groton stopped. “Damn, yes. It has to be that way. Ivo, go tell Kovonov what we need. Then join us there. Don’t waste any time.”

  Ivo hung on to his patience. “Exactly what are you doing? Why do you want to hitch Joseph to the macroscope?”

  “To correct the scope’s course, as I explained.”

  “What’s the matter with its present course? It’s attached to the station, after all.”

  “We think it is about to fall into the sun.”

  “That’s ridiculous! It’s in orbit! And the station—”

  The attendant smiled. “It might as well fall. The UN will destroy it anyway.”

  “So you see, we need that crew immediately. Tell Kovonov.”

  Ivo saw that they weren’t going to give him a legitimate explanation. Angrily, he snapped his helmet to and left the compartment.

  Kovonov’s office was a niche in a heavy-gravity shell. It struck Ivo that this was an effective way to keep visits brief; anyone who stayed too long would fatigue rapidly. Momentary weight-increase could be put up with, but a steady diet of it was distinctly unpleasant. He wondered how the host endured it.

  Kovonov looked up from a book set in what Ivo assumed to be Russian type. He did not speak.

  The language barrier! “Groton says we need a crew of twenty men to stop the macroscope from falling into the sun,” Ivo said, knowing that the Russian could not understand a word.

  Kovonov listened gravely, then touched two switches. Ivo heard his own words played back: they had been recorded. Another voice rattled off incomprehensible syllables: the translation.

  Kovonov nodded.

  “Can you tell me what this is all about? I don’t—”

  The hand came up to silence him. Kovonov switched off the machine without obtaining the translation and brought out a small blackboard and two colored pieces of chalk. He made three blue dots.

  What was this fascination with sprouts? The scientists of this station acted as though a simple game were more important than life or death. Did Kovonov seriously mean to ignore his question and rechallenge for the championship?

  But it was not a contest this time. Kovonov filled in the connections himself without offering the chalk to Ivo. He was setting up a three-spot demonstration game of no particular complexity. The series went seven moves:

  The result reminded Ivo of a shovel. “But it isn’t finished,” he said. “There’s a free spot at either end.”

  Kovonov turned the panel over without erasing it and set up three dots more nearly in line, this time in red. He played through in the same fashion as before. This game, when halted, looked more like a telescope.

  He handed the board to Ivo.

  Obviously the designs were significant, rather than the games from which they were derived. The shovel on one side, telescope on the other. They were topologically equivalent, Ivo’s talent informed him; one could be distorted into the other without the erasure or crossing of any of the lines. They were, in fact, the same game, played in the same fashion. A three-spot sprout effort brought to one step from conclusion.

  Kovonov was trying to tell him something.

  Then he had it. The shovel, the scope — the same, linked by the sprouts. By extension, the steam-shovel and the macroscope. He had entered the sprouts tourney—

  And won the macroscope!

  Senator Borland’s death spelled the end of the project, by whatever line of reasoni
ng one approached it. This was a culmination none of the participating scientists or other personnel desired. There was no internal rivalry in this connection; nationality had been superseded by a higher calling. There appeared to be no way to reverse the ponderous, political, UN decision.

  Unless someone took away the macroscope, and thus preserved it from harm. Kovonov had obviously intended to win this privilege — until Ivo had defeated him in the runoff. Now the onus was his own.

  It would mean banishment from Earth, of course. Such a colossal theft—

  Ivo knew he was going to do it. They were right: the macroscope was far too valuable to abolish, or even to entrust to political whim. The presence of the destroyer, far from arguing against the macroscope, pointed up the extreme necessity of further study. Mankind could not turn isolationist; that was the way of the proboscoids.

  The knowledge of the universe (the galaxy, at least) lay within man’s reach, if not his grasp. It was a knowledge man had to have, however shortsighted the local politicians. Ivo had the ability to use the macroscope, since he had demonstrated his ability to survive the destroyer. He did not have to fear ambush and mindlessness in the main band. He also had contact — potential contact — with the person who could make the most of that knowledge: Schön. Perhaps this was the real reason Brad had summoned him. Not to crack the destroyer; to make use of the knowledge behind it, once cracked.

  Except that he did not intend to involve Schön. This was something he would undertake by himself — no matter how lonely a task it was. He had won the right. At least he would have the macroscope for company, and would be able to watch the events of Earth. If the political situation changed, he would know it, and could bring home the instrument.

  Kovonov was waiting patiently for his chain of thought to finish. Ivo erased the blackboard, both sides, and set it down. He stood up and gravely offered his hand to the Russian. Perhaps, of the two of them, the Russian had the more difficult task, for the UN investigation would not be kind. Heads, figuratively and possibly literally, would roll.

  In a gesture as grave as Ivo’s, Kovonov took that hand.

  CHAPTER 4

  The crew was already at work; Kovonov’s terse instruction had evidently been sufficient. It was amazing how much could be accomplished on an unofficial basis. Nobody had to admit to complicity in the theft, and he was sure the UN would have an impossibly difficult time making a case against anyone staying behind. How would they, for example, prove that the storeroom attendant had knowingly accepted Afra’s doped offering?

  On the other hand, that same theft might solve the UN problem. If they intended to close down the macroscope — well, that had already been accomplished for them. There could be a great public hue, but minor private sorrow.

  How extravagantly his conjecture fluctuated! One moment he was sure disaster stalked the station personnel; the next, that all was well. But he would not need to conjecture. He could watch the whole show on the macroscope!

  The rocket’s snout fitted into a matching cavity in the bottom of the scope’s housing, so that docking was possible without fouling the guy lines. He was sure that depression had not been there before; the crew must have removed the covering plates. Probably it was crowded inside, too, with that metal intruding, but it was a neat travel arrangement.

  The assembled package resembled a massive mushroom, with stubby rootlets and a relatively small spherical head. The fifty-foot diameter of the macroscope housing bulged beyond the thirty-three-foot-thick rocket, but was smaller in overall volume. Even so, it hardly seemed large enough to hold the complex equipment necessary — but of course the computers were miniaturized, using laser memory and other remarkable techniques. Presumably the unit would take off at right angles to the doughnut, breaking the ties, then maneuver to head in the right direction.

  What was the right direction? He had no idea. Space was vast… yet where could Joseph go, where could he hide, where the telescopes of Earth could not locate him, the missiles seek him out? The immense honor of the task seemed to have less desirable ramifications.

  Ivo drifted across to the scene of activity. Men were still busy, but the task appeared to be virtually complete. No one paid attention to him — a deliberate and necessary slight, he realized. He could anticipate the coming dialogue:

  UN: What happened to the macroscope? PERSONNEL: We didn’t see anything. Must’ve been that new fellow, the one Dr. Carpenter brought in. We were just shaping it up for a shift in orbit—

  And Dr. Carpenter would not be in condition to answer questions.

  As a matter of fact, their investigation into the circumstances surrounding Senator Borland’s demise would run into the same blank end. Only two people had shared the experience that killed him; one was absent in mind, the other would be absent in body. Perhaps the alien signal was to blame for both? Kovonov would remark upon the strangeness of the thief’s prior actions: barging into an innocent recreational session, removing the station emblem from its pedestal, poking around the premises. There would be the recording of his voice, as he intruded into the Russian’s study: expressing confusion. Obviously that terrible session with the destroyer had killed one, stupefied the second, and thrown the third into a borderline aberration that prompted him to abscond with the scope.

  It was not the place in history Ivo would have selected for himself, but it was necessary. The macroscope had to be saved from the UN repercussion, and it was better that a person like Ivo Archer bear the onus than one like Dr. Kovonov. Even through the language barrier, Ivo had come to appreciate the qualities of the man.

  He landed on the head of the mushroom and made his way to the lock. No workmen, coincidentally, were facing in his direction. The coincidence held for the several minutes it took him to reach the lock and figure out its mode of operation. It seemed it could be opened from the outside, with the proper tool — and such a tool had been forgotten nearby. It was stuck to the metal hull, held there by its magnetism. An insertion, a twist; the mechanism clicked over, and the lock came open with no wasteful outrush of air. He climbed inside and shut himself in.

  Groton was waiting for him. “Everything clear? We want to be ready to move as soon as the crew finishes. I don’t know how rapidly the UN ship will get here.”

  “They seem to be finished outside, if that’s what you mean.”

  Groton put on earphones. “Ivo’s here,” he said into the intercom. “Give us two minutes to strap down, then cut loose, girls.”

  Ivo could not hear the reply, but he had been reassured of one thing: Afra was coming along. He had known she had to come, yet doubted it too. To go to space with her…

  They tied down on either side of the mighty nose cone that transfixed the center compartment. There was a port set in its side for direct admission to Joseph, but this remained sealed.

  The framework shuddered; then they were smitten by the power of the atomic rocket. At triple-gravity acceleration, the macroscope tore free of its moorings.

  Five grueling minutes later the drive cut off and they were in blessed free-fall again. “We’re on our way,” Groton said soberly. “Let’s confer with the pilot.” He unstrapped and jostled around to the hatch in the nose of Joseph.

  It opened, and a helmeted figure emerged, clumsy and drifting upward (according to Ivo’s orientation) in the confined absence of gravity. Groton held on to the deck with his toes hooked into a handhold and offered a steadying arm. It was Beatryx.

  A second figure floated through: Afra. “I think we’d better put him in here,” she said. “He doesn’t need to move about…”

  “Him?” Ivo asked.

  She trained those beautiful eyes upon him: “Brad. I couldn’t leave him behind, of course.”

  Paradise lost! Yet with the keen disappointment came the relief of something else as well: guilt. The dead man was here to look after his own.

  And Brad had been Ivo’s friend, too.

  They got the limp body set up in a nook formed by outth
rusts of inscrutable equipment. Ivo, entering Joseph, found stacked, tied crates: the plentiful supplies whose loading Afra had supervised. They seemed to have planned this theft carefully.

  The immediate chores accomplished, they clung to handholds (the magnetic shoes had been discarded with the suits) and stared at each other. Carefully planned? It seemed that no one had looked beyond this point. The break had been made, almost incredibly; what next?

  Afra stepped into the breach. “Obviously we have two objectives: keep clear of the UN, and pick up Schön. We should be able to do the first as long as we keep moving away from Earth — but we can’t accomplish the second without coming in close to Earth. That’s our problem.”

  “That’s assuming Schön is on Earth,” Groton said.

  Afra closed on Ivo. “Is Schön on Earth?”

  “No.”

  “Wonderful! We’ll have much less trouble reaching him in space, though it won’t be easy even so. The moon station wouldn’t really be much of an improvement, but one of the asteroid units… Where is he?”

  “I am not free to tell you.”

  Afra’s mercurial temper showed. “Now look, Ivo. We have gone to a good deal of trouble, not to mention banishment, to make it possible for you to summon Schön and bring him to the macroscope. You can’t simply—”

  “Excuse me,” Groton said. “We know Ivo isn’t trying to be obstructive. Let’s give him a chance to explain what he means.”

  Ivo found this approach no more acceptable than the other. “I can’t explain. Schön isn’t — well, I’m just not certain yet that we need him.”

  Afra became deadly quiet. “You mean you won’t bring him?”

  “I guess that’s what I mean.”

  Her righteous wrath magnified. “And all by yourself you’re going to hide Joseph and operate the macroscope and get medical help for—”

  This time it was Beatryx who broke in. “I think I have a letter for someone,” she said. “I found it in the chute, but everything was in such a hurry—”