Groton took it from her. “Could be an unofficial farewell from someone.” He looked at the address. “An arrow?”
“An arrow!” Afra was suddenly interested. “That’s from Schön!”
Ivo took it and opened it, not happily. It was obvious that Schön was at least partially aware of recent events, and that surely meant trouble.
The paper within contained no words, just a diagram. The others clustered around to look at it.
“A pitchfork,” Beatryx said, concerned because she had delivered the message. “What does it mean?”
“I hesitate to point this out—” Groton began.
“Let me think!” Afra said. “I’ve been through this before. Schön doesn’t like to communicate directly for some reason, but what he has to say is bound to be important.” She took the paper and floated off by herself, concentrating.
Groton produced his notebook and wrote something down. “Schön must know where we are and what we’re doing,” he said. “Could this be a hint where to find him?”
“It isn’t that easy,” Ivo said.
“Neptune!” Afra exclaimed. “That’s the symbol for Neptune!”
“God of the sea — and more,” Groton said, holding out his paper. Upon it, Ivo saw now, was the word NEPTUNE. Groton had known, waiting only for Afra’s confirmation.
“The planet,” she said. “That’s the trident. All the planets have their symbols. Mars is the spear and shield of the god of war; Venus is the goddess’s hand-mirror. So this is Neptune.”
“Your interpretation is interesting,” Groton said, privately amused about something. “But remember, those symbols do have other connotations.”
“Male and female, of course,” Afra said. “But Neptune is unmistakable.”
Groton did not push the matter, but Ivo was sure he had been driving at something else.
“Even Earth?” Beatryx inquired, catching up to an earlier comment.
“That’s an upside-down Venus symbol. I don’t remember them all, but I am sure of Neptune.”
Groton was still entertained. “I agree. It is Neptune. But I repeat: is this to be taken as an indication of location, or is it something more subtle?”
“Isn’t Neptune very far away?” Beatryx asked.
“Ridiculous!” Afra said hotly, ignoring the other woman. “No ship has gone there yet.”
“Not to mention the problem of delivering the letter here,” Groton added.
“Something is wrong. We have misread the signal.”
“I wonder,” Groton said. “What was that earlier contact you mentioned that you had with Schön? Was it like this?”
“No. It—” She turned abruptly to Ivo. “What poem? Which poet?”
Thus, in delayed fashion, she had come at it. He had foolishly told her that the earlier message represented a line of poetry with which he was familiar, and she had not forgotten. Could he stave off her assault?
“American. It was just Schön’s way of telling me that he knew what was up. Of telling you actually, since I couldn’t read it.”
“That much was obvious. Name the poet and piece.”
“I don’t see that that is relevant to—”
“An American poet, you said. Prominent?”
“Yes, but—”
“Born what century? Seventeenth?”
“No. Why do you—”
“Eighteenth?”
“No.” She would not be denied.
“Nineteenth?”
“Yes, but—”
“Whitman?”
“No.”
“Frost? Sandburg?”
“No.”
“But male?”
“Yes.”
“Eliot? Pound? Archibald MacLeish?”
“No.” He remained helpless before her intensity.
“Ransom? Wallace Stevens? Cummings? Hart Crane?”
“I hate to break in,” Groton said, “but we do have more pressing—”
She pointed her manicured finger at Ivo. “Vachel Lindsay!”
“The UN may be on our tail,” Groton said. “If we don’t make our decision soon, we could lose it by default.”
“All right!” she snapped, returning to him. “First, reconnaissance. We have to know whether there is pursuit yet, and of what type, so we can take evasive action. Once we’re safe, we can start running down Schön. I’m convinced our sprout-winner here is hiding something important. Once we get that, we’ll have a better notion what Schön is doing, and where.”
“I appreciate your ruthlessness,” Groton said dryly. “Where do we go from here?”
Ivo was immensely relieved to have the subject change. Afra was correct: he was hiding something important. “How will we know where the UN is? Don’t we have to keep radio silence, or something?”
She only glanced disparagingly at him. How else, he realized then, but with the macroscope itself?
“Trying to run down a single ship with this equipment is like aiming the atomic cannon at no-see-em gnats,” Groton observed.
“The torus will know,” Afra said. “We’ll have to watch it — the teletype, maybe, to monitor incoming messages. Or we can simply blast off now in any direction and outrun whatever pursuit forms.”
“Not,” Groton said succinctly, “a robot.”
She straightened, startled. “All right. I’ll get on the scope. We’d better know the worst.”
“Can you stay off the haunted frequency?”
“Calculated risk. With practice—”
“With practice like that, we’ll have two casualties aboard to clean up.”
Ivo recalled the loss of intestinal control of the victims and realized how hard such a notion would strike a finicky girl like Afra. “I seem to be immune,” he said. “At least, I can avoid it successfully. And I did win the privilege. If you will show me how to operate the controls—”
This time Afra seemed relieved. “I’ll instruct you. I’ll have to operate blind, but it should work. Here, I’ll turn off the main screen; you use the helmet.”
And she set him up in the control chair and fastened the equipment upon him, placing the heavy goggles over his eyes. Ivo wished there were more than sheer practicality in the operation, but knew there was not; it was more efficient for her to do these things for him than to direct him through it, this first time.
“Your left hand controls the computer directives. Here, I’ll put you on the ten-key complex.” Her hand took his and carried it to a buttoned surface like that of an adding machine. This was not the same control he had seen Brad employ, he was sure. Alternate inputs? A junior set for the novice? The goggles cut off all outside vision, so he, not she, was “blind.”
“We have a number of important locations precoded,” she continued. “You should memorize them, if you’re going to do this regularly, but right now I’ll give them to you. These will place you on Earth, the Luna bases, any of the artificial satellites or the macroscope station — the torus.” She spieled off numbers, and he obediently pressed the buttons. Twice he miskeyed and had to start over; the third time she placed her hand over his and depressed his fingers for him in the proper order and places. Her digits were soft and cool and firm — as he imagined the rest of her body to be.
Light flared into his eyes. He was a hundred yards from the torus, looking down at it from sunside, blinded by the reflection from its metal plates.
“The next coding is for semimanual control,” she said. “You can’t possibly keep the celestial motions aligned, but you can override portions of the computer’s automatic correction and drift a little.” She directed him through the necessary numeric instruction. “Now you can apply your right hand. Drive it as you would a car — but remember it is three-dimensional.” He felt the mounted ball, its surface actually sandpaper-rough for perfect traction. “Tilt for direction of motion, twist for orientation. Be careful — this is where the destroyer sometimes intrudes. You have to stick to fringe reception — which is more than adequate, at
this range. Now set your drift toward the torus; don’t worry, you’ll pass right through the walls. You’ll have to practice a bit to get it down…”
Ivo tilted and twisted — and was rewarded by a dizzying tailspin in which the intolerable blaze of Sol scorched across his eyeballs every three seconds.
“Not so much!” she cautioned after the fact. It was a lesson that would not have to be repeated.
He reduced his efforts and began to slide toward the station, twitching the direction of his gaze to cover it properly. The computer, he thought, must perform a tremendous task, for surely a completely different flow of macrons would be required for each change in direction — yet the transition was smooth. Probably at distances of many light-years such versatility diminished, until a view from the far side of the galaxy would be one direction only, take it or leave it.
It was beginning to work for him, and it gave him a feeling of power.
There was an odor.
“No, that’s my job,” Afra said, calling out to someone else. “You keep practicing, Ivo; I think you have the general idea. Try to work your way inside. I’ll be back in a moment.”
The smell and the sound told him: nature had summoned Brad, and Afra had a job of cleaning up and changing to do. He had to admit she had grit.
He thought of the right-hand control as a flute, and though there was no particular resemblance, control was suddenly easier. Now he could draw on his other talent, that peculiar digital dexterity and sense of tone musicians possessed. He shot through the wall of the torus, schooling himself not to wince, and stopped within the first hall. He reoriented, and was sure he was maintaining spatial stability, but the hall was tilting over steadily. He corrected — and lost it again.
Then he realized: the station was spinning, of course! He had to compensate not only for its motions in space, but for its internal rotation. He had to perform, in effect, a continuing spiral, matching velocities with whatever portion of the station he chose to view. An intricate adjustment, indeed!
He mastered it, driving his viewpoint around as though it were a racing car upon a treacherous track. Then he oriented for a “walk” along the hall. A twist superimposed upon the other adjustments, and he was facing the way he wanted; a tilt, and he was trotting down the hall toward Kovonov’s office.
The Russian was playing solitary sprouts. “If only I could talk to you, Kov!” Ivo exclaimed. “Just to ask you where that UN ship is, if there is one…”
“In Russian?” He jumped, but of course Kovonov had not spoken. Afra was back, her tone deceptively sweet.
Ivo felt the slow flush move up his face to the goggles and knew she was seeing it also, but he kept a steady image of the office. There had to be some way to make contact, and he was sure Kovonov was the key. The man had been too knowledgeable, too familiar with the necessary problems — perhaps because he had rehearsed this voyage himself. If anyone could communicate, across this barrier so much greater than that of language—
He concentrated on the board before the Russian. A vital message had been communicated through this board not so long ago, and perhaps another waited. Meanwhile, this was practice of another sort, since he had discovered in the course of his adjustments that size, too, could be directly controlled. Such adaptations would necessarily become more and more precise as the range increased, in future forays, and he felt he ought to have it down pat. This fine-tuning became an art; it was hardly accident that his musical ability was telling.
“What are you doing?” Afra demanded.
Ivo stifled an irritable reply. Surely she realized how delicate—
“Reexamining the portents, you might say,” Groton said, and Ivo realized with relief that Afra’s question had been directed at the older man.
“Your damned astrology tomes!” she exclaimed. “Your wife brought texts on art and music, but you had to bring—”
“Better than the pretty clothing you packed,” Groton replied, his tone showing his unperturbed smile. But the argument was on. Tension had to seek its sublimations.
And control came. Smoothly Ivo brought the focus down upon the sprouts-board, keeping it clear, magnifying the picture, until the dotted lines and loops loomed enormously across his field of vision. He centered on a single dot, making it swell up as though it were a planet. The illusion captured him, as illusions did; he was coming in for a landing, spaceship balanced. Time for the braking rockets…
“Doesn’t it seem just the merest trifle ridiculous to twiddle with squiggles on paper while there is so much of importance going on?” Afra inquired, and again Ivo had to confine a guilty start.
“I would prefer to call it the interpretation of the nuances of a horoscope,” Groton said calmly. He was better equipped, temperamentally, to fence with her than Ivo was. Beatryx must have gone back to the supply compartment, since she was not present to break this up. “I hardly consider it ridiculous to explore our situation and resources with the best instruments available. There is, as you point out, much of importance going on.”
“Are you seriously trying to equate the use of the macroscope with your occult hobby?”
“I do not consider astrology to be in any sense ‘occult,’ if by that term you mean to imply anything fantastic or magical or unscientific. In the sense that both are tools of immense complexity and potency, yes, I would equate astrology with the macroscope.”
“Let me get this quite straight. You make a representation of the constellations — only those within the narrow belt of the zodiac, ignoring the rest of the sky — and planets — those of Sol’s system exclusively — as they appear in Earth’s sky at the moment of a person’s birth… and from that mishmash you claim to be able to predict his entire life including accidents and acts of God, so that you can tell him — for a suitable fee — to watch out for trouble on a given day or to invest in a certain stock — and yet you claim there is nothing supernatural or at least unethical about this procedure?”
“What you describe is undoubtedly supernatural and possibly of dubious ethics, but it isn’t astrology. You are attributing erroneous claims to this science, then blaming it because it does not and can not make good on them.”
“Exactly what is your definition of astrology, then?”
“I can hardly define it in a sentence, Afra.”
“Try.” Did she think she had him?
“The doctrine of Microcosm and Macrocosm — that is, the concept of the individual as the cosmos in miniature, while the greater universe is total man in his real being.”
The dot-planet broke up into swirls and blobs. He was too close; the resolution of the chalk was not that fine. Soon he would have to center on one section of it, then on a subsection, and so on into the microcosm…
Doctrine of microcosm…
“A microscope!” he said, finding it excruciatingly funny. For the macroscope was, in this case, a microscope. An astonishingly versatile instrument. Could it be that each dot in a game of sprouts had its own gravitic aura that set up macronic ripples for him to pick up? Talk of sensitivity!
“What?” Afra sounded angry.
Oops. “Nothing.” Carefully, he reversed the action, and the scattered chalk coalesced. Now he was taking off from the planet, watching it reform into a distant dot that became a mere point of light against the black background of space. The other lines appeared, marking constellations of the night sky. Could Groton analyze them astrologically?
“All right,” Afra said. “Score one for you. You put me off again. But this time I’m not going to let you slip out of an honest discussion. I want to have your specific rationale for this foolishness.”
Nothing like handing him loaded dice, Ivo thought wryly — but he, too, was curious.
“Well, it is evident that there are certain objects in the universe,” Groton said gamely, “and that they are in constant motion, relative to Earth and to each other. That’s one reason we require the assistance of a computer to orient the macroscope. These masses, and
their respective movements, interrelate considerably. That is, the sun carries its family of planets along with it and forces them into particular orbits, while the planets affect their satellites and even distort the orbits of other planets.”
“That is not precisely the way modern theory describes the situation, but for the sake of argument we’ll accept it. So granted. The Solar system interacts.” She sounded impatient, eager for the kill.
“Similarly, there are a number of human beings and other creatures on the Earth, and they relate to each other and interact in an almost impenetrably complex pattern. We merely draw a parallel to the apparent motions of the—”
“Now we come to it. Mars makes men warlike?”
“No! There is no causal connection. In astrology the Earth is considered to be the center of the universe, and the individual’s place of birth is the center of his chart. This is not at all contrary to astronomy, incidentally; it is just a modification of viewpoint, for our convenience.”
Just as, Ivo thought, he was now performing all kinds of clever manipulations to make his macroscopic viewpoint stable. It would be impossible to accomplish anything if he tried to orient on galactic or even Solar “rest.” The center of the universe had to be where the observer was.
He was now paying more attention to the dialogue than to the semiautomatic refinements of macroscopic control, but was jolted back to business. His image was gone! Had he lost touch?
No — Kovonov had merely removed the board. How easy to forget reality, to become involved, to begin to believe in one’s fancies, and to see the monster hand of the image as the hand of God, drawing away the firmament. He had to guard against personification; it could unhinge him.
He adjusted the image so as to watch Kovonov, life-sized. The man looked about almost furtively, then drew from his desk drawer a card. He set this on the table.
There was print on it. Skillfully now, Ivo centered on that print, clarified it, read it. It was not Russian!
S D P S
A message for him! Kovonov was trying to communicate!
After a minute the Russian put the card away and replaced the board. He resumed his sprouts doodling.
Macroscope Page 14
