Orbitsville Trilogy

by Bob Shaw

  More than ever, to Nicklin's eyes, the ship looked quite incapable of flight, but he felt for it the special passion that some men and women can develop for a machine which was designed for a difficult task and has the potential to carry it out superbly.

  The love affair had begun inauspiciously.

  When the excavators bared the twin drive cylinders, upon which the ship had rested during its long incarceration, they discovered that Ves Fugaccia had made a mistake of the kind to which obsessive monument builders had been prone throughout history. In his determination to make his wife's tomb impregnable he had swathed it with layer after massive layer of defences – and the combined weight of them had split the ferro-concrete foundation upon which the great edifice was constructed. In addition, somebody had forgotten to seal off the ventilators, purging ducts and drain tubes which had been opened for the ship's overhaul in land-dock.

  The apertures were comparatively tiny, almost invisible in the expanses of impermeable pressure hull, but they had been like six-lane highways for the myriads of fungal, crawling and slithering life-forms which existed in Orbitsville's fertile soil.

  When Montane's workers opened the doors leading from the central cylinder into the engine cylinders they entered a dank and unwholesome netherworld. It was a jungle of tendrils and threads emanating from huge, pallid, fronded growths – some of them oozing in decay – among which there lived vast populations of things which moved on many legs or no legs at all. For seventy years they had fought among themselves for control of that dark microcosm, squirming armies of them disputing the principality of a fuse box or the kingdom of a transformer housing. They were united, however, in their dislike for the giant invaders from the world of light, and they demonstrated the fact with every means at their disposal.

  It took many days for the humans to reclaim and fumigate the drive cylinders, and much longer for the fetid smell – a hint of which Nicklin had picked up when he first entered the ship – to be totally eliminated. And, inevitably, the machinery and equipment in the cylinders had suffered during the alien occupation. Some of the damage had been caused by dampness, but anything soft – insulation, seal materials, vibration mounts and the like – had disappeared into a multitude of tiny digestive systems.

  Corey Montane had been appalled by visions of the consequent delay and expense; but the machine-lover in Nicklin had commiserated with the ship itself. I'll make you well again, he had promised it, conceiving an alluring plan to comprehend every scientific and engineering principle, to master every system, to learn every part number, and use the knowledge to restore the patient, uncomplaining entity that was the ship to a state of good health.

  It was a grandiose project, one which very few would have undertaken, but it had kept him sane during the heartbreaking year on the road. He had built up a library of manufacturers' manuals in book, disk and tape form, and had eased the frustration of each new delay in the journey by telephoning orders for components which could be installed on the move. He had been aided in diverse ways by Scott Hepworth, who had imparted relevant knowledge in exchange for gin, and by Gerl Kingsley, who had thrown his muscular power into physically demanding tasks that a man could not accomplish on his own.

  Now that the Tara was safely docked on the rim of Portal One the main restoration work was beginning. Nicklin and Hepworth had made a joint decision that every aspect of it could be handled by existing mission personnel, working under their guidance. Montane had been happy to accept that arrangement because it was likely to be the most economical. Moving the ship to Beachhead – an undertaking which had involved building temporary bridges in some places – had cost a fortune, and his financial resources were not unlimited.

  The Tara was classed as an exploration vessel, and therefore had not been designed to carry large numbers of passengers, but it had the same major dimensions as all other ships of the 5M general type. The ubiquitous 5M label showed that the Tara's three cylinders had an external radius of five metres – and therefore would accept a vast range of standardised off-the-shelf components, including diaphragm decks. At present it had only eight such decks – the minimum legal requirement for stiffening the central cylinder – but the plan was to fit many more at a spacing of two metres, thus making twenty-five available for passenger accommodation.

  On that basis, it seemed that the maximum complement for the New Eden flight would be in the region of "two hundred souls", as Montane had put it. Nicklin – for whom it was all a kind of a game, an academic exercise – had suggested that, for straightforward biological considerations, all but a few of the souls should be housed in the bodies of nubile women. Montane had given him the expected lecture on the need to preserve moral standards, making it clear that he wanted to sign up only young married couples with a proven record of church-going.

  He had reverted to being secretive about his corporate finances, but Nicklin had picked up enough clues to let him know that the preconditions imposed by Montane were limiting the mission's revenue. There were quite a few eccentric individuals around who were prepared to hand over large sums to secure places on the much-publicised expedition, but only a small minority of them fully matched Montane's stringent requirements.

  The argument had reminded Nicklin of a basic fact which at times could slip his memory – that Corey Montane was an irrational being. He was not a religious maniac in the usual sense of the term; he was a certifiably insane person whose delusions simply happened to have a religious theme. His Ordinary Joe dress and general demeanour made it possible to forget about the coffin-cum-teatable, about the consultations with the corpse that lay within, about the deeply seated megalomania, about the lunatic goal towards which his entire life was directed.

  It was difficult to imagine anything more ludicrous than the latest revelation – that Montane seemed to visualise the first landing on an unknown planet as something akin to an exclusive Youth For Christ adventure holiday, with air-beds and leaflets on how to erect the perimeter fence.

  It was easy to ridicule the preacher and his crazy ideas, but crazy ideas sometimes had a way of translating themselves into reality. The massive, ungainly structure beyond the office window was proof of that. As he watched the snow sifting down over the mountainous triple hull, Nicklin experienced a strange, cool moment of unease. It was preposterous, he knew, but was a day going to come – was it really going to come? – when that grimy feature of the landscape would slide down into the portal and, like a seal entering water, be transformed by its new environment into a creature of confidence and surging power? Was it really going to bore through the blackness towards dim and irrelevant points of light? And might people die as a result? He was committed to restoring the Tara to its former magnificence, but purely as a machine – a fascinating toy – and ideally it would then be placed on static display, in a drowsy museum of technology, so that visitors could wonder at the polish and perfection of every component. It was oddly disconcerting to think that the results of his hobbyist enthusiasm and toil might end up in a decaying orbit around some remote planet, or – just as likely – drifting into infinity.

  I'll tell you something for nothing, O Gaseous Vertebrate, he thought. If she ever does head off into the wild black yonder, yours truly will be at home in his favourite armchair, feet up and glass in hand, watching the big event on television…

  "When is this man going to get here?" Hepworth demanded, coming to stand at the window.

  "You should ask Corey that." Nicklin glanced sideways, and as always his eyes triangulated of their own accord on the enormous blackhead at the side of Hepworth's nose.

  "I wouldn't like to interrupt him, just to ask what's the hold-up with our distinguished visitor."

  "The weather is probably delaying him a little," Montane said unconcernedly, without looking up from his desk. "Try to be a little more patient."

  "Yes, and try not to fidget as much – you're like a pair of infants," added Ropp Voorsanger, Montane's accountant and legal adviser
, from his position at the next desk. Voorsanger was a narrow-headed, narrow-faced man who was about thirty and looked twenty years older. He was also a lay preacher, which probably had something to do with his recruitment to the mission, but he was less tolerant and more severe than Montane in his manner. He had no time at all for either Nicklin or Hepworth.

  "I do beg your pardon," Hepworth said to Voorsanger, his plump features showing indignation, "but there is work waiting for me in the ship. Real work! Not the sort of unproductive crap that you occupy your time with."

  Nicklin suppressed a smile, knowing that the real work Hepworth had in mind was his hourly tot of gin. His original hope that the untidy and verbose physicist would make a good colleague had been realised. In spite of the heavy drinking, Hepworth never became muzzy or unwilling to pull his weight, and Nicklin made a point of backing him in every dispute.

  "That's right, Corey," he said. "Scott and I have things to do, and–"

  "And I'm tired of sending out search parties for you," Montane cut in. "No, I want the both of you here when Renard arrives. I want you to hear what he has to say, so just try to relax." He raised his head and looked significantly at Hepworth. "Why don't you have a cup of tea?"

  Nicklin would have been interested in Hepworth's reply, but at that moment he saw a coloured blur moving behind the translucent screen which separated Montane's office from the next. It meant that Danea Farthing had returned from one of the field trips which took her all over the PI area, and which kept her away from Beachhead for weeks at a time. Trying not to be obtrusive, he walked quickly to the connecting door and slid it open.

  "Well?" Danea paused in the act of taking off her snow-dappled cape. She was wearing a belted suit of cobalt blue shot silk which clung expensively to her slim-hipped figure. Her heavy-lidded eyes regarded him with minimal interest, as though he were a piece of furniture.

  "Very well, thanks." he said. "And you?"

  "I didn't mean that – what do you want?"

  "Who says I have to want anything?" I want you, you cold bitch, because you're the best-looking woman in the universe – and you owe me! "I just thought I'd say hello, and welcome you back to the office."

  "Very kind of you." Danea stood quite still, making no move to hang up her cape, obviously waiting for him to leave.

  "Have you come straight from the airport?"

  "Yes."

  "Long flight?"

  "Yes."

  "How about relaxing with a couple of drinks and a good lunch?"

  "I've already arranged to do that, with a friend," Danea said, still not moving. "He's calling for me at noon."

  "That's nice." Montane composed a rueful smile. "I just thought I'd ask."

  Danea made no response, so he nodded to her and backed out of the small office, sliding the door shut between them. As soon as he was screened from her sight he allowed his sad little smile to develop into the full happy hayseed grin. A casual observer would probably have said that he had been well and truly frozen out, but he had picked up two signs of what he regarded as encouragement. During the exchange Danea had stood with the cape held to her throat, unconsciously – and revealingly – shielding her body from him. That was a Freudian give-away if ever he had seen one. Also, there had been no need, no need at all, for her to disclose that her lunch appointment was with another man. You're getting there, Jim lad, Nicklin told himself with calm satisfaction. It's taking a hell of a long time-but you'll get to her one fine day-and when you do…

  "That didn't last long," Hepworth said cheerfully when Nicklin rejoined him at the window. "Take the advice of an old hand at this kind of thing and give up gracefully – it's obvious the woman wants nothing to do with you."

  "You don't understand," Nicklin replied, not pleased by the comment. How could anybody with a blackhead the size of a dinner plate claim to be an expert on women?

  "Did you ask her out to lunch?"

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  "She already has a date. With a man."

  Hepworth nodded. "Probably Rowan Meeks. She met him through the books."

  Nicklin would have preferred not to talk about Danea, but the cryptic reference had aroused his curiosity. "What books?"

  "The talking variety. Danea spends a lot of her spare time putting books on tape for blind people. Apparently she has a very good voice for that sort of thing." Hepworth paused and gave Nicklin a quizzical look. "Didn't you know?"

  "How would I know?"

  "There you have it!" Hepworth said triumphantly. "You'll never get anywhere with a woman unless you're interested in her as a complete human being. The trouble with you, Jim, is that you're interested in only one thing – and it shows."

  I wasn't always like that, and where did it…? Nicklin interrupted the thought, angry at being required to defend himself. If this keeps up there's going to be talk about the care and feeding of blackheads.

  "I had an idea that blind people used reading machines," he said, offering a conversational lure which was likely to inspire one of Hepworth's impromptu lecturettes.

  "Voice synthesisers are still no good for literary readings, and, the way things have turned out, it looks as if they never will be," Hepworth said, happily seizing on the topic. "It's the old Orbitsville syndrome again. It's more than three hundred years since the first synthesisers were tried out, and you'd think they should have been perfected in all that time. But … but…where's the motive? The great machine of science and technology has slipped a few cogs and will go on slipping cogs because we allow it to do so.

  "Why? Because, on a crowded, polluted and thoroughly kneed-in-the-groin Earth, science and technology promised that one day everything would be put to rights, that one day there would be a perfect world for everybody to enjoy. That's what attracted the funding, that's where the motivation came from. But now the promise has been forgotten – both by the promisers and the promisees. We've got our perfect world. We've got millions of them, in fact.

  "Orbitsville handed them to us on the proverbial plate, so scientific and technological progress has pretty well come to a halt. Research is only carried out by 'eggheads' who have a personal interest in it, and, even when they do come up with something that has a lot of practical potential, it can't be developed because the kind of concentrated industrial base they need simply isn't there.

  "There are quite a few people," Hepworth added portentously, "who would argue that Orbitsville hasn't done the human race any favours."

  "You're beginning to sound like you-know-who," Nicklin said, nodding towards Montane, who was still busy at his desk.

  "You-know-who is doing some of the right things for all the wrong reasons."

  Nicklin was surprised. "You mean you want to get away from Orbitsville before the Devil presses the button?"

  "No, I just want to get away from Orbitsville," Hepworth said placidly. "I want to see what an anti-matter planet looks like. Nobody but Corey has any intention of going to one, so I'm going to go with him."

  "But…" Nicklin shook his head in disbelief. "You're saying that if the Tara actually manages to take off you'll be on board?"

  "Jim, why do you think I joined this preposterous outfit? It wasn't for the miserable stipend that Corey doles out to us, I can assure you. That barely covers my tonic water, let alone the necessary. The only reason I'm here is that, as a paid-up member of the mission, I'm guaranteed a place on the ship when the big day comes."

  A pained expression appeared on Hepworth's face. "I wish I hadn't mentioned drink. My thirst pangs were quite bearable until I mentioned the stuff."

  "Too bad," Nicklin said abstractedly, still assimilating the news that Hepworth actually planned to journey off into nothingness on the Tara. He had tacitly assumed that, like him, the physicist was only hitching a ride on the Nowhere Express, standing on the footplate and preparing to jump clear in his own good time. Also, the subject of the anti-matter universe had cropped up again. To Nicklin, all the talk of Region One and Region Tw
o universes, and of reversed time and electron-spraying isotopes, was merely a game of words – but it was transpiring that, to Hepworth, all these things were as real as his next glass of gin or the whistle trees which on a windy day mourned the passing of summer.

  Not for the first time, Nicklin found himself wondering about the ingredient which perhaps had been left out of his mental make-up. For him reality had always comprised those things which directly affected his daily life and immediate well-being. Everything else was relegated to quasi-reality or total abstraction; thus he had always felt himself to be at a comfortable remove from those strange individuals who could dedicate their lives to shining principles or die for great causes. Life was complicated enough and tricky enough as it was. On a lesser scale, it had always been a matter for self-congratulation that he was immune to mysticism and superstition and religion. Scott Hepworth shared the same materialistic outlook, and yet here he was, ready to gamble his life on a desperate plunge into black emptiness, merely because he was curious about the electrical charge of sub-atomic particles. As a motive for risking death, there was not much to choose between it and Montane's bizarre fantasising.

  "Explain just one thing to me, Scott," he said. "What difference does it make to anybody if it turns out that–"

  He broke off as the outer door of the office slid open to admit a man and a woman. Nicklin at once recognised Rick Renard, whose ostentatious style of dress made him a focal point for the drab room, but although the woman's face seemed familiar there was a delay before he remembered having seen her on television. It had been in the Whites' living room, all that time ago, on the day Orbitsville was supposed to have made its Big Jump. That had also been the day Corey Montane and his entourage had come to town and Nicklin's private world had made a Big Jump of its own. In his mind he could hear Zindee White's voice: Her name is Silvia London.