Not many such refugees, however, would have carried bags labeled PROJECT ION, LUNAR HOTEL CORPORATION, PROPERTY OF THE FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF MARS, or the ubiquitous MAY/ NOT/ BE STOWED IN VACUUM. Nor would they have been so cheerful; even those who were lying down to conserve oxygen managed a smile and a languid wave. Morgan had just returned the salute when his legs buckled beneath him, and everything blacked out.
Never before in his life had he fainted, and when the blast of cold oxygen revived him, his first emotion was one of acute embarrassment. His eyes came slowly into focus, and he saw masked shapes hovering over him. For a moment he wondered if he was in a hospital; then brain and vision returned to normal. While he was unconscious, his precious cargo must have been unloaded.
Those masks were the molecular sieves he had carried up to the Tower. Worn over nose and mouth, they would block the CO2 but allow oxygen to pass. Simple yet technologically sophisticated, they would enable men to survive in an atmosphere that would otherwise cause instant suffocation. It required a little extra effort to breathe through them, but Nature never gave something for nothing—and this was a small price to pay for life itself.
Rather groggily, but refusing any help, Morgan got to his feet and was belatedly introduced to the men and women he had saved. One matter still worried him: while he was unconscious, had CORA delivered any of her set speeches? He did not wish to raise the subject, but he wondered. . . .
“On behalf of all of us,” said Professor Sessui, with sincerity yet with the obvious awkwardness of a man who was seldom polite to anyone, “I want to thank you for what you’ve done. We owe our lives to you.”
Any logical or coherent reply to this would have smacked of false modesty, so Morgan used the excuse of adjusting his mask to mumble something unintelligible.
He was about to start checking that all the equipment had been unloaded when Sessui added, rather anxiously: “I’m sorry we can’t offer you a chair—this is the best we can do.” He pointed to a couple of instrument boxes, one on top of the other. “You really should take it easy.”
The phrase was familiar; so CORA had spoken. There was a slightly embarrassed pause while Morgan registered this fact, and the others admitted that they knew, and he showed that he knew they knew—all without a word being uttered, in the kind of psychological infinite regress that occurs when a group of people shares completely a secret that nobody will ever mention again.
He took a few deep breaths—it was amazing how quickly one got used to the mask—and sat down on the proffered seat. I’m not going to faint again, he told himself with grim determination. I must deliver the goods and get out of here quickly—if possible, before there are any more pronouncements from CORA.
“That can of sealant,” he said, pointing to the smallest of the containers he had brought, “should take care of your leak. Spray it around the gasket of the air lock. It sets hard in a few seconds.
“Use the oxygen only when you have to. You may need it to sleep. There’s a CO2 mask for everyone, and a couple of spares.
“And here’s food and water for three days. That should be plenty. The transporter from 10K should be here tomorrow. As for the Medikit—I hope you won’t need that at all.”
He paused for breath. It was not easy to talk while wearing a CO2 filter, and he felt an increasing need to conserve his strength. Sessui’s people could now take care of themselves, but he had one further job to do—and the sooner the better.
Morgan turned to Chang and said quietly: “Please help me to suit up again. I want to inspect the track.”
“That’s only a thirty-minute suit you’re wearing!”
“I’ll need ten minutes—fifteen at the most.”
“Dr. Morgan—I’m a space-qualified operator; you’re not. No one’s allowed to go out in a thirty-minute suit without a spare pack, or an umbilical. Except in an emergency, of course.”
Morgan gave a tired smile. Chang was right, and the excuse of immediate danger no longer applied. But an emergency was whatever the Chief Engineer said it was.
“I want to look at the damage,” he answered, “and examine the tracks. It would be a pity if the people from 10K can’t reach you because they weren’t warned of some obstacle.”
Chang was clearly not too happy about the situation (what had that gossiping CORA jabbered while he was unconscious) but raised no further arguments as he followed Morgan into the north lock.
Just before he closed the visor, Morgan asked: “Any more trouble with the Professor?”
Chang shook his head.
“I think the CO2 has slowed him down. And if he starts up again—well, we outnumber him six to one, though I’m not sure if we can count on his students. Some of them are just as crazy as he is. Look at that girl who spends all her time scribbling in the corner. She’s convinced that the sun’s going out, or blowing up—I’m not sure which—and wants to warn the world before she dies. Much good that would do. I’d prefer not to know.”
Though Morgan could not help smiling, he felt quite sure that none of the Professor’s students were crazy. Eccentric, perhaps—but also brilliant. They would not be working with Sessui otherwise. One day he must find out more about the men and women whose lives he had saved. But that would have to wait until they had all returned to Earth, by their separate ways.
“I’m going to take a quick walk around the Tower,” said Morgan, “and I’ll describe any damage, so you can report to Midway. It won’t take more than ten minutes. And if it does—well, don’t try to get me back.”
Chang’s reply, as he closed the inner door of the air lock, was practical and brief.
“How the hell could I?” he asked.
56
View from the Balcony
The outer door of the north air lock opened without difficulty, framing a rectangle of complete darkness. Running horizontally across that darkness was a line of fire—the protective handrail of the catwalk, blazing in the beam of the searchlight pointed straight up from the mountain so far below.
Morgan took a deep breath and flexed the suit. He felt perfectly comfortable. Waving to Chang, who was peering at him through the window of the inner door, he stepped out of the Tower.
The catwalk that surrounded the Basement was a metal grille about two meters wide. Beyond it the safety net had been stretched out for another thirty meters. The portion that Morgan could see had caught nothing whatsoever during its years of patient waiting.
He started his circumnavigation of the Tower, shielding his eyes against the glare blasting up from underfoot. The oblique lighting showed up every least bump and imperfection in the surface that stretched above him like a roadway to the stars—which, in a sense, it was.
As he had hoped and expected, the explosion on the far side of the Tower had caused no damage here. That would have required an atomic bomb, not a mere electrochemical one. The twin grooves of the track, now awaiting their first arrival, stretched endlessly upward in their pristine perfection. And fifty meters below the balcony—though it was hard to look in that direction because of the glare—he could just make out the terminal buffers, ready for a task they should never have to perform.
Taking his time, and keeping close to the sheer face of the Tower, Morgan walked slowly westward until he came to the first corner. As he turned, he looked back at the open door of the air lock, and the—relative, indeed!—safety that it represented, before continuing boldly along the blank wall of the west face.
He felt a curious mixture of elation and fear, such as he had not known since he had learned to swim and found himself, for the first time, in water out of his depth. Although he was certain that there was no real danger, there could be. He was acutely aware of CORA, biding her time. But he had always hated to leave any job undone, and his mission was not yet complete.
The west face was exactly like the north one, except for the absence of an air lock. Again, there was no sign of damage, even though it was closer to the scene of the explosion.
Checking the impulse to hurry—after all, he had been outside for only three minutes—Morgan strolled on to the next corner. Even before he turned it, he could see that he was not going to complete his planned circuit of the Tower. The catwalk had been ripped off, and was dangling out into space, a twisted tongue of metal. The safety net had vanished altogether, doubtless torn away by the falling transporter.
Don’t press your luck, Morgan told himself. But he could not resist peering around the corner, holding on to the section of the guardrail that remained.
There was a good deal of debris stuck in the track, and the face of the Tower had been discolored by the explosion. But as far as he could see, even here there was nothing that could not be put right in a couple of hours by a few men with cutting torches. He gave a careful description to Chang, who expressed relief and urged Morgan to get back into the Tower as soon as possible.
“Don’t worry,” said Morgan. “I’ve still got ten minutes and all of thirty meters to go. I could manage on the air I have in my lungs now.”
But he did not intend to put this to the test. He had already had quite enough excitement for one night. More than enough, if CORA was to be believed. From now on, he would obey her orders implicitly.
When he had walked back to the open door of the air lock, he stood for a few final moments beside the guardrail, drenched by the fountain of light leaping up from the summit of Sri Kanda far below. It threw his own immensely elongated shadow directly along the Tower, vertically upward toward the stars. That shadow must stretch for thousands of kilometers, and it occurred to Morgan that it might even reach the transporter now dropping swiftly down from 10K Station. If he waved his arms, the rescuers might be able to see his signals; he could talk to them in Morse code.
This amusing fantasy inspired a more serious thought. Would it be best for him to wait here, with the others, and not risk the return to Earth in Spider? But the journey up to Midway, where he could get good medical attention, would take a week. That was not a sensible alternative, since he could be back on Sri Kanda in less than three hours.
Time to go inside—his air must be getting low, and there was nothing more to see. That was a disappointing irony, considering the spectacular view one would normally have here, by day or by night. Now, however, the planet below and the heavens above were both banished by the blinding glare from Sri Kanda. He was floating in the tiny universe of light, surrounded by utter darkness on every side. It was almost impossible to believe that he was in space, if only because of his sense of weight. He felt as secure as if he were standing on the mountain itself, instead of six hundred kilometers above it. That was a thought to savor, and to carry back to Earth.
He patted the smooth, unyielding surface of the Tower, more enormous in comparison to him than an elephant to an amoeba. But no amoeba could ever conceive of an elephant, still less create one.
“See you on Earth in a year’s time,” Morgan whispered, and slowly closed the air-lock door behind him.
57
The Last Dawn
Morgan was back in the Basement for only five minutes. This was no time for social amenities, and he did not wish to consume any of the precious oxygen he had brought here with such difficulty. He shook hands all around and scrambled back into Spider.
It was good to breathe again without a mask, better still to know that his mission had been a complete success, and that in less than three hours he would be safely back on Earth. Yet after all the effort that had gone into reaching the Tower, he was reluctant to cast off again, and to surrender once more to the pull of gravity—even though it would now be taking him home. But presently he released the docking latches, and started to fall downward, becoming weightless for several seconds.
When the speed indicator reached three hundred klicks, the automatic braking system came on, and weight returned. The brutally depleted battery would be recharging now, but it must have been damaged beyond repair and would have to be taken out of service.
There was an ominous parallel here. Morgan could not help thinking of his own overstrained body, but a stubborn pride kept him from asking for a doctor on stand-by. He had made a little bet with himself: he would do so only if CORA spoke again.
She was silent now as he dropped swiftly through the night. Morgan felt totally relaxed, and left Spider to look after itself while he admired the heavens. Few spacecraft provided so panoramic a view, and not many men could ever have seen the stars under such superb conditions. The aurora had vanished completely, the searchlight had been extinguished, and there was nothing left to challenge the constellations.
Except, of course, the stars that man himself had made. Almost directly overhead was the dazzling beacon of Ashoka, poised forever above Hindustan, and only a few hundred kilometers from the Tower complex. Halfway down in the east was Confucius, much lower still Kamehameha, while high up from the west shone Kinte and Imhotep. These were merely the brightest signposts along the equator. There were literally scores of others, all of them far more brilliant than Sirius. How astonished one of the old astronomers would have been to see this necklace around the sky! And how bewildered he would have become when, after an hour or so’s observation, he discovered that they were quite immobile, neither rising nor setting while the familiar stars drifted past in their ancient courses.
As he stared at the diamond necklace stretched across the sky, Morgan’s sleepy mind slowly transformed it into something far more impressive. With only a slight effort of the imagination, those man-made stars became the lights of a titanic bridge.
He drifted into wilder fantasies. What was the name of the bridge into Valhalla, across which the heroes of the Norse legends passed from this world to the next? He could not remember, but it was a glorious dream.
And had other creatures, long before man, tried in vain to span the skies of their own worlds? He thought of the splendid rings encircling Saturn, the ghostly arches of Uranus and Neptune. Although he knew perfectly well that none of these worlds have ever felt the touch of life, it amused him to think that here were the shattered fragments of bridges that had failed.
He wanted to sleep, but, against his will, imagination had seized upon the idea. Like a dog that had just discovered a new bone, it would not let go.
The concept was not absurd; it was not even original. Many of the synchronous stations were already kilometers in extent, or linked by cables that stretched along appreciable fractions of their orbit. To join them together, thus forming a ring completely around the world, would be an engineering task much simpler than the building of the Tower, and would involve much less material.
No—not a ring—a wheel. This tower was only the first spoke. There would be others (four? six? a score?) spaced along the equator. When they were all connected rigidly up there in orbit, the problems of stability that plagued a single tower would vanish. Africa, South America, the Gilbert Islands, Indonesia—they could all provide locations for Earth terminals, if desired.
For someday, as materials improved and knowledge advanced, the towers could be made invulnerable even to the worst hurricanes, and mountain sites would no longer be necessary. If he had waited another hundred years, perhaps he need not have disturbed the Mahanayake Thero. . . .
While he was dreaming, the thin crescent of the waning moon had lifted unobtrusively above the eastern horizon, already aglow with the first hint of dawn. Earthshine lit the entire lunar disk so brilliantly that Morgan could see much of the night-land detail. He strained his eyes in the hope of glimpsing that loveliest of sights, never seen by earlier ages, a star within the arms of the crescent moon. But none of the cities of man’s second home was visible tonight.
Only two hundred kilometers—less than an hour to go. There was no point in trying to keep awake. Spider had automatic terminal programming and would touch gently down without disturbing his sleep. . . .
The pain woke him first. CORA was a fraction of a second later.
“Don’t try to move,” she sai
d soothingly. “I’ve radioed for help. The ambulance is on the way.”
That was funny. But don’t laugh, Morgan ordered himself; she’s only doing her best. He felt no fear. Though the pain beneath his breastbone was intense, it was not incapacitating. He tried to focus his mind upon it, and the very act of concentration relieved the symptoms. Long ago, he had discovered that the best way of handling pain was to study it objectively.
Warren Kingsley was calling him, but the words were far away and had little meaning. He could recognize the anxiety in his friend’s voice, and wished that he could do something to alleviate it, but he had no strength left to deal with this problem—or with any other.
Now he could not even hear the words. A faint but steady roar had obliterated all other sounds. Though he knew that it existed only in his mind—or the labyrinthine channels of his ears—it seemed completely real. He could believe that he was standing at the foot of some great waterfall.
It was growing fainter, softer, more musical. And suddenly he recognized it. How pleasant to hear once more, on the silent frontier of space, the sound he remembered from his very first visit to Yakkagala!
Gravity was drawing him home again, as through the centuries its invisible hand had shaped the trajectory of the Fountains of Paradise. But he had created something that gravity could never recapture, as long as men possessed the wisdom and the will to preserve it.
How cold his legs were! What had happened to Spider’s life-support system? But soon it would be dawn; then there would be warmth enough.
The stars were fading, far more swiftly than they had any right to do. That was strange; though the day was almost here, everything around him was growing dark. And the fountains were sinking back into the Earth, their voices becoming fainter . . . fainter . . . fainter . . .
And now there was another voice, but Vannevar Morgan did not hear it. Between brief, piercing bleeps, CORA cried to the approaching dawn: