“Van,” said Maxine softly but firmly over the private circuit, “stop sucking your thumb. It makes you look like a baby.”
Morgan registered indignation, then surprise – and finally relaxed with a slightly embarrassed laugh.
“Thanks for the warning,” he said. “I’d hate to spoil my public image.”
He looked with rueful amusement at the missing joint, wondering when the self-appointed wits would stop chortling: “Ha! The engineer hoist by his own petard!” After all the times he had cautioned others, he had grown careless and had managed to slash himself while demonstrating the properties of hyperfilament. There had been practically no pain, and surprisingly little inconvenience. One day he would do something about it; but he simply could not afford to spend a whole week hitched up to an organ regenerator, just for two centimetres of thumb.
“Altitude two five zero,” said a calm, impersonal voice from the control hut. “Probe velocity one one six zero metres per second. Wire tension ninety percent nominal. Parachute deploys in two minutes.”
After his momentary relaxation, Morgan was once again tense and alert – like a boxer, Maxine Duval could not help thinking, watching an unknown but dangerous opponent.
“What’s the wind situation?” he snapped.
Another voice answered, this time far from impersonal.
“I can’t believe this,” it said in worried tones. “But Monsoon Control has just issued a gale warning.”
“This is no time for jokes.”
“They’re not joking; I’ve just checked back.”
“But they guaranteed no gusts above thirty kilometres an hour!”
“They’ve just raised that to sixty – correction, eighty. Something’s gone badly wrong…”
“I’ll say,” Duval murmured to herself. Then she instructed her distant eyes and ears: “Fade into the woodwork – they won’t want you around – but don’t miss anything.” Leaving her Rem to cope with these somewhat contradictory orders, she switched to her excellent information service. It took her less than thirty seconds to discover which meteorological station was responsible for the weather in the Taprobane area. And it was frustrating, but not surprising, to find that it was not accepting incoming calls from the general public.
Leaving her competent staff to break through that obstacle, she switched back to the mountain. And she was astonished to find how much, even in this short interval, conditions had worsened.
The sky had become darker; the microphones were picking up the faint, distant roar of the approaching gale. Maxine Duval had known such sudden changes of weather at sea, and more than once had taken advantage of them in her ocean racing. But this was unbelievably bad luck; she sympathised with Morgan, whose dreams and hopes might all be swept away by this unscheduled – this impossible – blast of air.
“Altitude two zero zero. Probe velocity one one five metres a second. Tension ninety-five percent nominal.”
So the tension was increasing – in more ways than one. The experiment could not be called off at this late stage; Morgan would simply have to go ahead, and hope for the best. Duval wished that she could speak to him, but knew better than to interrupt him at this crisis.
“Altitude one nine zero. Velocity one one zero zero. Tension one hundred five percent. First parachute deployment – NOW!”
So – the probe was committed; it was a captive of the earth’s atmosphere. Now the little fuel that remained must be used to steer it into the catching net spread out on the mountainside. The cables supporting that net were already thrumming as the wind tore through them.
Abruptly, Morgan emerged from the control hut, and stared up at the sky. Then he turned and looked directly at the camera.
“Whatever happens, Maxine,” he said slowly and carefully, “the test is already ninety-five percent successful. No – ninety-nine percent. We’ve made it for thirty-six thousand kilometres, and have less than two hundred to go.”
Duval made no reply. She knew that the words were not intended for her, but for the figure in the complicated wheelchair just outside the hut. The vehicle proclaimed the occupant; only a visitor to earth would have need of such a device. The doctors could now cure virtually all muscular defects – but the physicists could not cure gravity.
How many powers and interests were now concentrated upon this mountain top! The very forces of nature – the Bank of Narodny Mars – the Autonomous North African Republic – Vannevar Morgan (no mean natural force himself) – and those gently implacable monks in their windswept eyrie.
Maxine Duval whispered instructions to her patient Rem, and the camera tilted smoothly upwards. There was the summit, crowned by the dazzling white walls of the temple. Here and there along its parapets Duval could catch glimpses of orange robes fluttering in the gale. As she had expected, the monks were watching.
She zoomed towards them, close enough to see individual faces. Though she had never met the Maha Thero (for an interview had been politely refused) she was confident that she could identify him. But there was no sign of the prelate; perhaps he was in the sanctum sanctorum, focusing his formidable will upon some spiritual exercise.
Maxine Duval was not sure if Morgan’s chief antagonist indulged in anything so na�ve as prayer. But if he had indeed prayed for this miraculous storm, his request was about to be answered. The Gods of the Mountain were awakening from their slumbers.
29. Final Approach
With increasing technology goes increasing vulnerability; the more Man conquers (sic) Nature the more liable he becomes to artificial catastrophes. Recent history provides sufficient proof of this – for example, the sinking of Marina City (2127), the collapse of the Tycho B dome (2098), the escape of the Arabian iceberg from its towlines (2062) and the melting of the Thor reactor (2009). We can be sure that the list will have even more impressive additions in the future. Perhaps the most terrifying prospects are those that involve psychological, not only technological, factors. In the past, a mad bomber or sniper could kill only a handful of people; today it would not be difficult for a deranged engineer to assassinate a city. The narrow escape of O’Neill Space Colony II from just such a disaster in 2047 has been well documented. Such incidents, in theory at least, could be avoided by careful screening and “fail-safe” procedures – though all too often these live up only to the first half of their name.
There is also a most interesting, but fortunately very rare, type of event where the individual concerned is in a position of such eminence, or has such unique powers, that no-one realises what he is doing until it is too late. The devastation created by such mad geniuses (there seems no other good term for them) can be worldwide, as in the case of A. Hitler (1889-1945). In a surprising number of instances nothing is heard of their activities, thanks to a conspiracy of silence among their embarrassed peers.
A classic example has recently come to light with the publication of Dame Maxine Duval’s eagerly awaited, and much postponed, Memoirs. Even now, some aspects of the matter are still not entirely clear.
(Civilisation and its Malcontents: J. K. Golitsyn, Prague, 2175)
“Altitude one five zero, velocity ninety-five – repeat, ninety-five. Heat shield jettisoned.”
So the probe had safely entered the atmosphere, and got rid of its excess speed. But it was far too soon to start cheering. Not only were there a hundred and fifty vertical kilometres still to go, but three hundred horizontal ones – with a howling gale to complicate matters. Though the probe still carried a small amount of propellent, its freedom to manoeuvre was very limited. If the operator missed the mountain on the first approach, he could not go round and try again.
“Altitude one two zero. No atmospheric effects yet.”
The little probe was spinning itself down from the sky, like a spider descending its silken ladder. I hope, Duval thought to herself, that they have enough wire: how infuriating if they run out, only a few kilometres from the target! Just such tragedies had occurred with some of the first submarines cables, three hundred years ago.
“Altitude eight zero. Approach nominal. Tension one hundred percent. Some air drag.”
So – the upper atmosphere was beginning to make itself felt, though as yet only to the sensitive instruments aboard the tiny vehicle.
A small, remotely controlled telescope had been set up beside the control truck, and was now automatically tracking the still invisible probe. Morgan walked towards it, and Duval’s Rem followed him like a shadow.
“Anything in sight?” Duval whispered quietly, after a few seconds. Morgan shook his head impatiently, and kept on peering through the eyepiece.
“Altitude six zero. Moving off to the left – tension one hundred five percent – correction, one hundred ten.”
Still well within limits, thought Duval – but things were starting to happen up there on the other side of the stratosphere. Surely, Morgan had the probe in sight now – “Altitude five five – giving two-second impulse correction.” “Got it!” exclaimed Morgan. “I can see the jet!” “Altitude five zero. Tension one hundred five percent. Hard to keep on course – some buffeting.”