The bar looked almost functional, and indeed the coffee dispenser was actually working. Above it, in an elaborately gilded frame, was an old engraving of such uncanny relevance that it took Morgan’s breath away. A huge full moon dominated the upper left quadrant, and racing towards it was – a bullet-shaped train towing four carriages. From the windows of the compartment labelled “First Class” top-hatted Victorian personages could be seen admiring the view.
“Where did you get hold of that?” Morgan asked in astonished admiration.
“Looks as if the caption’s fallen off again,” Kingsley apologised, hunting round behind the bar. “Ah, here it is.”
He handed Morgan a piece of card upon which was printed, in old-fashioned typeface,
PROJECTILE TRAINS FOR THE MOON
Engraving from 1881 Edition of
FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON
Direct
In 97 Hours and 20 Minutes
AND A TRIP AROUND FF
By Jules Verne
“I’m sorry to say I’ve never read it,” said Morgan, when he had absorbed this information. “It might have saved me a lot of trouble. But I’d like to know how he managed without any rails…”
“We shouldn’t give Jules too much credit – or blame. This picture was never meant to be taken seriously – it was a joke of the artist.”
“Well – give Design my compliments; it’s one of their better ideas.”
Turning away from the dreams of the past, Morgan and Kingsley walked towards the reality of the future. Through the wide observation window a back-projection system gave a stunning view of Earth – and not just any view, Morgan was pleased to note, but the correct one. Taprobane itself was hidden, of course, being directly below; but there was the whole subcontinent of Hindustan, right out to the dazzling snows of the Himalayas.
“You know,” Morgan said suddenly, “it will be exactly like the Bridge, all over again. People will take the trip just for the view. Midway Station could be the biggest tourist attraction ever.” He glanced up at the azure-blue ceiling. “Anything worth looking at on the last floor?”
“Not really – the upper airlock is finalised, but we haven’t decided where to put the life-support backup gear and the electronics for the track-centring controls.”
“Any problems there?”
“Not with the new magnets. Powered or coasting, we can guarantee safe clearance up to eight thousand kilometres an hour – fifty percent above maximum design speed.”
Morgan permitted himself a mental sigh of relief. This was one area in which he was quite unable to make any judgements, and had to rely completely on the advice of others. From the beginning, it had been obvious that only some form of magnetic propulsion could operate at such speeds; the slightest physical contact – at more than a kilometre a second! – would result in disaster. And yet the four pairs of guidance slots running up the faces of the tower had only centimetres of clearance around the magnets; they had to be designed so that enormous restoring forces came instantly into play, correcting any movement of the capsule away from the centre line.
As Morgan followed Kingsley down the spiral stairway which extended the full height of the mockup, he was suddenly struck by a sombre thought. I’m getting old, he said to himself. Oh, I could have climbed to the sixth level without any trouble; but I’m glad we decided not to.
Yet I’m only fifty-nine – and it will be at least five years, even if all goes very well, before the first passenger car rides up to Midway Station. Then another three years of tests, calibration, system tune-ups. Make it ten years, to be on the safe side…
Though it was warm, he felt a sudden chill. For the first time, it occurred to Vannevar Morgan that the triumph upon which he had set his soul might come too late for him. And quite unconsciously he pressed his hand against the slim metal disc concealed inside his shirt.
33. CORA
“Why did you leave it until now?” Dr. Sen had asked, in a tone appropriate to a retarded child.
“The usual reason,” Morgan answered, as he ran his good thumb along the seal of his shirt. “I was too busy – and whenever I felt short of breath I blamed it on the height.”
“Altitude was partly to blame, of course. You’d better check all your people on the mountain. How could you have overlooked anything so obvious?”
How indeed? thought Morgan, with some embarrassment.
“All those monks – some of them were over eighty! They seemed so healthy that it never occurred to me…”
“The monks have lived up there for years – they’re completely adapted. But you’ve been hopping up and down several times a day -”
“- twice, at the most -”
“- going from sea level to half an atmosphere in a few minutes. Well, there’s no great harm done – if you follow instructions from now on. Mine, and CORA’s.”
“CORA’s?”
“Coronary alarm.”
“Oh – one of those things.”
“Yes – one of those things. They save about ten million lives a year. Mostly top civil servants, senior administrators, distinguished scientists, leading engineers and similar nit-wits. I often wonder if it’s worth the trouble. Nature may be trying to tell us something, and we’re not listening.”
“Remember your Hippocratic Oath, Bill,” retorted Morgan with a grin. “And you must admit that I’ve always done just what you told me. Why, my weight hasn’t changed a kilo in the last ten years.”
“Urn… Well, you’re not the worst of my patients,” said the slightly mollified doctor. He fumbled round in his desk and produced a large holopad. “Take your choice-here are the standard models. Any colour you like as long as it’s Medic Red.”
Morgan triggered the images, and regarded them with distaste.
“Where do I have to carry the thing?” he asked. “Or do you want to implant it?”
“That isn’t necessary, at least for the present. In five years’ time, maybe, but perhaps not even then. I suggest you start with this model – it’s worn just under the breastbone, so doesn’t need remote sensors. After a while you won’t notice it’s there. And it won’t bother you, unless it’s needed.”
“And then?”
“Listen.”
The doctor threw one of the numerous switches on his desk console, and a sweet mezzo-soprano voice remarked in a conversational tone: “I think you should sit down and rest for about ten minutes.” After a brief pause it continued: “It would be a good idea to lie down for half an hour.” Another pause: “As soon as convenient, make an appointment with Dr. Sen.” Then:
“Please take one of the red pills immediately.”
“I have called the ambulance; just lie down and relax. Everything will be all right.”
Morgan almost clapped his hands over his ears to cut out the piercing whistle.
“THIS IS A CORA ALERT. WILL ANYONE WITHIN RANGE OF MY VOICE PLEASE COME IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS A CORA ALERT. WILL -”
“I think you get the general idea,” said the doctor, restoring silence to his office. “Of course, the programmes and responses are individually tailored to the subject. And there’s a wide range of voices, including some famous ones.”
“That will do very nicely. When will my unit be ready?”
“I’ll call you in about three days. Oh yes – there’s an advantage to the chest-worn units I should mention.”
“What’s that?”
“One of my patients is a keen tennis player. He tells me that when he opens his shirt the sight of that little red box has an absolutely devastating effect on his opponent’s game…”
34. Vertigo
There had once been a time when a minor, and often major, chore of every civilised man had been the regular updating of his address book. The universal code had made that unnecessary, since once a person’s lifetime identity number was known he could be located within seconds. And even if his number was not known, the standard search programme could usually find it fairly quickly, given the approximate date of birth, his profession, and a few other details. (There were, of course, problems if the name was Smith, or Singh, or Mohammed…)
The development of global information systems had also rendered obsolete another annoying task. It was only necessary to make a special notation against the names of those friends one wished to greet on their birthdays or other anniversaries, and the household computer would do the rest. On the appropriate day (unless, as was frequently the case, there had been some stupid mistake in programming) the right message would be automatically flashed to its destination. And even though the recipient might shrewdly suspect that the warm words on his screen were entirely due to electronics – the nominal sender not having thought of him for years – the gesture was nevertheless welcome.
But the same technology that had eliminated one set of tasks had created even more demanding successors. Of these, perhaps the most important was the design of the Personal Interest Profile.