Rama 2 by Arthur C. Clarke and Gentry Lee

You had called them to come to Rome to join you, To show the world that everyone was united. And so they came. The tenth painting showed Michael in his blue robes, standing high on the steps of the Victor Emmanuel Monu­ment next to the Piazza Venezia. He was in the middle of a sermon. Around him in all directions, spilling over into the Roman fora along the jam-packed Via dei Fori Imperiali leading to the Colosseum, was a sea of blue. And faces. Eager, excited faces, mostly young, looking up and around the monu­ments of the ancient city to catch a glimpse of the boy-man who dared to suggest that he had a way, God’s way, out of the despair and hopelessness that had engulfed the world.

Michael Ryan O’Toole, a fifty-seven-year-old American Catholic from Boston, fell on his knees and wept, like thousands before him, when he looked at the eleventh panel in the sequence. This painting depicted the same scene as the previous panel, but the time was more than an hour later, an hour after the seventy-five-kiloton nuclear bomb hidden in a sound truck near Trajan’s Column had exploded and sent its hideous mushroom-shaped cloud into the skies above the city. Everything within two hundred meters of the epicenter had been instantly vaporized. There was no Michael, no Piazza Venezia, no huge Victor Emmanuel Monument. In the center of the fresco was nothing but a hole. And around the perimeter of that hole, where the vaporization had not been quite as complete, were scenes of agony and horror that would shatter the complacency of even the most self-protected individuals.

Dear God, General O’Toole said to himself through his tears, Help me to comprehend the message in Saint Michael’s life. Help me to understand how I can contribute, in whatever small way, to Your overall plan for us. Guide me as I prepare to be Your emissary to the Ramans.

12 RAMANS AND ROMANS

So, what do you think?” Nicole des Jardins stood up and turned around slowly in front of the camera beside the monitor. She was wearing a form-fitting white dress made from one of the new stretch fabrics. The hem of the dress was cut just below her knees and the long sleeves were marked by one black stripe that passed under her elbows as it ran from the shoulder to the wrist. The wide, jet-black belt matched both the color of the stripe and the color of her hair and high-heeled shoes. Her hair was pulled together by a comb at the back of her head and then left to tumble freely almost to her waist. Her only jewelry was a gold tennis bracelet containing three rows of small diamonds that she was wearing around her left wrist.

“You look beautiful, Mom,” her daughter, Genevieve, answered her from the screen. I’ve never seen you before both dressed up and with your hair down. What happened to your normal sweatsuit?” The fourteen-year-old grinned. “And when does the party start?”

“At nine-thirty,” Nicole replied. “Very fashionably late. We probably won’t have dinner until an hour after that. I’m going to eat something in the hotel room before I leave so that I won’t starve.”

“Mom, now don’t forget your promise. Last week’s Aujourd’hui said that my favorite singer, Julien LeClerc, would definitely be one of the guest entertainers. You have to tell him that your daughter thinks he’s absolutely divine!”

Nicole smiled at her daughter. “I will, darling, for you. Although it will probably be misinterpreted. From what I have heard your Monsieur LeClerc thinks that every woman in the world is in love with him.” She paused for a moment. “Where’s your grandfather? I thought you said he would be joining you in a few minutes.”

“Here I am,” Nicole’s father said as his weathered, friendly face appeared on the screen next to his granddaughter. “I was just finishing up a section of my new novel on Peter Abelard. I didn’t expect you to call this early.” Pierre des Jardins was now sixty-six years old. A successful historical novelist for many years, his life since the early death of his wife had been blessed by fortune and accomplishment. “You look stunning!” he exclaimed after see­ing his daughter in her evening wear. “Did you buy that dress in Rome?”

“Actually, Dad,” Nicole said, again turning around so that her father could see the entire outfit, “I bought this for Francoise’s wedding three years ago. But of course I never had a chance to wear it. Do you think it’s too simple?”

“Not at all,” Pierre replied. “In fact, I think it’s just perfect for this kind of extravaganza. If it’s like the big fetes that I used to attend, every woman there will be wearing her fanciest and most expensive clothing and jewelry. You will stand out in your simple black and white. Particularly with your hair down like that. You took perfect.”

“Thanks,” Nicole said. “Even though I know you’re prejudiced, I still like to hear your compliments.” She looked at her father and daughter, her only two close companions for the last seven years. ‘Tin really surprisingly anx­ious. 1 don’t think I’ll be this nervous on the day we encounter Rama. I often feel out of my element at big parties like this and tonight I have a peculiar sense of foreboding that I can’t explain. You remember, Dad, like I felt the day before our dog died when I was a child.”

Her father’s face became serious. “Maybe you’d better consider staying in the hotel. Too many of your premonitions have been accurate in the past. I remember your telling me that something was wrong with your mother two days before we received that message—”

“It’s not that strong a feeling,” Nicole interrupted. “And besides, what would I give as an excuse? Everyone’s expecting me, especially the press, according to Francesca Sabatini. She’s still annoyed with me for refusing to have a personal interview with her.”

“Then I guess you should go. But try to have some fun. Don’t take things so seriously for this one night.”

“And remember to say hello to Julien LeClerc for me,” Genevieve added.

“I’ll miss you both when midnight comes,” Nicole said. “It will be the first time I’ve been away from you on New Year’s Eve since 2194.” Nicole paused for a moment, remembering their family celebrations together. “Take care, both of you. You know I love you very much.”

“I love you, too, Mom,” Genevieve shouted. Pierre waved good-bye.

Nicole switched off the videophone and checked her watch. It was eight o’clock. She still had an hour before she was supposed to meet her driver in the lobby. She walked over to the computer terminal to order something to eat. With a few commands she requested a bowl of minestrone and a small bottle of mineral water. The computer monitor told her to expect them both in between sixteen and nineteen minutes.

I really am high-strung tonight, Nicole thought as she leafed through the magazine Italia and waited for her food. The feature story in Italia was devoted to an interview with Francesca Sabatini. The article covered ten full pages and must have had twenty different photographs of “la bella signora.” The interviewer discussed both of Francesca’s highly successful documentary projects (the first on modern love and the second on drugs), stressing the point, in the middle of some questions about the drug series, that Francesca repeatedly smoked cigarettes during the conversation.

Nicole perused the article in a hurry, noting as she read that there were facets to Francesca she had never considered. But what motivates her? Nicole wondered to herself. What is it that she wants? Near the end of the maga­zine story, the interviewer had asked Francesca her opinion of the other two women in the Newton crew. “I feel that I’m actually the only woman on the mission,” Francesca had answered. Nicole slowed down to read the rest of the paragraph. “The Russian pilot Turgenyev thinks and acts like a man and the French-African princess Nicole des Jardins has purposely suppressed her femininity, which is sad because she could be such a lovely woman.”

Nicole was only slightly angered by Francesca’s glib comments. More than anything, she was amused. She felt a brief competitive surge but then chided herself for such a childish reaction. I’ll ask Francesca about this article at just the right time, Nicole thought with a smile. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even ask her if seducing married men qualifies her as feminine.

The forty-minute drive from the hotel to the party at Hadrian’s Villa, which was located on the outskirts of the Roman suburbs not far from the resort town of Tivoli, was passed in total silence. The other passenger in Nicole’s car was Hiro Yamanaka, the most taciturn of all the cosmonauts. In her television interview two months earlier with Yamanaka, a frustrated Francesca Sabatini, after ten minutes of two- and three-word, monosyllabic responses to all her questions, had asked Hiro if the rumor about his being an android were true.