Rama 2 by Arthur C. Clarke and Gentry Lee

Two hours later the last of the drones returned to the relay station and an initial summary of the photographic survey was complete. There were no major structural differences between Rama II and the earlier space vehicle down to a scale of a hundred meters. The only significant region of miscom­pares at that resolution was the Cylindrical Sea itself, and ice reflectivity was a notoriously difficult phenomenon to handle with a straightforward digital comparison algorithm. It had been a long and exciting day. Borzov an­nounced that crew assignments for the first sortie would be posted in an hour and that a “special dinner” would be served in the control center two hours later.

“You cannot do this,” an angry David Brown shouted, bursting into the commander’s office without knocking, and brandishing a hard-copy printout of the first sortie assignments.

“What are you talking about?” General Borzov responded. He was an­noyed by Dr. Brown’s rude entrance.

“There must be some kind of mistake,” Brown continued in a loud voice. “You can’t really expect me to stay here on the Newton during the first sortie.” When there was no response from General Borzov, the American scientist changed tactics. “I want you to know that I don’t accept this. And the ISA management won’t like it either.”

Borzov stood up behind his desk. “Close the door, Dr. Brown,” he said calmly. David Brown slammed the sliding door. “Now you listen to me for a minute,” the general continued. “I don’t give a damn who you know. I am the commanding officer of this mission. If you continue to act like a prima donna, I’ll see to it that you never set foot inside Rama.”

Brown lowered his voice. “But I demand an explanation,” he said with undisguised hostility. “I am the senior scientist on this mission. I am also the leading spokesman for the Newton project among the media. How can you possibly justify leaving me onboard the Newton while nine other cosmonauts go inside Rama?”

“I don’t have to justify my actions,” Borzov replied, for the moment enjoying his power over the arrogant American. He leaned forward. “But for the record, and because I anticipated this childish outburst of yours, I will tell you why you’re not going on the first sortie. There are two major pur­poses for our first visit: to establish the communications/transportation infrastructure and to complete a detailed survey of the interior, ensuring that this spaceship is exactly like the first one—”

“That’s already been confirmed by the drones,” Brown interrupted. “Not according to Dr. Takagishi,” Borzov rebutted. “He says that—” “Shit, General, Takagishi won’t be satisfied until every square centimeter of Rama has been shown to be exactly the same as the first ship. You saw the results of the drone survey. Do you have any doubt in your mind—”

David Brown stopped himself in midsentence. General Borzov was drum­ming on his desk with his fingers and regarding Dr. Brown with a cold stare. “Are you going to let me finish now?” Borzov said at length. He waited a few more seconds. “Whatever you may think,” the commander continued, “Dr. Takagishi is considered to be the world expert on the interior of Rama. You cannot argue even for a minute that your knowledge of the details ap­proaches his. I need all five of the space cadets for the infrastructure work. The two journalists must go inside, not only because there are two separate tasks, but also because world attention is focused on us at this time. Finally, I believe it is important for my subsequent management of this mission that I myself go inside at least once, and I choose to do it now. Since the proce­dures clearly state that at least three members of the crew must remain outside Rama during the early sorties, it is not difficult to figure out—”

“You don’t fool me for a minute,” David Brown now interrupted nastily. “I know what this is all about. YouVe concocted an apparently logical excuse to hide the real reason for my exclusion from the first sortie team. You’re jealous, Borzov. You can’t stand the fact that I am regarded by most people as the real leader of this mission.”

The commander stared at the scientist for over fifteen seconds without saying anything. “You know, Brown,” he said finally, “I feel sorry for you. You are remarkably talented, but your talent is exceeded by your own opin­ion of it. If you weren’t such a—” This time it was Borzov’s turn to stop himself in midsentence. He looked away. “Incidentally, since I know that you will go back to your room and immediately whine to the ISA, I should probably tell you that the life science officer’s fitness report explicitly recom­mends against your sharing any mission duties with Wilson—because of the personal animosity that both of you have demonstrated.”

Brown’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me that Nicole des Jardins actu­ally filed an official memorandum citing Wilson and me by name?”

Borzov nodded.

“The bitch,” Brown muttered.

“It’s always someone else who is at fault, isn’t it Dr. Brown?” General Borzov said, smiling at his adversary.

David Brown turned around and stalked out of the office.

For the banquet, General Borzov ordered a few precious bottles of wine to be opened. The commanding officer was in an excellent mood. Francesca’s suggestion had been a good one. There was a definite feeling of camaraderie among the cosmonauts as they brought the small tables together in the control center and anchored them to the floor.

Dr. David Brown did not come to the banquet. He remained in his room while the other eleven crew members feasted on game hens and wild rice. Francesca awkwardly reported that Brown was “feeling under the weather,” but when Janos Tabori playfully volunteered to go check the American sci­entist’s health, Francesca hurriedly added that Dr. Brown wanted to be left alone. Janos and Richard Wakefield, both of whom had several glasses of wine, bantered with Francesca at one end of the table while Reggie Wilson and General O’Toole engaged in an animated discussion about the coming baseball season at the opposite end. Nicole sat between General Borzov and Admiral Heilmann and listened to their reminiscences of peacekeeping ac­tivities in the early post-Chaos days. Cosmonauts Turgenyev and Yamanaka were their usual taciturn selves, contributing to the conversation only when asked a direct question.

When the meal was over, Francesca excused herself. She and Dr. Takagi­shi disappeared for several minutes. When they returned Francesca asked the cosmonauts to turn their chairs to face the large screen. Then, with the lights out, she and Takagishi projected a full exterior view of Rama on the monitor. Except that this was not the dull gray cylinder everyone had seen before. No, this Rama had been cleverly colored, using image processing subroutines, and was now a black cylinder with yellow-gold stripes. The end of the cylinder looked almost like a face. There was a momentary quiet in the room before Francesca began to recite.

“Tyger, tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

Nicole des Jardins felt a cold chill run up her spine as she listened to Francesca begin the next verse.

“In what distant deeps or skies, Burnt the fire of thine eyes? . . ”

That is the real question after all, Nicole was thinking. Who made this gargantuan spacecraft? That’s much more important for our ultimate destiny than why.

“What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? . . .”

Across the table General O’Toole was also mesmerized by Francesca’s recitation. His mind was again struggling with the same fundamental ques­tions that had been bothering him since he originally applied for the mission. Dear God, he was wondering, how do these Ramans fit into your universe? Did You create them first, before us? Are they our cousins in some sense? Why have You sent them here at this time?

“When the stars threw down their spears And water’d heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see, Did He who made the Lamb make thee?”

When Francesca finished the short poem there was a brief silence and then spontaneous applause. She graciously mentioned that Dr. Takagishi had provided all the image processing intelligence and the likable Japanese cosmonaut took an embarrassed bow. Then Janos Tabori stood at his chair. “I think I speak for all of us, Shig and Francesca, in congratulating you on that original and thought-provoking performance,” he said with a grin. “It almost, but not quite, made me feel serious about what we are doing tomor­row.”

“Speaking of which,” General Borzov said, rising at the head of the table with his recently opened bottle of Ukrainian vodka, from which he had already taken two strong belts, “it is now time for an ancient Russian tradi­tion—the toasts. I brought along only two bottles of this national treasure and I propose to share them both with you, my comrades and colleagues, on this very special evening.”