Some of my tears this morning were because Simone will never know her grandparents, and vice versa. They will be mythological characters in the fabric of her life and she will know them only from their photographs and videos. She will never have the joy of hearing my mother’s amazing voice. And she will never see the soft and tender love in my father’s eyes.
After Mother died, my father was very careful to make each of my birthdays very special. On piy twelfth birthday, after we had just moved into the villa at Beauvois, Father and I walked together in the falling snow among the manicured gardens at the Chateau de Villandry. That day he promised me that he would always be beside me when I needed him. I tightened my grip on his hand as we
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walked along the hedges. I wept mat day also, admitting to him (and to myself) how frightened I was mat he too would abandon me. He cradled me against his chest and kissed my forehead. He never broke his promise.
Only last year, in what seems now to have been another lifetime, my birthday began on a ski train just inside the French border. I was still awake at midnight, reliving my noon encounter with Henry at the chalet on the side of the Weissfluhjoch. I had not told him, when he indirectly inquired, that he was Genevieve’s father. I would not give him mat satisfaction.
But I remember thinking on the train, is it fair for me to keep from my daughter the fact mat her father is the king of England? Are my self-respect and pride so important that I can justify preventing my daughter from knowing that she is a princess? I was mulling these questions over in my mind, staring blankly out at the night, when Genevieve, as if on cue, appeared in my sleeping berth. “Happy Birthday, Mother,” she said with a grin. She gave me a hug. I almost told her then about her father. I would have, I am certain, if I had known what was going to happen to the Newton expedition. I miss you, Genevieve. I wish that I had been allowed a proper good-bye.
Memories are very peculiar. This morning, in my depression, the flood of images from previous birthdays heightened my feelings of isolation and loss. Now, when I’m in a stronger mood, I savor those same recollections. I’m no longer terribly sad at this moment that Simone will not be able to experience what I have known. Her birthdays will be completely different from mine and unique to her life. It is my privilege and duty to make them as memorable and loving as I can.
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3
Five hours ago a series of t
26 May 2201
extraordinary events began to occur inside Rama. We were sitting together at that time, eating our evening meal of roast beef, potatoes, and salad (in an effort to persuade ourselves that what we are eating is delicious, we have a code name for each of the chemical combinations that we obtain from the Ramans. The code names are roughly derived from the kind of nutrition provided—thus our “roast beef” is rich in protein, “potatoes” are primarily carbohydrates, etc.), when we heard a pure and distant whistle. All of us stopped eating and the two men bundled up to go topside. When the whistle persisted, I grabbed Simone and my heavy clothes, wrapped the baby in numerous blankets, and followed Michael and Richard up into the cold.
The whistle was much louder on the surface. We were fairly certain that it was coming from the south, but since it was dark in Rama we were leery about wandering away from our lair. After a few minutes, however, we began to see splashes of light reflecting off the mirrored surfaces of the surrounding skyscrapers, and our curiosity could not’
be contained. We crept cautiously toward the southern shore of the island, where no buildings would be between us and the imposing horns of the southern bowl of Rama.
When we arrived at the shore of the Cylindrical Sea, a fascinating light show was already in progress. The arcs of multicolored light flying around and illuminating the gigantic spires of the southern bowl continued for over an hour. Even baby Simone was mesmerized by the long streamers of yellow, blue, and red bouncing between the spires and making rainbow patterns in the dark. When the show abruptly ceased, we switched on our flashlights and beaded back toward our lair.
After a few minutes of walking, our animated conversation was interrupted by a distant long shriek, unmistakably die sound of one of the avian creatures that had helped Richard and me to escape from New York last year. We stopped abruptly and listened. Since we have neither seen nor heard any avians since we returned to New York to warn the Ramans of the incoming nuclear missiles, both Richard and I were very excited. Richard has been over to their lair a few times, but has never had any response to his shouts down the great vertical corridor. Just a month ago Richard said that he thought the avians had left New York altogether. The shriek tonight clearly indicates that at least one of our friends is still around.
Within seconds, before we had a chance to discuss whether or not one of us would go in the direction of the shriek, we heard another sound, also familiar, that was too loud for any of us to feel comfortable. Fortunately the dragging brushes were not between us and our lair. I put both of my arms around Simone and sprinted toward home, nearly running into buildings at least twice in my hurry in the dark. Michael was the last to arrive. By then I had finished opening both the cover and the grill. “There’s several of them,” Richard said breathlessly, as the sounds of the octospiders, growing louder, surrounded us. He cast his flashlight beam down the long lane leading east from our lair and we all saw two large, dark objects moving in our direction.
Normally we go to sleep within two or three hours after dinner, but tonight was an exception. The light show, the
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ARTHUR C. CLARKE AND GENTRY LEE
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avian shriek, and die close encounter with the octospiders had energized all three of us. We talked and talked. Richard was convinced that something really major was about to happen. He reminded us mat the Earth impact maneuver by Rama had also been preceded by a small light show in the southern bowl. At mat time, he recalled, the consensus of the Newton cosmonauts had been that the entire demonstration was intended as an announcement or possibly as some kind of an alert. What, Richard wondered, was the significance of tonight’s dazzling display?
For Michael, who was not inside Rama for any extended period of time before its close passage by the Earth and had never before had any direct contact with either the avians or the octospiders, tonight’s events were of major proportions. The fleeting glance that he caught of the ten-tacled creatures coming toward us down the lane gave him some appreciation for the terror that Richard and I had felt when we were racing up those bizarre spikes and escaping from the octospider lair last year.
“Are the octospiders the Ramans?” Michael asked tonight. “If so,” he continued, “then why should we run from them? Their technology has advanced so far beyond ours that they can basically do with us as they see fit.”
“The octospiders are passengers on this vehicle,” Richard responded quickly, “just as we are. So are the avians. The octos think we may be the Ramans, but they are not certain. The avians are a puzzle. Surely they cannot be a spacefaring species. How did they get onboard in the first place? Are they perhaps a part of the original Raman ecosystem?”
I instinctively clutched Simone against my body. So many questions. So few answers. A memory of poor Dr. Takagishi, stuffed like a huge fish or tiger and standing in the octospider museum, shot through my mind and gave me the shivers. “If we are passengers,” I said quietly, “then where are we going?”
Richard sighed. “I’ve been doing some computations,” he said. “And the results are not very encouraging. Even though we are traveling very fast with respect to the Sun, our speed is puny when the reference system is our local group of stars. If our trajectory does not change, we will
exit the solar system in the general direction of Barnard’s star. We will arrive in the Barnard system in several thousand years.”
Simone began to cry. It was late and she was very tired. I excused myself and went down to Michael’s room to feed her while the men surveyed all the sensor outputs on Ihe black screen~to see if they could determine what might be happening. Simone nursed fretfully at my breasts, even hurting me once. Her disquiet was extremely unusual. Ordinarily she is such a mellow baby. “You feel our fear, don’t you?” I said to her. I’ve read that babies can sense the emotions of the adults around them. Maybe it’s true.
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