Wheelers

by Ian Stewart

  Fifteen minutes later, Jonas had the answer he wanted. Or, more accurately, he had an answer, but it was one that he definitely did not want.

  It was now clear, though, why the authorities had not made their prediction public. He wondered for how long they could hush it up and how much panic there would be when it came out.

  It was only after he'd told Cashew, and they had both tried to take in the implications, that something else occurred to him.

  It was too much of a long shot to be coincidence.

  Sir Charles Dunsmoore sat in a plush reception area of the Ecotopia Building, having arrived a few minutes ahead of time for his appointment with the undersecretary for world affairs, Peter-Wolf Uhlirach-Bengtsen.

  He wondered what it was about.

  An aide ushered him into the office, which was just as large and comfortably furnished as Sir Charles had expected. Uhlirach-Bengtsen motioned him into a chair. "Charles, good of you to come."

  "You know you can rely on me, Peter." A sheaf of documentation was thrust into his hands, but there wasn't time to peruse it.

  "I'm sure I can, Charles, and I must say that in my opinion there is no better person for the job than you."

  Job? This was a job interview? What job? He already had a—

  The confusion must have shown on his face, or else Uhlirach-Bengtsen had anticipated it, which wouldn't have been terribly difficult. "Charles, everything that I tell you here today must be kept completely secret. There's no way to stop the word getting out eventually—even soon—but even a few days could make a big difference to our preparations."

  "Of course. What's all this ab—"

  The lights dimmed and a holographic flatscreen faded from faint gray smoke into full, solid color. The color was mostly black, speckled with white dots—a starfield. Just off-center in the display was a wispy smudge of light, a blob of cotton wool.

  "Yesterday morning," said Uhlirach-Bengtsen, "a senior lama at Moonbase South—known as the Guru of the Small Birds, for some reason—sent an urgent message to our government. A warning, one that we have since verified from our own sources, one that we believe to be the truth.

  "What you see in this image is a comet, torn loose from the Oort cloud by random gravitational disturbances. When first detected, it was heading towards Jupiter. Later observations predicted that it would collide with Jupiter, implying that it would pose no threat to us. The Buddhists who discovered it named it the preta, a term that is used in their religious writings to refer to a type of wandering, hungry ghost, and informed us as a matter of courtesy that it would make a close encounter with Jupiter about twelve years from now and smash into the planet six years after that."

  "A bad name," said Sir Charles. "A preta has a huge stomach, a tiny mouth, and its inside is red-hot from hunger and thirst. Comets, as I recall, are dirty snowballs."

  "It will become red-hot when it hits Jupiter's atmosphere," said Uhlirach-Bengtsen. "The monks estimate its mass at twenty trillion tons."

  Charles realized he had no feel for such figures. "Is that big?"

  "Not for a comet—Halley's Comet was five times as big, and plenty of asteroids are much larger. But it's what happened next that's got us worried." The holographic image changed to a close-up of Jupiter and its four classical moons. The comet's trajectory was superimposed as a graphic, swinging through the system, out of the image altogether, then returning as a string of separate blobs that collided in sequence with regions in the planet's southern hemisphere. "The image presumes that the comet will break into pieces before impact," Uhlirach-Bengtsen added. "We don't know how many, but it doesn't make much difference to the end result."

  The trajectory faded, leaving only the close-up of the striped planet and the same four of its moons. "This is the original predicted configuration of the moons at the time of initial passage."

  Suddenly the four moons were in different positions. "This, however, is their current predicted configuration."

  Sir Charles had a question to ask. "Observational error?"

  "No, the first prediction was accurate. According to the monks, the moons have moved."

  "But—"

  "Charles, I know it sounds incredible, but please believe me, we are convinced it is true. And the Buddhists have calculated the new trajectory of the comet, based on the new positions of the moons."

  Now the image changed to a view of the inner Solar System— Earth in the foreground, Mars off to one side, then a sprinkling of asteroids, then a much-diminished Jovian inner system. "This is schematic, of course, but the trajectory that I am about to add is accurate in all important respects." A growing trail showed where the comet would pass. This time, as it sped past Jupiter, it came within a hair's breadth of hitting Ganymede and Europa. Its exit trajectory was substantially different from the previous simulation.

  "My God," said Sir Charles. The graphic trail continued to extend, until suddenly it terminated—midway between Sumatra and Sri Lanka. Charles sucked in his breath and went pale.

  "You haven't seen the worst of it," said the undersecretary. "Let me run it without interruptions." This time the comet swept sedately into the Jovian system, made two sharp bends around Ganymede and Europa, and shot out of the system like a bat out of hell.

  "It speeds up!"

  "Slingshots, two of them. Ordinarily it'd take a good eight months to fall from Jovian orbit to Earth orbit. This bastard does it in three weeks. Ten times the speed, a hundred times the energy—equivalent to twenty Halleys Comets all hitting us at once. The comet will collide with the Earth late in 2222, twelve years from now. I can tell you the timing to within a second, if you're interested. With that mass and that speed— we'll be lucky if it doesn't crack the planet like an egg."

  There was a lengthy silence while the two men avoided looking at each other.

  "The Buddhists have therefore renamed the comet," the undersecretary said. "They now call it Jaramarana."

  Sir Charles shook his head.

  "Death," the undersecretary translated.

  "Death . . . Macabre, but apt . . . " said Sir Charles, chills running along his spine. "Can we do anything about it, Peter?"

  "Given a few days, we can put together a package that will— until the comet gets a lot closer, maybe eleven years from now— convince the planet's population that the problem is under control and there is no serious danger. People will complain, and some will ask awkward questions, but we can avoid panic and retain contro—"

  "That's not what I meant. The Belters have loads of mass-drivers: can't they shoot it down?"

  "Twenty trillion tons of it? No, the Way of the Wholesome tells me it's far too big. Might as well hit it with a flyswatter. To make matters worse, it's an ocean strike."

  Sir Charles was still finding it hard to believe what he was being told. "But the destruction will be immense!"

  Uhlirach-Bengtsen's face was grim. "It will make nuclear winter look like a sprinkling of dew. This one's a planet-killer, Charles. Jupiter might have absorbed it, but Earth will be vvdped clean. Some bacteria will probably survive—if the planet does.

  Humans? Well, there's the lunar and Belter Buddhists, not that I personally take great comfort from that."

  The undersecretary got to his feet and walked over to the window. Sir Charles joined him.

  "We will evacuate key personnel, of course," said Uhlirach-Bengtsen in an unreal, almost robotic tone. "If we can persuade the Buddhists to agree. But ..." His voice trailed off, and Sir Charles could see the man trying to pull himself together. In a slightly more normal voice, he started again. "Just . . .just look at it, Charles. The trees, the parks—see those children playing Softball? See the geese, Canada geese they are, dreadful pests, ought to be exterminated. But they will be, Charles, do you see? Along with the trees and the children . . . Oh, yes, we can evacuate a chosen few to the Moon, maybe even Mars, but what kind of a life is that? And who chooses?" He seemed close to tears, and Charles was appalled: Uhlirach-Bengtsen was the a
rchetypal strong, silent type.

  "Its horribly bad luck," Sir Charles ventured, not knowing what else to say. "It could so easily have gone somewhere entirely diff—"

  "Luck? No, Charles, we don't think so. Not luck."

  "But—I mean, if ... "

  The undersecretary's face was grim. "No. It's coming straight at us, over a distance of half a billion miles, at ten times its normal speed!"

  "Charles, we are as certain as any mortal being can be that it is an act of war."

  "... so that's why I got the coordinates so badly wrong," Jonas concluded.

  Cashew still found it hard to believe. Moving moons! Bailey didn't give a toss. "Damn it, Jonas, who caresl It wouldn't matter if we'd made landfall in the Himalayas!" Why, oh, why couldn't people focus on the important things?

  "Bailey, I'm not worried about the navigation. What I'm trying to point out is that there's a very large comet out there, and suddenly it's heading straight at us."

  "Yeah, sure. And what do you expect me to do about that?"

  "Bailey, if it hits, we're dead."

  Bailey sighed. "Guys, guys—we're dead right now, don't you understand? The press didn't show, the Lumleys went through the floor, God's Navsats got dumped, the networks have put us on the has-been list, Ruthie Bowser's madder than a crate of Tasmanian devils because we're no longer a salable property, and we are out of a job. Permanently."

  "If the comet hits, the whole planet will be out of a job."

  "On the contrary: If the comet hits, all our problems will be solved. On the other hand, until it does, we have to eat, and if it misses, we're going to feel pretty stupid if we're alive but penniless! Jonas: we can't do anything about any goddamned comet, okay? But we can try to salvage some sort of career! So let's just focus on that and leave the comet up to the military and the politicians, huh?"

  "I don't believe—"

  "Let it be, Jonas," said Cashew. "Bailey's right. We can worry about the comet tomorrow . . . you said yourself it'll be years and years before it hits, if it ever does.

  "Bailey: what are our options?"

  Bailey looked glum. "Not good. You know how much competition there is in the vidivid business. Our competitors have already pounced—every contract Ruthie was negotiating has been withdrawn and offered elsewhere. Advertising is out of the question, there's no way in past the gatekeepers. I suppose we could scrape a living making eduflix for the government. . . were it not for one tiny thing."

  They waited. Now what—

  "We're bankrupt."

  "What?"

  "Sorry, Cash, but Ruthie accepted a penalty clause—"

  "Hell's angels, Bailey, you didn't tell us anyth—"

  "That's because she didn't tell me. But it's not entirely her fault—I had to pitch the sales talk pretty optimistically to sell the God's Navsats idea. Ruthie just made the mistake of believing what I said. Goddamn it, I believed what I said! Anyway, the upshot is, unless we come up with a pretty good advance in the next forty-eight hours, we lose the lot." He turned to Jonas. "So, Jonas, if you want to hang on to your fancy camera, you'd better put your thinking hat on. Sorry, my fault— but it's done, okay? Forget the comet: what we need right now is cash —lots of it."

  Lots of. . . "Give me ten minutes. Got to make a private call. I'll be back."

  Thirty minutes passed: Jonas returned, looking flustered. "Sorry, had some trouble getting access. Um . . . how would you like to make a documentary?"

  Bailey stared at him as if he were crazy. "I told you, we're on the has-been list. The networks won't touch us with a . . . "

  Jonas let him continue until he was out of breath—it was simpler that way. "Not with the networks: this is a private commission. There's one snag: we have to sign an open-ended contract. Good money, but no release date and no option to cancel."

  "Ruthie won't like that!"

  "Bailey, in this position Ruthie Bowser is superfluous. We're being offered jobs for Hfe. Working for Angle Carver." In a few quick sentences he told them about Angle's secret collection of illicit archaeological specimens. She'd authorized that—as long as he didn't reveal where the collection was hidden. "She wants us to make an in-depth W catalogue of the whole collection. Very private, her eyes only—for the foreseeable future, at least. It's never been properly catalogued, you see, and she's not happy about that. We film all the specimens in situ, and we go all over the world and film where they came from. Mars, even." He related the story of Angle's thoat bone.

  "I'd love to go to Mars!" said Cashew. It had been a childhood dream.

  Bailey wasn't so sure. He wasn't that keen on travel, if the truth be told. But he'd been distinctly impressed by the Carver operation, and not just because of Angle's money "Hmmph. Mars—yeah, well, I guess it's no worse than a very slow 'round-the-world cruise, though without the cabaret and the cordon-bleu . . . What's the advance, Jonas?"

  "Nothing."

  "Are you mad? I just told you, Ruthie accepted a pen—"

  "Angle pays off the penalty clause as a signing fee. But from then on, guys, she owns us lock, stock, and Suzuki-73. Oh, don't all look as if you've swallowed a walrus! She's trying to help us out, okay? Only thing is, although she's got pots of money, she instinctively drives a very hard bargain. I guess anyone who's outlived seven billionaire husbands must find it difficult to be a soft touch. Anyway, the real reason is that most of her stuff is illegal, so she needs to make sure we don't—"

  Cashew touched his hand. "It's all right, Jonas, you don't need to justify anything. We got handed a piece of bad luck, is all. I rather think you've saved our bacon. Hasn't he, Bailey? Bailey? Yes, you can give me that awful sour look if you want to, but you know I'm right. Or have you got a better idea?"

  Jonas still felt awkward. He thought this was a great opportunity—job for life, no more scrambling for the scraps the networks threw to their lapdogs to keep them tame and malleable—but then, he really liked Angle Carver, he had a feeling this would keep him in touch with Prudence, and as long as he could keep making W . . . "We all have to agree. This isn't a democratic vote: we each have a veto. Okay?" The others signified their agreement. "I say we sign. Cash? Yeah, right, you're even keener that I am. Bailey?"

  Barnum shrugged. It wasn't such a bad deal, but— "Ruthie won't like us biting the hand that feeds us."

  "Bailey—it's the same hand that locks our cages every night."

  "True." It would get Bowser off their backs, permanently. No more twenty percent. . . "Sure. I always wanted to spend my life making films of old bits of junk that nobody will ever get to look at."

  "It's all too much of a coincidence, you see," Uhlirach-Bengtsen said, as a pretty young secretary served them coffee and cookies. It seemed easier to talk in a relaxed way now that the news had been broken. Twelve years seemed a long way off. . . surely something could be done to avert the catastrophe.

  "Coincidence? Peter, I'm not following this at—"

  "Jupiter's moons, Charles. They've moved. They've moved into just the right positions to fling a comet that would have hit Jupiter along an extremely accurate trajectory aimed dead-center at us. A billion square miles of celestial real estate to aim at, yet it comes here. Coincidence? Crap! Combine that with those wheeled things that the Odingo woman found, also out on Jupiter's moons, and it starts to look very likely indeed that those moons didn't move as a result of natural causes. They haven't just moved—they've been moved!"

  "You mean—"

  "Aliens, Charles. We're convinced that someone, something, deliberately rearranged Jupiter's moons . . . moved them into carefully calculated positions that would divert that comet straight at Target Earth. We think that there are alien creatures living on Jupiter's moons that possess the technology to manipulate gravity."

  Charles's mind flicked back to the fiasco at the inquiry. The scene was burned into his synapses. The wheeler had levitated. "So that's how that infernal machine did it," he muttered.

  "So our best scientific bra
ins have deduced, Charles."

  "Why Jupiter's moons? Why not the planet itself?"

  "First: the wheelers were dug up on one of the moons. Second: Jupiter is unsuitable for intelligent life—no solid ground, and the conditions are too extreme. A nice, quiet moon, though . . . perfect. Set up a base, equip it with all the home comforts."

  "Makes sense. But why us? We haven't bothered them! Unless Prudence Odingo's expedition had in some way offended —no, that was sheer paranoia; he should be ashamed.

  "We don't know the aliens are still in the Jovian system—they might have just been passing through and chucked a rock our way for the fun of it. But my advisers don't think that's likely. If the aliens are going to gain a genuine advantage, and not just bug their multiple eyes out with amusement as the Earth gets splattered across the cosmos, they've got to maintain a long-term presence. One explanation is that tossing a comet our way may be a first step towards joviforming the Earth. You know— making it fit for creatures like them to inhabit. Lots of nice bare rock, no pests—a Jovian's version of the French Riviera."

  "Not very plausible. Wrong gravity, too weak to retain a hydrogen-helium atmosphere ..."

  "I agree. I'm pretty certain that the choice of trajectory is an act of war, but that's because I'm a military man by training and I think I can recognize when some bastard is shooting at me. However, these are alien bastards, and my advisers inform me that because aliens are alien, you can't interpret their actions as if they were human. Anyway, if it is an act of war, we can't do a damned thing about it. We don't have the weapons to fight back. We don't even know where the damned genocidal murderers are . . . But if it's all some kind of mistake—a faint hope but all we have—then maybe we can persuade them to do something about it.

  "And that, Charles, is where you come in."

  Sir Charles was still looking out of the window. Yes, Canada geese were a pest, they bred like—like rabbits, silly simile—and they left slimy green droppings everywhere from the grass they ate. But when it came to the crunch, he'd prefer pests any day to—