Tomorrow’s Heritage

by Juanita Coulson

  What the alien messenger “movement” needs is a poignant symbol, something to reach the heart of mankind and convert its opinion . . .

  Todd alternately checked the view out the window and on the cabin’s courtesy vid screens. They soared south over Mar del Plata and the island dots that used to be the Falklands, now called Southern Pacific Neutrality Point Five. Within the plane, the ambient temperature was a comfortable twenty-five. The ocean was still fluid below them. But on the distant horizon, a white continental mass was already visible. The sight chilled the otherwise cheerful group.

  “Getting cold,” someone complained. That wasn’t true, but the comment brought general agreement. The effect was psychological, and it seemed to grow chillier, the farther south they went.

  “I wish I’d been tapped for the October tour,” another passenger grumbled. “It wouldn’t have been so cold, then, when I got home. They say it’s summer here now.”

  Skeptical laughter rang out. Again the complainer had been correct. But people huddled in their seats and put on their coats, fighting off an iciness that wasn’t there. With morbid interest, they watched the changing scene outside. The courtesy screens gave them the pilots’ view, a more complete look than peering out the window afforded. Monitor arrows showed a landmark to the west.

  The readout, in several languages, told the shivering Committee members that they were passing the Strait of Magellan and Cape Horn. There was little to see in that direction, even in computer-enhanced form. The gloomy Strait soon fell behind, and other views showed them the glaciated continent with its outlying archipelago.

  They took the sixtieth parallel in, the route Saunder Enterprises’ supply shuttles used to fly when Ward was building the Enclave. That meant the pilots would have to adjust their course east soon, if they intended to make landfall at Marambio for transfer to the Enclave shuttle. Even as he thought that, Todd felt a subtle seat-of-the-pants alteration in their movement.

  The courtesy screens showed intermittent clouds and sea-level storms. There was one clear patch, where they could see tabular iceberg tows going along the Drake Passage. Daredevil rigger ships herded floating freshwater storehouses. The Indus and Sahel contracts paid well, well enough to tempt men to risk their lives towing the bergs to warmer regions. Horrendous winds rushed the coast and beyond, seeming to engulf the ships and icebergs. The plane flew on and the clouds closed over the scene below, leaving the fate of the riggers in mystery. The passengers could only hope that they all rode out the sudden storm in safety.

  Plane travel in Antarctica could be dangerous, too, as Todd well knew. This was a time when ignorance would have been bliss. There were far too many accounts—and he had read most of them!—of whiteouts and katabatic winds which bred impassable blizzards, confusing and blinding pilots. Planes had crashed on Antarctica’s lonely peaks and volcanoes, in areas so remote the bodies had never been recovered. They had become part of the continent, locked in the ice, but, unlike the occupants of the Enclave, past all hope of revival.

  Saunder Enterprises Antarctic Enclave was located in the heart of the vast, unforgiving land, very near a place once named the “Pole of Inaccessibility.” If they went down there, anywhere but right on top of the base, it would be the same for them as it had been for the earlier airborne travelers lost in the South Pole’s merciless reaches.

  And the same as it had been for Gib Owens, hitting the ocean at Mach 5.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ooooooooo

  Frozen Sanctuary

  TODD tensed as the pilot completed the vector change and pushed them over in his descent. There was nothing at all to see outside now. Sweeping snow and clouds obliterated the polar landscape. He wished the pilots would throw up their readings on the screen, even if he was meters away from the controls. But he couldn’t express that wish, not out loud. Ed Lutz was a comp tech, not an accomplished amateur pilot. In theory, the readings wouldn’t mean a thing to the man Todd Saunder was pretending to be.

  Despite his habitual worry during a landing, there were no problems at all. He had endured worse touchdowns under far better weather conditions.

  There was a delay. For several long, upsetting minutes, they sat, uninformed and building grim fantasies in their minds. Todd had been through that, too, and always resented it. After, in his estimation, far too long a wait, an attendant emerged from his cubicle, told them to deplane, and ushered them to a lounge. Station personnel said the outlook was good. The freak storm was blowing itself out quickly. Passengers stood around, staring at the station view screens, watching gravity-driven winds sucking polar air and snow off the glacier and seaward. Sastrugi, rock-hard sculptured waves of ice-snow, formed a white ocean around the station. Some blizzards could bottle up a station for days or weeks. Todd hoped this wasn’t one of them. No one wanted to talk much, and no one wanted to go outside and take a look at the “real” Antarctica. Some people were grumpy, not yet adjusted to the time changes. Nearly all of them were showing some stress after an hour’s flying in bad weather.

  But barely two hours later, they were told to board the Enclave shuttle. It was a smaller ship than the wheeled aircraft that had carried them from South America, but far more modern and better equipped. This shuttle was designed to take a lot of polar weather and could land on the glacier itself. Todd felt a lot more confident riding this bird. But he feigned uneasiness like the rest of the lower echelons, fussing with his safety belt and so on, listening closely to the attendants’ instructions on crash procedures. He knew there had never been a crash on the Enclave run. But precautions were heeded far more closely now than earlier, simply because of the daunting terrain.

  They were airborne again. No viewplate this time.

  They ascended steadily. Antarctica was a high continent, the highest on Earth, thanks to thousands of meters of ice. And SE Antarctic Enclave was carved into the loftiest plateau of this frozen land.

  Finally, descending, at a very gradual rate. Todd squirmed with impatience. More tests coming up, of his disguise and of his suspicions.

  They bumped along on the skis with minimal discomfort and came to a full stop. They waited. Then, very slowly, they moved forward. Todd heard a faint squeaking across the snow, extremely cold and packed snow, and air temperatures to match.

  Some blasé passengers had dozed during the flight. Others had read their instructional packages again. Todd hadn’t felt the need, not of such basic material as that; the hyperendor medication had put his mental faculties and memories into high gear, long enough to last out this venture. Enclave attendants moved among the passengers, helping those who had translators to adjust them for optimum effect. The ranking attendant addressed the Committee via her jewel pendant throat mike, another one of ComLink’s handy devices, and another of Ward Saunder’s patent spinoffs.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the Committee, we have arrived at Saunder Enterprises Antarctic Enclave. Please remain seated until we descend to docking level . . .”

  On cue, the ship started to drop, very slowly. They had been sitting on a parking platform and now were being lowered into the glacier. Todd had been through this procedure numerous times before, when he was helping his father at the facility. But he still didn’t like the sensations.

  “Per schedule, we will tour the preservement chambers first. Tours of the tissue banks, the cloning experiments, and the cryogenic pharmaceutical laboratories will be available later to those who are interested. If you have any questions at any point, please ask one of our Enclave personnel. We are ready to help you, and one of us will be near you at all times.”

  Todd hoped that wasn’t strictly true. He needed to be alone, at least for a while, if he was to carry out what he planned. He studied the woman, greeting them. She was older than he would have expected. When the Enclave was being built, the volunteers staffing it had been young and idealistic, for the most part. The Antarctic wasn’t always kind to those who weren’t in their prime. This lecturer, though, appeared older
than Pat, maybe nearing her forties. She obviously wasn’t part of a youthful, high-turnover staff roster. She spoke, and the other attendants acted, with a faintly smug air of superiority. Todd recognized the pattern. Isolation syndrome. He had seen it show up on occasion with his Geosynch techs, although term service there was generally much shorter than it would be at the Enclave. And he had seen such smug pride at Goddard, and watched it turning into secessionist drives. In theory, these Enclave staffers were the employees of the Human Rights Committee and of Protectors of Earth, despite the Saunder Enterprises badges they wore. The Enclave was chartered, and heavily funded, through P.O.E.. Yet the staffers behaved as if the distinguished visitors were silly, uninformed tourists, and patronized them.

  Dedicated, elitist—like Goddardites, and even like Project Search teams. Such people developed a fierce loyalty to their own causes. And they could be damned good at keeping secrets, as Todd had reason to know.

  Where better to hide secrets than in frozen storage at the bottom of the world?

  Motion ceased. Todd detected faint noises up front. The pilots, buckling down monitors and logs and readying the craft for the maintenance crews. Doors sucked open at either side of the passenger compartment. V.I.P. Committee members were already on their feet, familiar with the routine, trooping out. The lesser members, like “Ed Lutz,” followed, moving uncertainly, gawking as they exited the shuttle.

  The area immediately around the docking platform was sheathed in metal and plasticene. It could have been any docking platform on Earth; the arrival and departure bays in every terminal were much the same. But overhead, the resemblance ended. A massive elevator shaft of ice rose hundreds of meters toward the glacier’s surface. The shuttle had been lowered so gently it hadn’t seemed they could have been descending so deep. Maintenance lights were strung down the length of the vertical tunnel, showing the gleaming, icy walls. At the top of the shaft, there was blackness, a heavy weather door blocking any trace of sunlight penetrating the translucent upper layers of ice.

  The Committee, surrounded by uniformed Enclave staffers, was now standing at the bottom of a very deep hole. And the door to the surface was locked. Images of intolerable temperatures and surface winds were racing through other minds besides his own, Todd knew. He had been through this before. In effect, they were all at the mercy of their guides and environmental life-support, just as if they had been transported instantly to orbit. This was different from space living. Gravity pulled at Todd, and the atmosphere lacked that recycled quality he associated with Geosynch HQ. He was on Earth, yet imprisoned and isolated, along with the other Committee members, shut off from the rest of humanity.

  The guides started to lead them out of docking. When some of the newer members objected to being rushed, the Enclave staff patiently explained that Maintenance needed to get the temperature down to run certain checks. “We are always conscious of the effects of body heat here,” the chief guide explained with a sweet, scornful little smile. They kept the Committee moving. The V.I.P. members cooperated, scowling at any of the lower echelons who held up the line or tried to ask questions. Very quickly, the tour was steered through a heat lock into the Core, the central section of the Enclave. With monitor screens supplying multi-views, the guides gave them a rapid look at the facility. The personnel lived in the Core, kept their records here, managed the holo-mode relay system to show the world, if necessary, live—or suspended animation—views of any of the “confinees.” In dizzying sequence, the members were shown the sperm, ova, and DNA storage areas, the P.O.E.-sanctioned human cloning experimental labs, the pharmaceutical sections, and other scientific and commercial divisions.

  The lesser members could ask questions about these areas and even get a few straight answers. But the V.I.P.s, again, quashed them, eager to get on with the business of the tour.

  The staffers led them out from the Core. The Enclave was built in a series of concentric circles. The inner one, not quite a kilometer in diameter, contained the Core and the adjacent labs and production areas. Outside that, reaching more than a kilometer from the Core’s rim, the preservement chambers began. Before they could go there, they had to be dressed for it. The staffers took them to Suitup and handed out bulky, heavily insulated gear.

  No insu-suits. None in sight.

  Along with the others, Todd accepted the coat liner and parka, the padded cap, overlarge mittens, and thick-soled boots. The implications of the cold-weather gear chastened many of the tour’s rookies. They were grateful for the staffers’ help, needing extra hands to fasten all the togs and seal strips and zippers. The staffers solicitously made sure those who required translators had them. Everyone was cautioned to use breath masks over mouths and noses to prevent frostbite. The tour members waddled obediently after the similarly garbed staffers.

  Why? Where were the insu-suits? The obvious answer struck Todd. Insu-suits weren’t for curious tourists—not if the Enclave had something to conceal. It was too easy to see out of a properly sealed insu-suit, too easy to stay warm and not worry about heat leakage damaging the cryogenic facility. Plus, this bulky gear hobbled the Committee, severely limiting their ability to snoop or wander into any place the staffers didn’t want them to go.

  There must be insu-suits hidden somewhere, for use after the Committee left. He would have to locate one, once the staffers were looking the other way.

  “Your luggage will be placed in the guest quarters. After we complete the preservement tour, we will return to the Core for refreshments. If anyone wants to take the subsidiary tours then, we’ll arrange them.” Most of the group, those whose faces weren’t completely swathed in scarves and hoods, looked bored by the offer. Todd kept his manner neutral. He knew about the labs, had set up their monitoring and com systems, in fact. But a mini-tour just might suit his purposes. He would keep the option in mind for later.

  The guides divided them into five groups, three staffers to a group. Then they were led to a row of trav-carts in the corridor outside Suitup. Todd got in a cart with a Rift Country delegate, a Frenchman, and a woman from the Greater Mediterranean Confederation. The guide driver took off quickly. Each group of ten Committee members had its own route. As they followed the beltway girdling the Core, one by one the little triads of trav-carts dropped away, taking separate radiating corridors heading out toward the preservement area. Todd’s group took the corridor along the East Forty Degree Longitude line. The others must be equidistant from his tour, he knew from the pre-tour indoctrination materials.

  Divide and conquer. Each group was taking a different spoke of a large wheel. It reminded Todd of Goddard Colony, though this time there was no shift in gravity and his position was horizontal to Earth’s surface, not related to the axis of a torus. The aspects were reversed, too. The Goddard torus was teeming with life. The outer concentric circles of SE Antarctic Enclave were frozen sanctuaries holding thousands of bodies neither alive nor dead.

  There was no way these five small groups could survey those thousands. By separating them, the staffers further insured they had no chance of coordinating their tour. In intent, the system allowed the Committee to make random and impartial studies throughout the preservement chambers. In actuality, it gave them a hit-or-miss, superficial run-through, proving absolutely nothing.

  Ed Lutz had been scornful of the tour’s effectiveness, and so was Todd, now that he saw how it was being conducted. They were seeing just what the techs wanted them to see, and nothing beyond that. The Committee would report back to P.O.E. and quiet down, once more, any rumors of foul play.

  Only the rumors were getting louder, and some people didn’t believe the Committee’s reports any more. With good reason!

  The corridor was a long, descending ramp. Scanners set in the walls at regular intervals peered at them from behind insulated screens. ComLink’s techs had installed those. Todd watched for any alterations as he rode past. No new interlinks. Same narrow field. Safety scanners, installed mostly so that an injured staffe
r could call for help from such a station. But they weren’t well designed for security searches. The Enclave assumed climate and location provided their security. Nobody got in here who wasn’t granted entree.

  Todd’s fellow trav-cart passengers peered around uneasily. He hoped none of them was claustrophobic. Ice millers and sophisticated glacier drillers had cut the corridors right through the continental ice sheath. Intellectually, Todd knew the engineering specs, knew the ceiling and walls weren’t going to close in and seal them in the glacier, crushing them with trillions of kilotons of ice. Emotionally, though, he wasn’t sure.

  They were approaching a baffle wall and a heat lock. The last of the lab and storage sections. Beyond that wall lay the preservement chambers. The trav-carts swung in neat U-turns and parked, ready for a hasty getaway once the obligatory tour was over. Whisk the shivering snoopers off scene before they could ask for anything not suitable for their eyes . . .

  “Mechanized equipment is not permitted past this point,” their lead guide explained. Another lie. Todd was breathing hard from the effort of climbing out of the cart wearing so many clothes. Committee members used to warm climates were beating their arms about themselves and stamping their feet. Condensed breath and frost generated by their bodies hung in a cloud around them. Their footfalls, despite being muffled by the boots, echoed. Todd’s eyelashes grew sticky, riming with the chilly fallout. Humidity crystallized and fell or hung suspended in the frigid air. Some Committee members were growing white coatings on their eyebrows or on bits of hair peeping out of their caps. No one asked what the temperature was. No one really wanted to know.