At last, the Chairman broke the long silence. He still remembered the sun of India, and shuddered to contemplate the sun of Mercury. So he took the Hermians very seriously indeed, even though he considered them uncouth technological barbarians.
“I think there is some merit in your argument, Mr. Ambassador,” he said slowly. “Have you any proposals?”
“Yes, sir. Before we know what action to take, we must have the facts. We know the geography of Rama—if one can use that term—but we have no idea of its capabilities. And the key to the whole problem is this: does Rama have a propulsion system? Can it change orbit? I’d be very interested in Dr. Perera’s views.”
“I’ve given the subject a good deal of thought,” answered the exobiologist. “Of course, Rama must have been given its original impetus by some launching device, but that could have been an external booster. If it does have onboard propulsion, we’ve found no trace of it. Certainly there are no rocket exhausts, or anything similar, anywhere on the outer shell.”
“They could be hidden.”
“True, but there would seem little point in it. And where are the propellant tanks, the energy sources? The main hull is solid—we’ve checked that with seismic surveys. The cavities in the northern cap are all accounted for by the airlock systems.”
“That leaves the southern end of Rama, which Commander Norton has been unable to reach, owing to that ten-kilometre-wide band of water. There are all sorts of curious mechanisms and structures up on the South Pole—you’ve seen the photographs. What they are is anybody’s guess.”
“But I’m reasonably sure of this. If Rama does have a propulsion system, it’s something completely outside our present knowledge. In fact, it would have to be the fabulous ‘Space Drive’ people have been talking about for two hundred years.”
“You wouldn’t rule that out?”
“Certainly not. If we can prove that Rama has a Space Drive—even if we learn nothing about its mode of operation—that would be a major discovery. At least we’d know that such a thing is possible.”
“What is a Space Drive?” asked the Ambassador for Earth, rather plaintively.
“Any kind of propulsion system, Sir Robert, that doesn’t work on the rocket principle. Anti-gravity—if it is possible—would do very nicely. At present, we don’t know where to look for such a drive, and most scientists doubt if it exists.”
“It doesn’t,” Professor Davidson interjected. “Newton settled that. You can’t have action without reaction. Space Drives are nonsense. Take it from me.”
“You may be right,” Perera replied with unusual blandness. “But if Rama doesn’t have a Space Drive, it has no drive at all. There’s simply no room for a conventional propulsion system, with its enormous fuel tanks.”
“It’s hard to imagine a whole world being pushed around,” said Dennis Solomons. “What would happen to the objects inside it? Everything would have to be bolted down. Most inconvenient.”
“Well, the acceleration would probably be very low. The biggest problem would be the water in the Cylindrical Sea. How would you stop that from…”
Perera’s voice suddenly faded away, and his eyes glazed over. He seemed to be in the throes of an incipient epileptic fit, or even a heart attack. His colleagues looked at him in alarm; then he made a sudden recovery, banged his fist on the table and shouted: “Of course! That explains everything! The southern cliff—now it makes sense!”
“Not to me,” grumbled the Lunar Ambassador, speaking for all the diplomats present.
“Look at this longitudinal cross-section of Rama,” Perera continued excitedly, unfolding his map. “Have you got your copies? The Cylindrical Sea is enclosed between two cliffs, which completely circle the interior of Rama. The one on the north is only fifty metres high. The southern one, on the other hand, is almost half a kilometre high. Why the big difference? No one’s been able to think of a sensible reason.”
“But suppose Rama is able to propel itself—accelerating so that the northern end is forward. The water in the Sea would tend to move back; the level at the south would rise—perhaps hundreds of metres. Hence the cliff. Let’s see—”
Perera started scribbling furiously. After an astonishingly short time—it could not have been more than twenty seconds—he looked up in triumph.
“Knowing the height of those cliffs, we can calculate the maximum acceleration Rama can take. If it was more than two per cent of a gravity, the Sea would slosh over into the southern continent.”
“A fiftieth of a gee? That’s not very much.”
“It is—for a mass of ten million megatons. And it’s all you need for astronomical manoeuvring.”
“Thank you very much, Dr. Perera,” said the Hermian Ambassador. “You’ve given us a lot to think about. Mr. Chairman can we impress on Commander Norton the importance of looking at the South Polar region?”
“He’s doing his best. The Sea is the obstacle, of course. They’re trying to build some kind of raft—so that they can at least reach New York.”
“The South Pole may be even more important. Meanwhile, I am going to bring these matters to the attention of the General Assembly. Do I have your approval?”
There were no objections, not even from Dr. Taylor. But just as the Committee members were about to switch out of circuit, Sir Lewis raised his hand.
The old historian very seldom spoke; when he did, everyone listened. “Suppose we do find that Rama is active and has these capabilities. There is an old saying in military affairs that capability does not imply intention.”
“How long should we wait to find what its intentions are?” asked the Hermian. “When we discover them, it may be far too late.”
“It is already too late. There is nothing we can do to affect Rama. Indeed, I doubt if there ever was.”
“I do not admit that, Sir Lewis. There are many things we can do—if it proves necessary. But the time is desperately short. Rama is a cosmic egg, being warmed by the fires of the sun. It may hatch at any moment.”
The Chairman of the Committee looked at the Ambassador for Mercury in frank astonishment. He bad seldom been so surprised in his diplomatic career.
He would never have dreamed that a Hermian was capable of such a poetic flight of imagination.
20. Book of Revelation
When one of his crew called him “Commander”, or, worse still “Mister Norton”, there was always something serious afoot. He could not recall that Boris Rodrigo had ever before addressed him in such a fashion, so this must be doubly serious. Even in normal times, Lieut-Commander Rodrigo was a very grave and sober person.
“What’s the problem, Boris?” he asked when the cabin door closed behind them.
“I’d like permission, Commander, to use Ship Priority for a direct message to Earth.”
This was unusual, though not unprecedented. Routine signals went to the nearest planetary relay—at the moment, they were working through Mercury—and even though the transit time was only a matter of minutes, it was often five or six hours before a message arrived at the desk of the person for whom it was intended. Ninety-nine per cent of the time, that was quite good enough; but in an emergency more direct, and much more expensive, channels could be employed, at the captain’s discretion.
“You know, of course, that you have to give me a good reason. All our available bandwidth is already clogged with data transmissions. Is this a personal emergency?”
“No, Commander. It is much more important than that. I want to send a message to the Mother Church.”
Uh-uh, said Norton to himself. How do I handle this?
“I’d be glad if you’ll explain.”
It was not mere curiosity that prompted Norton’s request—though that was certainly present. If he gave Boris the priority he asked, he would have to justify his action.
The calm, blue eyes stared into his. He had never known Boris to lose control, to be other than completely self-assured. All the Cosmo-Christers were like this;
it was one of the benefits of their faith, and it helped to make them good spacemen. Sometimes, however, their unquestioning certainty was just a little annoying to those unfortunates who had not been vouchsafed the Revelation.
“It concerns the purpose of Rama, Commander. I believe I have discovered it.”
“Go on.”
“Look at the situation. Here is a completely empty, lifeless world—yet it is suitable for human beings. It has water, and an atmosphere we can breathe. It comes from the remote depths of space, aimed precisely at the solar system—something quite incredible, if it was a matter of pure chance. And it appears not only new; it looks as if it has never been used.”
We’ve all been through this dozens of times, Norton told himself. What could Boris add to it?
“Our faith has told us to expect such a visitation though we do not know exactly what form it will take. The Bible gives hints. If this is not the Second Coming, it may be the Second Judgement; the story of Noah describes the first. I believe that Rama is a cosmic Ark, sent here to save those who are worthy of salvation.”
There was silence for quite a while in the Captain’s cabin. It was not that Norton was at a loss for words; rather, he could think of too many questions, but he was not sure which ones it would be tactful to ask.
Finally he remarked, in as mild and noncommittal a voice as he could manage: “That’s a very interesting concept, and though I don’t go along with your faith, it’s a tantalizingly plausible one.” He was not being hypocritical or flattering; stripped of its religious overtones, Rodrigo’s theory was at beast as convincing as half a dozen others he had heard. Suppose some catastrophe was about to befall the human race, and a benevolent higher intelligence knew all about it? That would explain everything, very neatly. However, there were still a few problems…
“A couple of questions, Boris. Rama will be at perihelion in three weeks; then it will round the sun and leave the solar system just as fast as it came in. There’s not much time for a Day of Judgement or for shipping across those who are, er, selected—however that’s going to be done.”
“Very true. So when it reaches perihelion, Rama will have to decelerate and go into a parking orbit—probably one with aphelion at Earth’s orbit. There it might make another velocity change, and rendezvous with Earth.”
This was disturbingly persuasive. If Rama wished to remain in the solar system it was going the right way about it. The most efficient way to slow down was to get as close to the sun as possible, and carry out the braking manoeuvre there. If there was any truth in Rodrigo’s theory—or some variant of it—it would soon be put to the test.
“One other point, Boris. What’s controlling Rama now?”
“There is no doctrine to advise on that. It could be a pure robot. Or it could be—a spirit. That would explain why there are no signs of biological life forms.”
The Haunted Asteroid; why had that phrase popped up from the depths of memory? Then he recalled a silly story he had read years ago; he thought it best not to ask Boris if he had ever run into it. He doubted if the other’s tastes ran to that sort of reading.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Boris,” said Norton, abruptly making up his mind. He wanted to terminate this interview before it got too difficult, and thought he had found a good compromise.
“Can you sum up your ideas in less than—oh, a thousand bits?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well, if you can make it sound like a straightforward scientific theory, I’ll send it, top priority, to the Rama Committee. Then a copy can go to your Church at the same time, and everyone will be happy.”
“Thank you, Commander, I really appreciate it.”
“Oh, I’m not doing this to save my conscience. I’d just like to see what the Committee makes of it. Even if I don’t agree with you all along the line, you may have hit on something important.”
“Well, we’ll know at perihelion, won’t we?”
“Yes. We’ll know at perihelion.”
When Boris Rodrigo had left, Norton called the bridge and gave the necessary authorization. He thought he had solved the problem rather neatly; besides, just suppose that Boris was right.
He might have increased his chances of being among the saved.
21. After the Storm
As they drifted along the now familiar corridor of the Alpha Airlock complex, Norton wondered if they had let impatience overcome caution. They had waited aboard Endeavour for forty-eight hours—two precious days—ready for instant departure if events should justify it. But nothing had happened; the instruments left in Rama had detected no unusual activity. Frustratingly, the television camera on the Hub had been blinded by a fog which had reduced visibility to a few metres and had only now started to retreat.
When they operated the final airlock door, and floated out into the cat’s-cradle of guide-ropes around the Hub, Norton was struck first by the change in the light. It was no longer harshly blue, but was much more mellow and gentle, reminding him of a bright, hazy day on Earth.
He looked outwards along the axis of the world—and could see nothing except a glowing, featureless tunnel of white, reaching all the way to those strange mountains at the South Pole. The interior of Rama was completely blanketed with clouds, and nowhere was a break visible in the overcast. The top of the layer was quite sharply defined; it formed a smaller cylinder inside the larger one of this spinning world, leaving a central core, five or six kilometres wide, quite clear except for a few stray wisps of cirrus.
The immense tube of cloud was bit from underneath by the six artificial suns of Rama. The locations of the three on this Northern continent were clearly defined by diffuse strips of light, but those on the far side of the Cylindrical Sea merged together into a continuous, glowing band.
What is happening down beneath those clouds? Norton asked himself. But at least the storm, which had centrifuged them into such perfect symmetry about the axis of Rama, had now died away. Unless there were some other surprises, it would be safe to descend.
It seemed appropriate, on this return visit, to use the team that had made the first deep penetration into Rama. Sergeant Myron—like every other member of Endeavour’s crew—now fully met Surgeon-Commander Ernst’s physical requirements; he even maintained, with convincing sincerity, that he was never going to wear his old uniforms again.
As Norton watched Mercer, Calvert and Myron “swimming” quickly and confidently down the ladder, he reminded himself how much had changed. That first time they had descended in cold and darkness; now they were going towards light and warmth. And on all earlier visits, they had been confident that Rama was dead. That might yet be true, in a biological sense. But something was stirring; and Boris Rodrigo’s phrase would do as well as any other. The spirit of Rama was awake. When they had reached the platform at the foot of the ladder and were preparing to start down the stairway, Mercer carried out his usual routine test of the atmosphere. There were some things that he never took for granted; even when the people around him were breathing perfectly comfortably, without aids, he had been known to stop for an air check before opening his helmet. When asked to justify such excessive caution, he had answered: “Because human senses aren’t good enough, that’s why. You may think you’re fine, but you could fall flat on your face with the next deep breath.”
He looked at his meter, and said “Damn!”
“What’s the trouble?” asked Calvert.
“It’s broken—reading too high. Odd; I’ve never known that to happen before. I’ll check it on my breathing circuit.”
He plugged the compact little analyser into the test point of his oxygen supply, then stood in thoughtful silence for a while. His companions looked at him with anxious concern; anything that upset Karl was to be taken very seriously indeed.
He unplugged the meter, used it to sample the Rama atmosphere again, then called Hub Control.
“Skipper! Will you take an O2 reading?”
There was a muc
h longer pause than the request justified. Then Norton radioed back: “I think there’s something wrong with my meter.”
A slow smile spread across Mercer’s face.
“It’s up fifty per cent, isn’t it?”
“Yes, what does that mean?”
“It means that we can all take off our masks. Isn’t that convenient?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Norton, echoing the sarcasm in Mercer’s voice. “It seems too good to be true.” There was no need to say any more. Like all spacemen, Commander Norton had a profound suspicion of things that were too good to be true.
Mercer cracked his mask open a trifle, and took a cautious sniff. For the first time at this altitude, the air was perfectly breathable. The musty, dead smell had gone; so had the excessive dryness, which in the past had caused several respiratory complaints. Humidity was now an astonishing eighty per cent; doubtless the thawing of the Sea was responsible for this. There was a muggy feeling in the air, though not an unpleasant one. It was like a summer evening, Mercer told himself, on some tropical coast. The climate inside Rama had improved dramatically during the last few days…
And why? The increased humidity was no problem; the startling rise in oxygen was much more difficult to explain.
As he recommenced the descent, Mercer began a whole series of mental calculations. He had not arrived at any satisfactory result by the time they entered the cloud layer.
It was a dramatic experience, for the transition was very abrupt. At one moment they were sliding downwards in clear air, gripping the smooth metal of the handrail so that they would not gain speed too swiftly in this quarter-of-a-gravity region. Then, suddenly, they shot into a blinding white fog, and visibility dropped to a few metres. Mercer put on the brakes so quickly that Calvert almost bumped into him—and Myron did bump into Calvert, nearly knocking him off the rail.
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