The exposed skin of Venus had a naked look, pale and barren beneath a sun it had not seen for billions of years. Its infernal cloak now gone, it lay open to cosmic rape.
Furrowed low hills stretched away, filling half his sky beyond the glowing translucence. The ravaged land was a rutted waste, already mauled by its inward collapse. The first plugs of metal-lava had sent vast quakes through her, leaving clouds of dust that were settling slowly over jagged scarps.
The ground hurtled up, a vast hand swatting at him, and he flinched automatically. He plunged toward a broad hillside—
—braced himself for the impact—
—and felt nothing.
Instantly, he shot through into a dim golden world, alone. The glowing walls gave off some light, but he could see nothing beyond them.
Far below, between his boots, was a single yellow point. Felix’s voice came to him.
THE TUBE FORMED BY THE REVOLVING COSMIC STRING IS INDEED EMPTY. WE ARE INSIDE THE PLANET NOW. I ESTIMATE OUR SPEED AT 934 METERS PER SECOND.
Dark mottled shapes soared up toward him and flashed soundlessly past in the walls. “Headed for what?”
IF THE ALIEN CYBORGS HAVE CONSTRUCTED THIS MIRACULOUS PLANETCORING DEVICE WITH THE PRECISION I WOULD EXPECT OF THEM, I PREDICT WE SHALL PLUNGE ENTIRELY THROUGH THE CENTER AND OUT TO THE OTHER SIDE.
“A cyborg?” Chansing asked, dazed.
HALF-ORGANIC BEING, HALF-MACHINE. I COULD NOT ASCERTAIN THE EXACT PROPORTIONS FROM SUCH HASTY OBSERVATION, BUT
“Skip that! How can I get out of this?”
WE CANNOT. BY THRUSTING THE COSMIC STRING TO VERY NEAR THE PLANETARY AXIS, THE CYBORGS INSURED THAT THERE IS NO SPIN ALONG THIS TUBE. MATTER COMING UP FROM THE CORE—OR DOWN FROM OUTSIDE, AS WE ARE—WILL SUFFER NO SLOW DRIFT, AND SO SHOULD NOT STRIKE THE WALLS. IN ADDITION, UNIQUELY TO THIS CHOICE THEY HAVE ADROITLY MADE, THERE IS NO CORIOLIS FORCE THAT WOULD DEFLECT US.
Chansing grimmaced. It was all bad news. Despite the glowing walls, the light around Chansing was dimming.
He fought down rising panic. Part of his fear came from the simple fact that he was falling at greater and greater speeds, and sheer animal terror threatened to engulf him. He struggled against this like a man hammering at a dark wave that loomed higher even as he struggled. His breath caught and he forced his throat to open, his lungs to stop their spasmodic heaving.
Grainy, blurred shapes flashed past—features in the rock illuminated by the thin barrier of the rotating hoop. The yellow glare below had swollen to a brilliant disk. He could feel now through his sensorium a bone-deep bass whuum-whuum-whuum-whuum of the spinning magnetic fields.
“Maybe … maybe I can reach the walls. Is there any way I can slow down?”
Chansing felt Felix’s sharp, peeling laugh. A circle appeared in his left eye.
It billowed into a sphere—Venus—with a red line thrust along the axis or revolution. A small blue dot moved inward near the top of the axis, just below the surface. The core brimmed a hot yellow.
WE NOW HAVE ACQUIRED A SPEED OF 1,468 METERS PER SECOND. THE HOOP MATERIAL, REMEMBER, IS EXTREMELY DENSE—MANY MILLIONS OF TONS PACKED INTO A THREAD THAT HARDLY SPANS MORE THAN AN ATOM’S WIDTH. IF YOU WERE TO STRIKE THAT MATTER AT OUR PRESENT SPEED, YOUR HAND WOULD VAPORIZE.
Chansing’s breath came in fast, jerky pants, the fear creeping in. “Suppose they get some core metal in here, comin’ out, and we meet it.”
I DON’T SUPPOSE I HAVE TO ANALYZE THAT POSSIBILITY FOR YOU.
“No, guess not.”
Chansing cast about for some idea, some fleeting hope. The walls were nearly dark now, the radiance of the hoop somehow absorbed by the rock beyond. Smouldering orange-brown wedges shot past—lava trapped in underground vaults, great livid oceans of scorching rock.
THE HOOP TUBE IS STANDING EMPTY PERHAPS THE CYBORGS ARE WORKING ON SOME MINOR REPAIRS. OR PERHAPS THEY SIMPLY PAUSE TO LET THE ORBITED TEAMS THAT ARE FASHIONING THE FIRST BATCH OF CORE METAL DO THEIR WORK. IN ANY CASE, ASSUMING THE CYBORG ABOVE DID NOT SIMPLY THROW US IN TO SEE US BOILED AWAY BY A GUSHER OF IRON, THERE IS ANOTHER FATE.
Chansing tried to calm himself and focus on Felix’s words. The walls seemed closer as he fell, the tube narrowing before him. He pulled himself rigid and straight, arms at his sides, feet down toward the yellow disk below that grew steadily. He blinked back sweat and tried to see better.
I BELIEVE WE HAVE PASSED THROUGH THE CRUST AND ARE NOW ACCELERATING THROUGH THE MANTLE. NOTE THAT THE OCCASIONAL LAVA LAKES ARE GETTING LARGER AND MORE NUMEROUS. BY ANALOGY WITH EARTH, TEMPERATURE INCREASES INWARD UNTIL IT EXCEEDS THE MELTING POINT OF SIMPLE SILICATE ROCKS. THEN—DRAWING ON STUDIES OF SIMILAR PLANETS—WE WILL ENTER AN INCREASINGLY DENSE AND HOT CORE. AT THIS POINT THE ROCKS WILL BE FLUID AND AT ABOUT 2,800 DEGREES CENTIGRADE.
“What keeps them out of this tube?”
THE HOOP PRESSURE, WHICH IS TRULY IMMENSE. I CALCULATE—
“And the heat? The hoop stops that?” Chansing asked, seeking reassurance, though he already suspected the answer.
HEAT IS ELECTROMAGNETIC RADIATION, WHICH HOOP PRESSURE ALONE CANNOT ABSORB. IT PASSES THROUGH THE WALLS—WHICH IS WHY WE SEE NOW THE DARK ROCK BEYOND. SOON, THOUGH, THE SILICATES WILL BEGIN TO GLOW WITH THEIR HEAT OF COMPRESSION.
“What’ll we do?”
THE HEAT RADIATION EXERTS A PRESSURE. BUT THIS IS SYMMETRIC, OF COURSE, ACTING EQUALLY IN ALL DIRECTIONS. SO IT CANNOT PUSH US TOWARD ONE WALL IN PREFERENCE TO ANOTHER. BUT IT WILL COOK US QUITE THOROUGHLY.
“How … how long?”
PASSAGE THROUGH THE CORE … ABOUT 9.87 MINUTES.
“My suit—it’ll silver up for me, right?”
TRUE, IT ALREADY HAS. AND I CALCULATE WE MIGHT SURVIVE ONE ENTIRE PASSAGE IF WE SEAL UP COMPLETELY, CLOSE YOUR HELMET VISOR, DAMP ALL INPUTS. PERHAPS THE CYBORG UNDERSTOOD THAT IT MAY KNOW A GOOD DEAL ABOUT OUR TECHNOLOGY. YES, YES … I AM BEGINNING TO SEE ITS DEVILISH LOGIC.
Chansing shut down all his suit inputs. His suit skin reflected the blur of thickening light around him with a mirror finish. The walls rushing past were turning ruddy, sullen. “Where are we?”
WE MUST BE APPROACHING THE BOUNDARY AT WHICH IRON MELTS. THIS COLOR CHANGE PROBABLY SIGNALS THE TRANSITION FROM THE MANTLE TO THE OUTER CORE. WE CAN EXPECT SOME VARYING MAGNETIC FIELDS NOW, SINCE THIS IS THE REGION—SO THEORY SAYS—WHERE THE PLANET’S FIELD IS BORN. LARGE TIDES OF MOLTEN METAL EDDY ABOUT, CARRYING ELECTRICAL CURRENTS, LIKE GREAT WIRES IN A GENERATOR STATION. VENUS’S SPIN SERVES TO WRAP THESE AROUND, CREATING CURRENT VORTEXES, WHICH IN TURN CREATE MAGNETIC WHORLS.
“Damn, it’s getting hot already.”
EXTERNAL TEMPERATURE IS 2,785 DEGREES CENTIGRADE.
Chansing clicked his visor down and was in complete blackness. He wondered if he could stand the heat in utter isolation, falling faster and faster.
He again struggled to slow his breathing. If he was to live through even the next few minutes, he would have to think clearly, and the dark might even help that as long as he could keep his natural reactions from running away.
LUCKILY, THE ADDED SPEED IMPARTED BY THE CYBORG WILL TAKE US THROUGH THAT MUCH FASTER. I REGISTER EXTERNAL TEMPERATURE NOW AT WELL OVER 3,000 CENTIGRADE. HERE—ONE OF THE SUIT’S LIGHT PIPES WILL GIVE US A FAINT IMAGE WHICH IS ALL WE NEED IN SUCH A PLACE.
“Damn all, think!”
I AM. I SIMPLY DO NOT SEE ANY WAY OUT OF OUR DILEMMA.
“There’s gotta be some way—”
THE EXISTENCE OF A WELL-DEFINED PROBLEM DOES NOT IMPLY THE EXISTENCE OF A SOLUTION.
“Damn you!”
Felix was a disconnected intelligence, a mere voice from a chip buried in Chansing’s neck. There was no point in getting mad at it. The tiny remnant of a once-great mind could still take offense, refuse to help him, even though that would mean that the chip-mind itself would be doomed.
“Look, we get through this, we’ll be back outside, right?”
YES. BUT THAT IS THE DEVILISH NATURE OF THIS CYBORG’S TRICK. WE ARE PARTICI
PATING IN AN ANCIENT SCHOOLBOY’S HOMEWORK PROBLEM—A SHAFT THROUGH THE PLANET, WITH US AS THE HARMONICALLY OSCILLATING TEST MASS.
“What…”
Chansing suddenly saw what Felix meant.
In his eye the blue dot shot through the core and on, out through the other side of the red tube. It rose toward the surface, its velocity dwindling in gravity’s grip, then broke free of the surface and slowed further. But after hesitating at the peak, it began to fall again, to execute another long plunge through the heart of the spitted planet.
WE CAN PERHAPS SURVIVE THIS ONE PASSAGE. BUT ANOTHER, AND ANOTHER?—SO ON, AD INFINITUM?
“There’s got to be a way out.”
Chansing said this with absolute conviction. Even if a gargantuan alien had made this incinerating rattrap, still it could have made a mistake, left some small unnoticed exit.
He had to believe that, or the panic that squeezed his throat would overwhelm him. He would die like a pitiful animal, caught on the alien’s spit and roasted to a charred hulk. He would end as a cinder, bobbing endlessly through the central furnace.
WE MIGHT POSSIBLY TRY SOMETHING AT THE VERY HIGH POINT, WHEN THE HOOP BEGINS TO CURVE OVER FAR ABOVE THE POLE. WE SHOULD COME TO REST THERE FOR A BRIEF INSTANT.
“Good. Good. I can maybe pump some of the cooling stuff—”
REFRIGERANT FLUIDS YES, I SEE. USE THEM IN OUR THRUSTER. BUT THAT WOULD NOT BE ENOUGH TO ATTAIN AN ORBIT.
“How about the hoop? Maybe I could bounce off it up there, where it’s spinning. I could pick up some vector, get free of the tube.”
Chansing felt Felix’s strangely abstract presence moving, pondering, as though this were merely some fresh problem of passing interest. Falling in absolute blackness, he felt his stomach convulse. He clamped his throat shut and gulped back down a mouthful of acid bile.
Now a strange sound came to him. The racheting whuum-whuum-whuum of the revolving hoop caried gurglings and ringing pops.
The long strumming sounds broke Chansing’s attention. They seemed like majestic voices calling out to him, beckoning him into the utter depths of this world.
No. He shook himself, gasped, and switched the light pipe image into his left eye.
The walls outside bristled with incandescent heat, cherry-red. Globs of scorched red churned in the walls.
“Stop your calculatin’! Give me an answer.”
VERY WELL. THE IDEA MIGHT BE MARGINALLY POSSIBLE. I CANNOT ESTIMATE WITH CERTAINTY. HOWEVER, IT WOULD REQUIRE THAT WE BE CLOSE ENOUGH TO THE HOOP-FORMED WALL. THE CYBORG HAS PLACED US EXACTLY IN THE CENTER OF THIS TUBE, AS I MEASURE. WE NEED TO MOVE PERHAPS A HUNDRED METERS BEFORE WE WILL BE WITHIN THE PRESSURE SHOCK WAVE OF THE HOOP AS IT TURNS.
“How far’s that?”
A FEW HUNDRED METERS, I ESTIMATE.
“That’s not so hard. I can use the cooler stuff—”
EXTRACT IT NOW AND WE WILL DIE IN SECONDS.
“Damn all. I’ll do it when we’re clear, then.”
THAT IS TEMPTING, BUT I FEAR IT WOULD NOT BE EFFECTIVE. THE TUBE OPENS AS IT RISES TOWARD THE SURFACE. HERE, THE TUBE WALL IS ONLY A STONE’S THROW AWAY. BY THE TIME WE ARE CLEAR OF THE CORE, THE WALLS WILL BE TOO FAR TO REACH IN TIME----UNLESS WE BEGIN TO MOVE NOW.
“Yeah, yeah—how?”
EVEN A MINUTE PRESSURE APPLIED NOW WOULD GIVE US ENOUGH PUSH TO REACH THE WALL DURING THE RISE OUT. IT IS A MATTER OF MOMENTUM.
“Pressure…”
Chansing frowned. The claustrophobic suit filled with the sound of his panting, his sour sweat, the naked smell of his fear.
He felt nothing but the clawing emptiness of falling, weightless. He squinted at the tiny image that came through the light pipe.
The walls outside were flooded with fire. The nickel-iron core only a short distance beyond raged and tossed with prickly white compressional waves. He flew close to livid pink whorls that stretched for tens of kilometers, yet passed in a few seconds of harsh glare. The hoop’s constant whuum-whuum-whuum stormed in his teeth and jaw with grinding persistence. His tongue seemed to fill his throat, and the air was a choking, searing bite in his nostrils. The suit was close to overheating. He realized he was nearing the point where his own grip on himself would slip. He would do something rash to escape the heat, and he would die.
To this was added the gathering sense of menace as he shot down the immense bore-hole. Like all space workers, he had suppressed his fear of falling through long years of practice. But that was in the cool, serene perspectives of space. Here, he was flung by long streamers of glowing fire, racing downward at huge speeds.
But something Felix had said plucked at his memory. Even a minute pressure …
“The light. You said something about it pushing us.”
YES, OF COURSE, BUT THAT ACTS EQUALLY IN ALL DIRECTIONS.
“Not if we turn some of the silver off.”
WHAT? THAT WOULD—OH, SEE … IF WE SLIGHTLY LESSEN THE SILVERING ON THE FRONT OF US, SAY, BY ROBBING THE AUTOCIRCUITS THERE OF POWER … YES, THEN THE LIGHT WILL REFLECT LESS WELL. WE WILL BE PUSHED IN THAT DIRECTION BY THE LIGHT STRIKING US FROM BEHIND.
“Let’s do it. Not much time.”
BUT THE HEAT! LESSENING THE REFLECTION HEIGHTENS THE ABSORPTION.
Chansing had already guessed that. “Show me how to taper down the silver on my chest.”
NO, I DON’T—THE TEMPERATURE OUTSIDE, IT’S 3,459 CENTIGRADE! I CAN’T TAKE—
“Give the info. Now.” Chansing kept his own mind under tight control. This was the only way, he felt sure of it, and seconds counted.
NOT NOW, NO! I’LL … I’LL THINK OF SOMETHING—SOMETHING THAT WILL WORK—YES, WORK WHEN WE GET THROUGH THE CORE. I’LL REVIEW MY BACK MEMORIES, I’LL—
“No. Now.”
He felt the Advisor’s fear, surging now nearly as strongly as his own. So the chip had finally broken, revealed the fragments of its residual humanity.
Deliberately, he reached within himself and smothered Felix. It called plaintively to him in a small, desperate voice. Chansing clamped down, forcing it back into a cranny of himself.
“Now.”
* * *
The yellow-white hell soared away above Chansing’s head. The walls nearly seeped a sullen red, but it was a relief after the incandescent fury that dwindled now, a fiery disk fading above him like a dimming sun.
Chansing panted deeply, though it seemed to do no good. Prickly waves washed over him, giving him unbearable itches that moved in restless storms across his skin. His lungs jerked irregularly. His arms trembled. It was as though his whole body was racheting in dying spasms, unable to cooperate any longer.
But he managed to keep his arms and legs straight. The light pressure would not have forced him in only one direction if he spun or tumbled.
Had it been enough? The long minutes at the core had crawled by, bringing agonizing lungfuls of heated air.
Now the heat ebbed slightly, but not much.
WE ARE, AFTER ALL, JUST ANOTHER RADIATING BODY. WE CAN ONLY LOSE HEAT BY EMITTING IT AS INFRARED WAVES. SO WE MUST WAIT FOR COOLER SURROUNDINGS BEFORE THIS INTOLERABLE HEAT CAN DISPERSE.
His Felix Advisor seemed remarkably collected, given the hysteria that had beset it only minutes before. “How about the cooling thing?”
YOU MEAN OUR REFRIGERATOR? IT CAN ONLY FUNCTION BY EJECTING WASTE HEAT AT A COOLER SINK. THERE IS NO COLDER PLACE TO EXCHANGE HEAT WITH, YOU SEE.
“So we wait till we get out?” It seemed an impossibly long time. Between his boots he could see the blackness of the planet’s mantle, thousands of kilometers of dead rock they must shoot through before regaining the dark of space itself. And there he would somehow have to make good this attempt, or else he would slow and pause and then plunge again. He wished again that he had saved his thruster fuel. It would give him some freedom, some hope of being something other than the helpless, dumb test particle in a grotesque experiment.
WE DO HAVE SOME FLUIDS WE COULD EJECT, BUT—
“What? Lo
ok, we try everything. Got no hope otherwise.”
THE REFRIGERANT FLUIDS. WE COULD BRING THEM TO A HIGH TEMPERATURE AND VENT THEM.
“Think it’ll help much?” To lose the coolant meant he would have no chance whatever if he failed up ahead and fell back into the tube. He would fry for sure.
I CANNOT TELL HOW MUCH MOMENTUM WE PICKED UP FROM THAT MANEUVER. PUSHING A LARGE MASS SUCH AS OURSELVES WITH MERE LIGHT PRESSURE—
Chansing laughed with a jittery edge. “I’m the mass here—you weigh nothin’ at all. And don’t you worry ‘bout calculatin’ what’ll happen. Time comes, up at the top of this hole, I’ll have to grab whatever’s in sight. Fly by the seat of my pants, not some eee-quation.”
THEN I SHOULD VENT THE REFRIGERANT FLUIDS?
“Sure. Bet it all!” Chansing felt small icy rivulets coursing along his neck as he let the Advisor take fractional control of his inboard systems.
I AM WARMING THE POLY-XENON NOW.
“And when you spray it, just use the spinal vents. That’ll give us another push in the right direction. Could make the difference.”
OH. I SEE. I DID NOT THINK OF THIS POSSIBILITY.
“Trouble with you Advisors is you can’t imagine anythin’ you haven’t seen before.”
LET US NOT DEBATE MY PROPERTIES AT QUITE THIS TIME. WE ARE RISING TOWARD THE SURFACE, AND YOU MUST BE READY. I BELIEVE THE WALL YOU FACE IS NEARER NOW. NOTICE THE SPARKLING?
“Yeah. What’s it mean?”
THAT IS WHERE THE MANTLE ROCK IS FORCED BY SIDEWISE PRESSURE AGAINST THE PASSING COSMIC STRING. SOMEHOW THE ROCK IS HELD BACK. CLEARLY, THE CYBORGS MUST RELAX THIS HOOP PRESSURE SOMEHOW, DOWN IN THE CORE, IN ORDER TO FILL THIS TUBE WITH THE LIQUID IRON WE SAW BEFORE.
“Maybe they just slow it down some? Let the iron squish in a li’l ‘fore the next time the string comes whizzin’ by?”
Chansing fumbled with the suit refrigerator controls. He knew he had to understand more about the hoop, get some idea of how to use it.
POSSIBLY. CLEARLY, THE ROTATING STRING EXERTS GREAT PRESSURE AGAINST THESE ROCKS.
The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Seventh Annual Collection Page 17