It was put in a way to make Sentry think hard and he did. But he knew the plant by that time, had nursed it through teething troubles. “You’ve two stations,” he said. “Either one can carry a hundred megawatts alone, comfortably. I’d say there was a generous safety factor. I’d trust it, personally.” But he had added the caution. “The finest plant in the world is no better than the people who run it, mind. You want the right people.”
“You may leave that point to us,” Kingsley had smiled, and the implications had provoked Sentry into asking further questions. The answers had stunned him only slightly more than the utter conviction in Kingsley’s manner, a degree of conviction that made doubt seem an impertinence.
“I can go along,” Sentry declared, “with the idea of inflating a dome over this thing. And even with the idea of multi-layering it to withstand pressure. And of course it will sink, and it can be steered down and secured by anchor cables. All that is possible. But how in the name of sanity do you intend to persuade sixty sane people to try to live inside the thing in those conditions?”
“Persuade is hardly the word, Mr. Sentry. The colonists will be taking part in a tremendous experiment, under strenuous conditions. The research results will be invaluable and the prestige enormous. I anticipate ten—no, a hundred times the numbers we will be able to use. Only those who can pass the most rigorous testing will be acceptable even for consideration in the first instance. I have already spent some considerable time and thought, with the best expert advice, on the screening process. There’ll be no shortage of applicants, I assure you. Our difficulty will be in deciding who to leave out! Give a genuine scientist just the hint that something special is afoot in his own particular line, and you try and keep him out!”
“They’ll be all scientists, then?”
“Of course. I want keen and inquisitive young people, trained to be objective, versatile and ingenious, with a sense of adventure. And it will be quite an added inducement for them to know they will have a whole year’s handsome salary waiting for them, untouched, on completion. I’ll get my sixty. Fifty-eight, rather, for myself and my wife will make two for a start.”
Kingsley had been absolutely right. Long before the pressurizing details of the Island cover-dome had been finalized the applicants began to flood in. Sentry was able to guess the extent of the flood by what happened to his own application. After a lot of hard thought and deciding he had as good a set of qualifications as anyone, perhaps better than most, and impelled also by sheer curiosity, he had completed a form, attended a strenuous interview—only to discover that he was a long, long way down the waiting list in his own field. It was a shock, and a spur. When the second-stage qualifying literature reached him he tackled it much more intently, dredging his mind for all the additional qualifications he could think of. He ran into one question that shook him.
“Are you prepared to be formally married and to accept as a living-partner for the duration of the project period, a person of the opposite sex who will be chosen by sociological tests as being maximally compatible with yourself, this in order that the project may simulate as far as possible a normal Earth colony? Answer yes or no. If already married, mark X.”
He hesitated a long time and then the thought of the dozens, possibly hundreds, who lay ahead of him decided the issue. After all, what was a year of sharing research with some stranger ? She would be a rational, sane person, and a scientist. Was it so terrible? He marked “yes” and went on to complete the paper. Just like that!
He shook his head in wonder at the thought as he reached the entrance to Power-West and passed inside. At once the unusually vigorous song of power from the banked thyristors caught his ear. Overload ? He ran up the corkscrew stair to the control-room, to where Charley Snow sat, reading.
“Hi!” he said. “We’re shoving it out a bit, aren’t we? What’s new?”
“Hi, Peter!” Snow got to his feet and stretched. “Nothing much. Bit of trouble over East. About an hour ago Alex reported severe blockage and drop in water-flow on first and second inlets, so we switched the load over to us, so as to give him a free hand to deal with his troubles.”
Sentry nodded thoughtfully. “Two inlets at a time, eh? That’s new. Any word on results?”
“Not so far. Doesn’t sound like weed.”
“No. All right, Charley, away you go. See you at seven.”
Snow went away whistling. Sentry spent a routine ten minutes checking over the arrays of instruments and telltales, just to satisfy himself. Over the months much of the plant-operation business had been given over to the central computer for automation, bit by bit. In an emergency the computer could have taken over entirely, but all eight of the power-engineers had agreed, early on, that it was better that they kept some routine duties under their own hands, if only to give a man something responsible to do. Satisfied that all was in order he moved to the visiphone and buttoned for Power-East. As the square, hard-planed face of Georgi Solkov stabilized on the screen it creased into a friendly grin.
“Good morning, Peter. We have fishes, I think.”
“Georgi! You’re satisfied it’s not weed, then ?”
“I think not. On the chart it shows sudden and severe drop on inflow at 0510, on two inlets, for a moment. And then again at 0604, but remaining this time. I think it is fishes. A shoal.”
“Could be. You’ve tried reverse flow?”
“Alex was on that when I took over. I have just checked. No better. I shall now try reverse flow with injected repellents and toxins.”
“Right. Give it about an hour and I’ll check you again about 0800, to see if there’s any luck. If it’s no better I’ll contact Luis Sanchez and ask him to take a squad of scuba-boys and investigate it from the outside. Meantime I’ll carry the load here.” Solkov nodded, cut the picture and Sentry sat back, automatically reviewing the control board. Two generator sets were more than adequate to bear the present load, and he had two more that would take care of the peak demand, from 0830 onwards. No worry there. The next decision could wait until 0800 hours. Out of the blue it occurred to him to wonder if Georgi had made a comparable discovery in his domestic circumstances? In the same instant he knew the futility of such a question. Here in the dome, the word “domestic” had grown to be almost magical in portent. With sixty people practically living in each other’s pockets, that one tiny area of privacy was jealously guarded. Everything else was rigorously researched, investigated and recorded, but no one asked questions about inter-pair relationships. Even the twelve-strong psycho-social team approached it delicately and with oblique and impersonal symbolism. Once every two weeks, each and every colonist had to submit to a thorough mental-stability test, for the record, but those interviews had all the safeguards and respect of a confessional.
Letting his trained reflexes take care of the job. Sentry ranged his mind back, following the train of thought that had started with his pleasant awakening. Kingsley had planned well and with great care. Because this was much more than just an experiment at living under pressure, under the sea. That kind of thing had been done before, by Cousteau and others. Kingsley had broken it to them at the last important interview.
“We are the chosen ones,” he said, and then smiled at once to apologize for his dramatics. “From thousands of applicants, we sixty people are about to live for a whole year beneath the sea, autonomously. All the tedium of examinations, interviews-in-depth, embarrassing incursions into privacy, that is all over. All that mass of information has been codified and digested by the best available logical machines and we are the result. You may feel that I am over-stressing this, that you are all sufficiently dedicated, prepared to be your own guinea-pigs, eager to make the experiment a success. But this is not, of itself, enough.” Kingsley had made a dramatic pause before resuming.
“There is something much more important at stake, nothing less than the future of Mankind. Like it or not we must face the fact that the pollutions of civilization are reaching the point
at which they affect our lives. Soon the result will be to curtail them. Yet we go on spawning in ever greater numbers and sprawling our noxious cultures ever more widely across the face of the Earth. Apparently we are unable to arrest, let alone reverse the trend. By the time the situation becomes a matter for panic action it will be too late. Some think it is already too late. Whatever your opinion on that, let me assure you that in the foreseeable future this—life at the bottom of the sea—is absolutely essential if civilized man is to continue. So this brave project of ours has got to work. It is up to us to meet the hazards, the hard problems and the snags, and overcome them. And we must do it without looking for outside help.”
That was the shattering bit, Sentry mused. The vital importance of this research was bad enough, but that they had to do it, if it was humanly possible, without recourse to the rest of mankind, up there, was enough to screw up the tension to fever point. They did have a link with “upstairs”, just one. From the central computer there ran a thigh-thick cable that carried all the data they were gaining. Duplicate records of everything, because they were precious. But it was tacitly agreed that if they ever decided to use that link to call for help, it would be an open admission of failure and it was just as readily agreed that things would have to be pretty desperate before they came to that pass. Sixty people, paired and matched for multiple abilities, character stability and compatibility, by computer-logic, determined to make a go of it, if it was humanly possible. Three pairs had been already married before application. The Kingsleys, of course, Andrew and Helen, both highly skilled sociologists. Robert Vance, marine biologist and one of Luis Sanchez’s team of “scuba-men”, and his wife Alice, in Biochemistry. And Luis Sanchez himself, and his wife Maria, who was in the Diet and Culinary section.
The rest of the group had congratulated these happy pairs on their successful application, but no one among the rest had complained at the computer’s selections. Good scientists and sane people all, they had buckled down to the formidable task ahead in good spirits. Sentry grinned now as he recalled that someone had quoted Mark Twain to the effect that everybody complains about the weather, but nobody does anything about it. And now it was almost too late to do anything about the “weather” up there. Poseidon had to work, and there were a dozen or more anxious-faced groups up there constantly in touch with the day-by-day results as they were relayed through that single cable.
* * * *
Three
Sentry got to his feet, went for a little walk-tour around his domain, to inspect everything. Although it was carefully pushed back in his mind, the momentary difficulty over in the East plant made him restless. Tension was never very far away from any of them, at any time. He remembered how it had been in the first few wire-taut weeks, with people calling in every few minutes or so to assure themselves that everything was going well. One man could keep adequate watch on this plant. Eight men kept watch on both power-plants on an eight-week cycle of twelve-hour watches, an arrangement that gave them plenty of time off and was quite satisfactory. But in those first anxious days there had been no lack of extra people, all eager to help “keep an eye on things”. Sentry had to laugh to himself as he came back to his solitary vigil by the master control board.
There had been some anxious moments, right enough. He himself had said that he considered these fuel-cell generators reliable enough to depend on for his life, but he had not envisaged operating them under a constant pressure of two-and-half atmospheres of He-O-N. Joints and glands, operating levers and seals that were perfect at atmospheric pressure tended to develop bugs at two-and-a-half times that, and helium was the very devil to keep under control, but they had to have it, or go into delirium from nitrogen-narcosis. And no matter how you tried, you could never forget the thousands of tons per square inch of crushing death that lay constantly in wait beyond the frail walls of the dome. Crises had been met headlong and defeated one by one; little by little, some measure of confidence had grown, but you could never forget------
He started, now, as the visiphone buzzed for him. Solkov’s expression was calm but grim.
“It does not work, Peter. The toxins and repellents have achieved nothing at all. First and second inlets are still blocked.”
“Right! Keep that reverse flow going. Keep a sharp eye on the other two inlets, just in case. And put up a red caution. All load demands switched through to me here. I’ll warm up my other two ready to take the peak and then I’ll see if I can catch Luis Sanchez and get his gang on it.”
Solkov cut the picture again and Sentry moved the controls to liven up his remaining pair of generators. Then, when the pyrometers showed stable, he put them on interlock and returned to the visiphone, glancing at the clock. 0814 hours. Sanchez should be still at home, with luck. He was. The picture showed him with a scowl on his dark face, and irritation thickened his voice.
“Sentry! I am late with breakfast this morning. Is it urgent?”
“I’m afraid it is, Luis. I’m on watch at the moment. Trouble on the East plant. First and second inlets blocked solid and nothing we can do will clear them. Doubt very much if it’s weeds or small fry.”
“I see!” The irritation melted away as Sanchez grasped the situation. “You want me to go for a swim and take a look, eh?”
“If you would. Better make it a squad. This sounds like something a bit bigger than usual.”
“Very well. It will take perhaps three-quarters of an hour to be ready. I will let you know.”
“That’s fine. Thanks, Luis. I’ll chase up Kingsley and put him in the picture while you’re rounding up the boys.”
Sentry swept the screen clear and buttoned this time for Director Kingsley’s home. A few minutes delay set his teeth on edge, then Helen Kingsley showed in the screen. In her late thirties, Helen had the kind of gaunt, high-cheeked beauty that would still be there long after her blonde hair had turned to grey. A queenly women, but she offered Sentry a warm smile.
“Peter. Something I can do for you?”
“I was after Andrew. We’ve a small crisis in Power-East, and he ought to be kept in touch. Any idea where I’ll find him?”
“Not the slightest,” she made a face. “You know how he is, a law unto himself. Could be anywhere.”
“All right. If you locate him before I do, have him call me back here, would you?” He broke the connection, wasted a moment in a scowl. No matter how you tried, you couldn’t kill gossip altogether, and gossip had it that all was not as well as it might be in the Kingsley ménage. He shrugged the thought away, reminding himself that those two had more problems on their minds than anyone else in the colony. As co-directors they were responsible for everything collectively. Who would blame them for buckling a bit under the strain ? As his fingers poised to button for the Sociology Centre, Kingsley’s special domain, the visiphone call-signal buzzed and he accepted it abruptly, frowned again as Belle’s face appeared.
“Not a personal call, Tinkle, please. I’m busy!”
“Me too. Look, we want to start up another fermentation-plant, and you have a red caution showing. Is it serious ?”
“Bad enough. I’m afraid you can’t have any extra power for a while.” He had hardly done saying it when her image was shouldered aside, and Kingsley appeared, leonine and imperious.
“See here, Sentry, we must have that fermentation process started at once. A delay now will set us back hours! What’s all this nonsense about a power restriction?”
“No nonsense. I just rang your home to advise you, but you weren’t there. Severe blockage on water inlets, Power-East. I have just asked Luis Sanchez to take out a scuba party to investigate “
“The devil you have?”
“Yes, the devil I have!” Sentry retorted, hardening his voice. “I’m not asking you to explain what the hell you mean by leaving home without a tracer, or what you’re doing in Biology. That’s your affair. This is mine. With East out of service, we are pushing close to our safety margin. Or do you want me t
o draw you a diagram?” Kingsley flushed, then mastered himself. The expression on his strong face presaged a growl, but his voice was soft as he spoke.
“Yes. You’re quite right, Sentry. Sorry. It was a rather important experiment, but it can wait, and you were quite right in seeking to inform me at once. Now, is there anything else to arrange?”
“Sanchez might need help assembling his team. You should find him by Sea-lock Four. I forgot to warn him to make a telephone link before going outside. You should catch him.”
“Yes. I’ll do that right away.”
The screen darkened, leaving Sentry to his thoughts, which were not as pleasant as they had been earlier. Rumours and gossip had no appeal for him, but he couldn’t dodge them altogether. In the beginning the two Kingsleys had been a driving force, an inspiration to all. Now there were signs, small straws in the wind, that the position was reversing itself. As the rest of the group gained in confidence and co-operation, so those two seemed to have lost theirs. There were stories of rows and ugly scenes, raised voices and temperamental displays. Sentry had paid little attention, because his work seldom brought him in direct confrontation with the research side. But now he had seen some of the signs for himself. And he had reacted. He did not feel happy about it.
New Writings in SF 9 - [Anthology] Page 2