‘He’s fit, he’s qualified, he feels responsible – and he’ll never forgive us if we say “No”,’ said Connors. ‘Let him go.’
When Spencer was ready, Connors drove over to the medical unit with Wedderkind.
‘Does it fit?’ asked Connors.
‘Tailor-made.’
‘Dan,’ said Wedderkind, ‘once that hatch closes, you are going to find yourself, quite literally, in the dark. None of us knows what happens in there, so you’re going to have to play this whole thing by ear. What we want you to do is to stay inside the hatch – unless some unforeseeable condition makes that impossible.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll hang on tight.’
‘Good. You’re due to insert at fifteen-thirty. We’ll rotate at fifteen thirty-five, at which time we expect to lift you out. Now –’ Wedderkind spread his hands. ‘If something does begin to go wrong, ah, perhaps there may be some degree of physical or mental disorientation, ah – ’
‘I know what you’re trying to say,’ said Spencer.
‘Good. What we want you to do is write down as much as you can on this.’
Page showed Spencer a clipboard with a pad of black paper. A chubby pen was attached to the board by a plastic line. ‘This may be the world’s first luminous pen,’ said Page. ‘It’s really more like an oversized eyedropper. You squeeze out the paste as you write. Write in largish capitals. The paper is porous to prevent it smudging, and the edge of the clipboard is luminous so you can see where to write.’
Spencer tried out the pen.
‘We are going to hang this pad inside the well,’ said Wedderkind. ‘If, for any reason, there is not enough time to write whole words, we want you to use this simple code: X – for danger. O – no danger, keep opening hatch. L – internal light source. M – contact with Chris. If Chris is alive, put a circle around the M. If you find a way into Crusoe, put a dot inside the O. If you find no way in, put a line across it. Have you got that?’
‘Yes. Supposing I do make contact with Chris and find he’s in a bad situation? Can I leave the hatch to help him?’
‘The answer is “No” – but I’m probably wasting my breath telling you that. Naturally we want both of you out safely. The really important thing is to give us as much information as you can. That’s absolutely vital. Don’t let us down, Dan.’
‘Okay. I’ll do my best.’
On the hull platform, a new snap-shut lifting hook had been fitted on to the severed rope. Spencer clipped it on to the chest loop of his safety harness. The time was 15:28.
Neame had taken over command of the hatch party. He patted Spencer’s shoulder. ‘Just hang on tight to those rails and stay loose.’
Spencer lowered the visor of his helmet. The NASA suit technician checked the life-support pack and watched closely as Spencer pressurized his suit.
15:29. In the operations room, Connors sat half-turned away from the bank of screens. He had thought about going up on to the platform but had decided to stay out of the way. On either side of him, Allbright and Wedderkind remained annoyingly calm, their eyes fastened on the main screen.
At 15:30, Vincent rotated the two spheres and Spencer was lowered in through the circular hatch. As the rope was hauled clear, Neame leaned in and fastened the black notepad and pen to the top of the guide rails where it could be easily retrieved.
‘Twenty-five seconds to rotation…’ With Max’s death, Neal Zabrodski’s tape-recorded voice had acquired a sinister, relentless quality.
Spencer found handholds and footholds on the guide rail supports and pulled himself clear of the raised disc on the floor of the sphere. In a few seconds it would swing around up over his head.
‘Twenty seconds to rotation…’
What are we doing? Connors asked himself. He had come to regard Crusoe as a huge, half-buried technological, cultural – even intellectual – time bomb slowly ticking away in their midst. And there they were, tinkering around with it like a bunch of blind ants.
For the scientists, the project was a Fourth of July treat but Connors was convinced that none of them were within a million miles of understanding the how, what, and why of Crusoe.
The alarm bell rang. Ten seconds.
‘Five-four-three-two-one-rotation…’
As the hatches moved out of line, Connors saw Spencer raise his right thumb.
Spencer saw the circle of daylight become lemon-shaped, then rapidly diminish and disappear in under a second. An impenetrable darkness filled the sphere. He looked up and saw the luminous pale green line that marked the edge of the clipboard. The burden of his backpack and the weight of his body began to ebb away as the hatch became an integral part of Crusoe’s zero-gravity field. Spencer reached up and touched the pad with his finger. The pad floated away from him, slowly rotating on the end of its invisible line.
Gradually, his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. He could now see the dim outlines of the guide rails that lined the well, and above his head, he could make out the raised disc that had been at the bottom of the sphere before rotation. The glow was not coming from there, it was coming through the circular hatch, now under his feet.
Very carefully, he turned head over heels to investigate the source of the light. They had been right. Both spheres rotated to bring the hatches into line, giving access to Crusoe’s interior.
He inched his way down one of the guide rails towards the light filtering through the five-foot-wide hatch. There was no point in plunging through headfirst until he saw the layout. Perhaps he might see Chris down there. Or was it up there? As Spencer clung to the thick, double rim of the hatch, he began to lose his sense of direction. The light was coming from stars. Millions upon millions of stars…
Spencer retreated back inside the hatch. Something was happening inside his head. He could hear voices calling to him soundlessly. His whole body seemed to be cooling, his heartbeat was almost imperceptible. Breathing was no longer necessary. He became aware of the texture and depth of his skin, the porous structure of his cheekbones. He could feel, three-dimensionally, each tooth in his skull and jaw, every bone in his body, held together by tendons and interwoven, fibrous muscle. It was as if his mind’s eye had become an electron microscope through which, in one blinding glimpse, every particle of his cumbersome physical self had been revealed.
Spencer knew that his consciousness was expanding, knew that, at any moment, his mind would break free from his body, knew why Milsom had hung on to Max – and why he himself could not return. Wedderkind’s words echoed faintly out of a past that seemed to be receding from him at the speed of light. A message… He had promised to leave a message. Spencer unclipped the luminous pen and wrote swiftly in large capital letters, using the prearranged code, then added four brief words. They were pitifully inadequate, but someone might understand. Ray Collis perhaps…
Spencer let go of the pen and the clipboard, turned over, and eased himself down towards the circular hatch in the bottom of the sphere. Beyond, the stars were glowing with a clarity and brilliance he had never seen before. He floated, arms outstretched, braced against the rim of the hatch and felt his brain swell up and press for a brief, frightening moment against the inside of his skull. It was the last physical sensation his brain recorded, for, as Spencer launched his body headfirst into eternity, his mind mushroomed painlessly through the top of his skull and soared unhindered into the cool, welcoming stillness of infinite space.
At 15:36, Vincent rotated the spheres. The two hatches slid into line. The well was empty. Spencer had gone. Neame reached in and pulled out the clipboard. The squeezy pen dangled on its cord. That, at least, was one good sign. Neame wrapped the clipboard in a polyethylene bag and sent it down to the monitor hut.
Zabrodski made a videotape of Spencer’s luminous message and piped it in to the main screen in the operations room. Neame’s hatch party had stayed on Crusoe. The rest of the research group clustered around Connors, Allbright, and Wedderkind, and studied the words on the screen.<
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‘The first part is simple enough. No danger. He’s emphasized that by underlining the circle,’ said Wedderkind.
‘What was the dot, Arnold?’
‘That means a way into Crusoe. L – that’s good. An internal light source. The magnetic field that is making life difficult for us could be localized around the area of the hatch, to act as a barrier. Like invisible armour plate.’
‘SPACE – what does that mean?’ asked Connors. ‘Room to move around inside the hull?’
‘It could be. We talked about the possibility that the hatch might only open on to a storage well into which Friday would be slotted in his folded position.’
‘ANSWER…?’
‘I don’t quite get that,’ said Wedderkind. ‘He could mean he found the answer to Milsom’s disappearance. Or you could read it as ANSWER EVERYTHING.’
‘ANSWER to EVERYTHING.’ suggested Brecetti.
‘To what?’ asked Lovell. ‘Crusoe’s mission? It hardly seems likely after five minutes.’
‘Perhaps EVERYTHING is by itself,’ said Collis. ‘Access to everything inside Crusoe. Below the hatch is SPACE where the ANSWER to the questions about Crusoe can be found. The space provides access to EVERYTHING within it.’
‘And FOLLOW?’ asked Connors.
‘That can be read as an injunction – he wants us to follow him, or it could mean he had decided to follow Chris’ trail.’
‘The M is for Milsom,’ said Wedderkind. ‘The circle around it means Chris is still alive. That explains why Dan left the hatch.’
Connors tapped the circled MX. ‘What about this? Does it mean that Max is alive too?’
Wedderkind raised his eyebrows in sync with his shoulders. ‘If we are to accept the logic of the rest of the message, the answer to that is “yes”.’
‘Which we know is impossible.’
‘Unless the instrument readings were wrong.’
‘That’s impossible too,’ said Page. ‘We double-checked. We couldn’t have made a mistake.’
Wedderkind shook his head. ‘There is no way Max could survive in a total vacuum. No way.’
Collis began with an apologetic smile. ‘What you really mean is that there is no way Max could survive in the physical sense.’
‘That’s the only way that counts,’ said Allbright sharply.
Collis looked hurt. ‘Nevertheless he may still exist in some paranormal state.’
‘If that is the explanation,’ said Connors, ‘then it probably means we’ve lost Dan too.’
Allbright pointed at the TV screen. ‘Mr Collis, are you suggesting this a message from the other side?’
‘General, I’m not sure where, or who it’s from.’
‘Well, I’m sure of one thing,’ said Connors. ‘No one else is going in.’
Neame’s hatch party continued to rotate the two spheres every half hour. Just before six that evening, Connors drove up on to the Ridge with Allbright. They went up on to the hull platform and gazed down into the black empty well.
‘Thirty seconds to rotation…’
‘How long can they hold out now?’ asked Connors.
‘Chris’ oxygen will run out in an hour. Dan’s will last till eleven-thirty tonight. I’ve spoken to Arnold. We’re going to rotate every half hour till seven-thirty, then every hour after that.’
‘And if there’s nothing at eleven-thirty?’
‘We’ll make one last try at midnight, then we’ll wrap it up,’ said Neame.
Connors wasn’t sure that he wanted Milsom and Spencer rescued. Despite their instructions, Spencer had left the hatch. Milsom’s behaviour was baffling, and if Spencer did bring him out, there was the question of his responsibility for Max’s death. Collis’ suggestion of some paranormal influence was difficult to grasp, and only sounded like more trouble.
Connors knew he was falling into the old earthbound science fiction trap, but if Milsom and Spencer did reappear with discernible internal modifications, then he, Allbright, and Wedderkind might have to take the decision to destroy them. Yes… It would be a lot easier all around if Milsom and Spencer kept their heads down.
Connors turned to Max’s three roughnecks. ‘I guess you’d like a break.’
‘If you can ship out somethin’ to eat, we just as soon hang on. Hell, we ain’t hauled a thing out of there yet.’ It was Lee Ryder, the one who liked slugging cars with a sledgehammer.
‘Of course.’
‘Oh, another thing,’ said Lee. ‘We heard a buzz that Max might still be in one piece down there. Is that straight?’
‘I wish it were,’ said Connors.
‘No chance, huh?’
‘Not even a million to one, Lee.’
Lee nodded soberly, then jerked his thumb at Crusoe. ‘Max never reckoned much on fooling around with this damn thing… Yep…’ course, I guess you and the Fat Man must have the next step in mind, but if those two don’t come out by midnight, I’d fill that hatch full of nitro and stand back. When he tips that over, it’ll blow his ass right out of the ground.’
‘Stick around,’ said Connors. ‘We may end up doing just that.’
Wednesday/September 19
CROW RIDGE/MONTANA
Although Spencer’s oxygen supply had run out at 11:30 P.M., Neame decided to open the hatches again at midnight. They clamped the eight ‘feet’ on to the hull pressure points. Nothing happened. The dome stayed shut.
Neame’s voice came over the loudspeaker in the command hut. ‘No joy, Arnold. No sign of Dan or the others – and it also looks as if we’ve developed a malfunction on the hatch.’
‘Yes, I noticed that. Is the foot-frame still sequencing correctly?’
‘Yes. The pressure level’s okay and there’s no misalignment of the frame. It must be some kind of internal glitch.’
‘Okay, wrap it up for tonight, Rog. We’ll take another look at this whole thing tomorrow morning.’
It could have been Crusoe’s way of telling them that there was no point in waiting for Spencer. On the other hand, having overheard Lee Ryder’s explosive suggestion, Crusoe might have decided to batten down the hatches rather than have them filled with nitroglycerine.
The TV cameras covered the hatch party as they trailed disconsolately down Crusoe’s hull and climbed into the waiting jeeps. Connors turned to Wedderkind.
‘I’ve been thinking about Spencer’s message again. If the instrument readings were wrong and Max was alive, is it conceivable that Crusoe could be holding the three of them hostage until we release Friday?’
‘That thought had occurred to me,’ said Wedderkind. ‘But if we accept that possibility, we have to accept that Crusoe is operating on a much higher level of reasoning than we originally thought.’
‘Let’s assume he is. Could his actions still be the product of a machine intelligence?’
Wedderkind pursed his lips. ‘It depends on how you define “machine intelligence”. With the progress in biochemical computers, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to draw a dividing line between the input-output potential of so-called “electronic” brains and their biological counterparts.’
‘You’ll have to give me that again, Arnold. After midnight my brain turns into a pumpkin.’
‘What I’m suggesting,’ said Wedderkind, ‘is that a machine intelligence from an advanced civilization could quite easily match our own brain functions. In some areas, it may even outperform us. It may, for example, be capable of monitoring our own cerebral activity – ’
‘Yes. I must admit that does worry me.’
‘That’s because thought police and human robots were all invented here. Telepathic contact doesn’t have to be malevolent, it can be a simple practical tool. For instance in this present situation, it would increase his chances of survival if Crusoe were able to understand the logic – or lack of it – behind our reactions. Initially, Crusoe will have been programmed in the same way as our own computers, that is by feeding in control data – mission orders, if you like –
and mechanical data that would enable him to diagnose malfunctions and repair himself. But he could also be programmed to acquire data. I don’t just mean recording planetary temperatures and pressures. Crusoe may have the capability to learn – to develop and expand his own consciousness. And he may not have an “Off’ switch.’
Connors stared at him, then shook his head slowly. ‘You keep coming out with these awesome speculations. A few weeks ago, you had us up to our armpits in melted icecaps. I don’t know whether I can take more bad news.’
‘I’m sorry. In a situation like this, we have to keep the data we acquire under constant review, consider all the implications, the possibilities.’
‘But they keep multiplying,’ complained Connors. ‘Maybe it’s my fault. I shouldn’t ask so many questions.’
‘I wonder how you’d feel if I did hide the truth from you,’ said Wedderkind.
‘You mean if this was the end of the world?’ Connors smiled. ‘I thought about that when the comet Kohoutek was on its way past – and what a great nonevent that was… Anyway, if some astronomer had worked out that it was going to hit us smack on the Tropic of Cancer, knock a hole in Honolulu and send the Pacific rolling all the way to Maine, I think I might have preferred not to know. If I had known, what could I have done about it? Nothing. Better to go on. The world could have fallen apart if we’d just sat around waiting – and the calculations might have turned out to be wrong. I read somewhere a marvellous saying: “If the world were to end tomorrow, I would still plant my apple tree today.” I can’t quite remember who said it, but he was right. Otherwise, our existence is meaningless.’
‘All the same,’ said Wedderkind, ‘I think you’d be as mad as hell if you hadn’t been told what was going to happen.’
‘Nobody’s perfect.’
‘Don’t you think scientists have a duty to warn the world about something like this?’
‘I think it’s vital to know that we’re running out of oil, or polluting the ocean, or making the air unbreathable. It depends on the scale of the disaster and the speed at which it’s likely to happen.’
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