She was determined, it seemed, to go through the full routine for her solitary passenger, and Floyd could not resist a smile as she continued inexorably.
“Our transmit time will be fifty-five minutes. Maximum acceleration will be two-gee, and we will be weightless for thirty minutes. Please do not leave your seat until the safety sign is lit.”
Floyd looked over his shoulder and called, “Thank you.” He caught a glimpse of a slightly embarrassed but charming smile.
He leaned back into his seat and relaxed. This trip, he calculated, would cost the taxpayers slightly over a million dollars. If it was not justified, he would be out of his job; but he could always go back to the university and to his interrupted studies of planetary formation.
“Auto-countdown procedures all Go,” the captain’s voice said over the speaker with the soothing singsong used in RT chat.
“Lift-off in one minute.”
As always, it seemed more like an hour. Floyd became acutely aware of the gigantic forces coiled up around him, waiting to be released. In the fuel tanks of the two spacecraft, and in the power storage system of the launching track, was pent up the energy of a nuclear bomb. And it would all be used to take him a mere two hundred miles from earth.
There was none of the old-fashioned FIVE-FOUR-THREE-TWO-ONE-ZERO business, so tough on the human nervous system.
“Launching in fifteen seconds. You will be more comfortable if you start breathing deeply.”
That was good psychology, and good physiology. Floyd felt himself well charged with oxygen, and ready to tackle anything, when the launching track began to sling its thousand-ton payload out over the Atlantic.
It was hard to tell when they lifted from the track and became airborne, but when the roar of the rockets suddenly doubled its fury, and Floyd found himself sinking deeper and deeper into the cushions of his seat, he knew that the first-stage engines had taken over. He wished he could look out of the window, but it was an effort even to turn his head. Yet there was no discomfort; indeed, the pressure of acceleration and the overwhelming thunder of the motors produced an extraordinary euphoria. His ears ringing, the blood pounding in his veins, Floyd felt more alive than he had for years. He was young again, he wanted to sing aloud—which was certainly safe, for no one could possibly hear him.
The mood passed swiftly, as he suddenly realized that he was leaving Earth, and everything he had ever loved. Down there were his three children, motherless since his wife had taken that fatal flight to Europe ten years ago. (Ten years? Impossible! Yet it was so….) Perhaps, for their sake, he should have remarried….
He had almost lost sense of time when the pressure and the noise abruptly slackened, and the cabin speaker announced: “Preparing to separate from lower stage. Here we go.”
There was a slight jolt; and suddenly Floyd recalled a quotation of Leonardo da Vinci’s which he had once seen displayed in a NASA office:
The Great Bird will take its flight on the back of the great bird, bringing glory to the nest where it was born.
Well, the Great Bird was flying now, beyond all the dreams of da Vinci, and its exhausted companion was winging back to Earth. In a ten-thousand-mile arc, the empty lower stage would glide down into the atmosphere, trading speed for distance as it homed on Kennedy. In a few hours, serviced and refueled, it would be ready again to lift another companion toward the shining silence which it could never reach.
Now, thought Floyd, we are on our own, more than halfway to orbit. When the acceleration came on again, as the upper stage rockets fired, the thrust was much more gentle: indeed, he felt no more than normal gravity. But it would have been impossible to walk, since “Up” was straight toward the front of the cabin. If he had been foolish enough to leave his seat, he would have crashed at once against the rear wall.
This effect was a little disconcerting, for it seemed that the ship was standing on its tail. To Floyd, who was at the very front of the cabin, all the seats appeared to be fixed on a wall dropping vertically beneath him. He was doing his best to ignore this uncomfortable illusion when dawn exploded outside the ship.
In seconds, they shot through veils of crimson and pink and gold and blue into the piercing white of day. Though the windows were heavily tinted to reduce the glare, the probing beams of sunlight that now slowly swept across the cabin left Floyd half-blinded for several minutes. He was in space, yet there was no question of being able to see the stars.
He shielded his eyes with his hands and tried to peer through the window beside him. Out there the swept-back wing of the ship was blazing like white-hot metal in the reflected sunlight; there was utter darkness all around it, and the darkness must be full of stars—but it was impossible to see them.
Weight was slowly ebbing; the rockets were being throttled back as the ship eased itself into orbit. The thunder of the engines dropped to a muted roar, then a gentle hiss, then died into silence. If it had not been for the restraining straps, Floyd would have floated out of his seat; his stomach felt as if it was going to do so anyway. He hoped that the pills he had been given half an hour and ten thousand miles ago would perform as per specifications. He had been spacesick just once in his career, and that was much too often.
The pilot’s voice was firm and confident as it came over the cabin speaker. “Please observe all Zero-gee regulations. We will be docking at Space Station One in forty-five minutes.”
The stewardess came walking up the narrow corridor to the right of the closely spaced seats. There was a slight buoyancy about her steps, and her feet came away from the floor reluctantly as if entangled in glue. She was keeping to the bright yellow band of Velcro carpeting that ran the full length of the floor—and of the ceiling. The carpet, and the soles of her sandals, were covered with myriads of tiny hooks, so that they clung together like burrs. This trick of walking in free fall was immensely reassuring to disoriented passengers.
“Would you like some coffee or tea, Dr. Floyd?” she asked cheerfully.
“No thank you,” he smiled. He always felt like a baby when he had to suck at one of those plastic drinking tubes.
The stewardess was still hovering anxiously around him as he popped open his briefcase and prepared to remove his papers.
“Dr. Floyd, may I ask you a question?”
“Certainly,” he answered, looking up over his glasses.
“My fiancé is a geologist at Clavius,” said Miss Simmons, measuring her words carefully, “and I haven’t heard from him for over a week.”
“I’m sorry to hear that; maybe he’s away from his base, and out of touch.”
She shook her head. “He always tells me when that’s going to happen. And you can imagine how worried I am—with all these rumors. Is it really true about an epidemic on the Moon?”
“If it is, there’s no cause for alarm. Remember, there was a quarantine back in ’98, over that mutated flu virus. A lot of people were sick—but no one died. And that’s really all I can say,” he concluded firmly.
Miss Simmons smiled pleasantly and straightened up.
“Well, thank you anyway, Doctor. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“No bother at all,” he said gallantly, but not very accurately. Then he buried himself in his endless technical reports, in a desperate last-minute assault on the usual backlog.
He would have no time for reading when he got to the Moon.
CHAPTER 8
Orbital Rendezvous
Half an hour later the pilot announced: “We make contact in ten minutes. Please check your seat harness.”
Floyd obeyed, and put away his papers. It was asking for trouble to read during the celestial juggling act which took place during the last 300 miles; best to close one’s eyes and relax while the spacecraft was nudged back and forth with brief bursts of rocket power.
A few minutes later he caught his first glimpse of Space Station One, only a few miles away. The sunlight glinted and sparkled from the polished metal surfaces of the slowly rev
olving, three-hundred-yard-diameter disk. Not far away, drifting in the same orbit, was a swept-back Titov-V spaceplane, and close to that an almost spherical Aries-1B, the workhorse of space, with the four stubby legs of its lunar-landing shock absorbers jutting from one side.
The Orion III spacecraft was descending from a higher orbit, which brought the Earth into spectacular view behind the Station. From his altitude of 200 miles, Floyd could see much of Africa and the Atlantic Ocean. There was considerable cloud cover, but he could still detect the blue-green outlines of the Gold Coast.
The central axis of the Space Station, with its docking arms extended, was now slowly swimming toward them. Unlike the structure from which it sprang, it was not rotating—or, rather, it was running in reverse at a rate which exactly countered the Station’s own spin. Thus a visiting spacecraft could be coupled to it, for the transfer of personnel or cargo, without being whirled disastrously around.
With the softest of thuds, ship and Station made contact. There were metallic, scratching noises from outside, then the brief hissing of air as pressures equalized. A few seconds later the airlock door opened, and a man wearing the light, close-fitting slacks and short-sleeved shirt which was almost the uniform of Space Station personnel came into the cabin.
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Floyd. I’m Nick Miller, Station Security; I’m to look after you until the shuttle leaves.”
They shook hands, then Floyd smiled at the stewardess and said: “Please give my compliments to Captain Tynes, and thank him for the smooth ride. Perhaps I’ll see you on the way home.”
Very cautiously—it was more than a year since he had last been weightless and it would be some time before he regained his spacelegs—he hauled himself hand over hand through the airlock and into the large, circular chamber at the axis of the Space Station. It was a heavily padded room, its walls covered with recessed handholds; Floyd gripped one of these firmly while the whole chamber started to rotate, until it matched the spin of the Station.
As it gained speed, faint and ghostly gravitational fingers began to clutch at him, and he drifted slowly toward the circular wall. Now he was standing, swaying back and forth gently like seaweed in the surge of the tide, on what had magically become a curving floor. The centrifugal force of the Station’s spin had taken hold of him; it was very feeble here, so near the axis, but would increase steadily as he moved outward.
From the central transit chamber he followed Miller down a curving stair. At first his weight was so slight that he had almost to force himself downward by holding on to the handrail. Not until he reached the passenger lounge, on the outer skin of the great revolving disk, had he acquired enough weight to move around almost normally.
The lounge had been redecorated since his last visit, and had acquired several new facilities. Besides the usual chairs, small tables, restaurant, and post office there were now a barber shop, drug-store, movie theater, and a souvenir shop selling photographs and slides of lunar and planetary landscapes, guaranteed genuine pieces of Luniks, Rangers, and Surveyors, all neatly mounted in plastic, and exorbitantly priced.
“Can I get you anything while we’re waiting?” Miller asked. “We board in about thirty minutes.”
“I could do with a cup of black coffee—two lumps—and I’d like to call Earth.”
“Right, Doctor—I’ll get the coffee—the phones are over there.”
The picturesque booths were only a few yards from a barrier with two entrances labeled WELCOME TO THE U.S. SECTION and WELCOME TO THE SOVIET SECTION. Beneath these were notices which read, in English, Russian, and Chinese, French, German, and Spanish:
PLEASE HAVE READY YOUR:
Passport
Visa
Medical Certificate
Transportation Permit
Weight Declaration
There was a rather pleasant symbolism about the fact that as soon as they had passed through the barriers, in either direction, passengers were free to mix again. The division was purely for administrative purposes.
Floyd, after checking that the Area Code for the United States was still 81, punched his twelve-digit home number, dropped his plastic all-purpose credit card into the pay slot, and was through in thirty seconds.
Washington was still sleeping, for it was several hours to dawn, but he would not disturb anyone. His housekeeper would get the message from the recorder as soon as she awoke.
“Miss Flemming—this is Dr. Floyd. Sorry I had to leave in such a hurry. Would you please call my office and ask them to collect the car—it’s at Dulles Airport and the key is with Mr. Bailey, Senior Flight Control Officer. Next, will you call the Chevy Chase Country Club, and leave a message for the secretary. I definitely won’t be able to play in the tennis tournament next weekend. Give my apologies—I’m afraid they were counting on me. Then call Downtown Electronics and tell them that if the video in my study isn’t fixed by—oh, Wednesday—they can take the damn thing back.” He paused for breath, and tried to think of any other crises or problems that might arise during the days ahead.
“If you run short of cash, speak to the office; they can get urgent messages to me, but I may be too busy to answer. Give my love to the children, and say I’ll be back as soon as I can. Oh, hell—here’s someone I don’t want to see—I’ll call from the Moon if I can—good-bye.”
Floyd tried to duck out of the booth, but it was too late; he had already been spotted. Bearing down on him through the Soviet Section exit was Dr. Dimitri Moisevitch, of the U.S.S.R. Academy of Science.
Dimitri was one of Floyd’s best friends; and for that very reason, he was the last person he wished to talk to, here and now.
CHAPTER 9
Moon Shuttle
The Russian astronomer was tall, slender, and blond, and his unlined face belied his fifty-five years—the last ten of which had been spent building up the giant radio observatory on the far side of the Moon, where two thousand miles of solid rock would shield it from the electronic racket of Earth.
“Why, Heywood,” he said, shaking hands firmly. “It’s a small universe. How are you—and your charming children?”
“We’re fine,” Floyd replied warmly, but with a slightly distracted air. “We often talk about the wonderful time you gave us last summer.” He was sorry he could not sound more sincere; they really had enjoyed a week’s vacation in Odessa with Dimitri during one of the Russian’s visits to Earth.
“And you—I suppose you’re on your way up?” Dimitri inquired.
“Er, yes—my flight leaves in half an hour,” answered Floyd. “Do you know Mr. Miller?”
The Security Officer had now approached, and was standing at a respectful distance holding a plastic cup full of coffee.
“Of course. But please put that down, Mr. Miller. This is Dr. Floyd’s last chance to have a civilized drink—let’s not waste it. No—I insist.”
They followed Dimitri out of the main lounge into the observation section, and soon were sitting at a table under a dim light watching the moving panorama of the stars. Space Station One revolved once a minute, and the centrifugal force generated by this slow spin produced an artificial gravity equal to the Moon’s. This, it had been discovered, was a good compromise between Earth gravity and no gravity at all; moreover, it gave moonbound passengers a chance to become acclimatized.
Outside the almost invisible windows, Earth and stars marched in a silent procession. At the moment, this side of the Station was tilted away from the sun; otherwise, it would have been impossible to look out, for the lounge would have been blasted with light. Even as it was, the glare of the Earth, filling half the sky, drowned all but the brighter stars.
But Earth was waning, as the Station orbited toward the night side of the planet; in a few minutes it would be a huge black disk, spangled with the lights of cities. And then the sky would belong to the stars.
“Now,” said Dimitri, after he had swiftly downed his first drink and was toying with the second, “what’s all this a
bout an epidemic in the U.S. Sector? I wanted to go there on this trip. ‘No, Professor,’ they told me. ‘We’re very sorry, but there’s a strict quarantine until further notice.’ I pulled all the strings I could; it was no use. Now you tell me what’s happening.”
Floyd groaned inwardly. Here we go again, he said. The sooner I’m on that shuttle, headed for the Moon, the happier I’ll be.
“The—ah—quarantine is purely a safety precaution,” he said cautiously. “We’re not even sure it’s really necessary, but we don’t believe in taking chances.”
“But what is the disease—what are the symptoms? Could it be extraterrestrial? Do you want any help from our medical services?”
“I’m sorry, Dimitri—we’ve been asked not to say anything at the moment. Thanks for the offer, but we can handle the situation.”
“Hmm,” said Moisevitch, obviously quite unconvinced. “Seems odd to me that you, an astronomer, should be sent up to the Moon to look into an epidemic.”
“I’m only an ex-astronomer; it’s years since I did any real research. Now I’m a scientific expert; that means I know nothing about absolutely everything.”
“Then do you know what TMA-1 means?”
Miller seemed about to choke on his drink, but Floyd was made of sterner stuff. He looked his old friend straight in the eye, and said calmly: “TMA-1? What an odd expression. Where did you hear it?”
“Never mind,” retorted the Russian. “You can’t fool me. But if you’ve run into something you can’t handle, I hope you don’t leave it until too late before you yell for help.”
Miller looked meaningfully at his watch.
“Due to board in five minutes, Dr. Floyd,” he said. “I think we’d better get moving.”
Though he knew that they still had a good twenty minutes, Floyd got up with haste. Too much haste, for he had forgotten the one-sixth of a gravity. He grabbed the table just in time to prevent a takeoff.
2001: A Space Odyssey (Arthur C. Clarke Collection: The Odyssey) Page 5