Islands in the Sky (Arthur C. Clarke Collection)

by Arthur C. Clarke

  There was nothing for any of us to do while the Morning Star swept outward on the long curve that would bring her, after some three and a half hours, to the Space Hospital. Very slowly, earth was receding behind us. It was no longer so close that it filled almost half the sky. Already we could see far more of its surface than was possible from the Inner Station, skimming low above the Equator. Northward, the Mediterranean crept into view; then Japan and New Zealand appeared almost simultaneously over opposite horizons.

  And still the earth dwindled behind us. Now it was a sphere at last, hanging out there in space, small enough for the eye to take in the whole of it at one glance. I could now see so far to the south that the great Antarctic ice cap was just visible, a gleaming white fringe beyond the tip of Patagonia.

  We were fifteen thousand miles above the earth, swimming into the path of the Space Hospital. In a moment we would have to use the rockets again to match orbits. This time, however, I should have a more comfortable ride, here in the soundproof cabin.

  Once again weight returned with the roaring rockets. There was one prolonged burst of power, then a series of short corrections. When it was all over, Commander Doyle unstrapped himself from the pilot’s seat and drifted over to the observation port. His instruments told him where he was far more accurately than his eyes could ever do, but he wanted the satisfaction of seeing for himself. I also made for a port that no one else was using.

  Floating there in space beside us was what seemed to be a great crystal flower, its face turned full toward the sun. At first there was no way in which I could judge its true scale or guess how far away it was. Then, through the transparent walls, I could see little figures moving around and catch the gleam of sunlight on complex machines and equipment. The station must be at least five hundred feet in diameter, and the cost of lifting all this material fifteen thousand miles from the earth must be staggering. Then I recalled that very little of it had come from earth, anyway. Like the other stations, the Space Hospital had been constructed almost entirely from components manufactured on the moon.

  As we slowly drifted closer, I could see people gathering in the observation decks and glass-roofed wards to watch our arrival. For the first time, it occurred to me that this flight of the Morning Star really was something of an event. All the radio and TV networks would be covering it. As a news story, it had everything—a race for life and a gallant effort by a long-retired ship. When we reached the hospital, we would have to run the gantlet.

  The rocket tractors came fussing up to us and the towropes started to haul us in. A few minutes later the air locks clamped together, and we were able to go through the connecting tube into the hospital. We waited for the doctor and his still unconscious patient to go first, then went reluctantly forward to meet the crowd waiting to welcome us.

  Well, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything, and I’m sure the commander enjoyed it as much as any of us. They made a huge fuss and treated us like heroes. Although I hadn’t done a thing and really had no right to be there at all (there were some rather awkward questions about that), I was treated just like the others. We were, in fact, given the run of the place.

  It seemed that we would have to wait there for two days before we could go back to the Inner Station because there was no earthbound ship until then. Of course, we could have made the return trip in the Morning Star, but Commander Doyle vetoed this.

  “I don’t mind tempting providence once,” he said, “but I’m not going to do it again. Before the old lady makes another trip, she’s going to be overhauled and the motors tested. I don’t know if you noticed it, but the combustion chamber temperature was starting to rise unpleasantly while we were doing our final approach. And there were about six other things that weren’t all they should have been. I’m not going to be a hero twice in one week. The second time might be the last!”

  It was, I suppose, a reasonable attitude, but we were a little disappointed. Because of this caution, the Morning Star didn’t get back to her usual parking place for almost a month, to the great annoyance of her patrons.

  Hospitals are, I think, usually slightly depressing places, but this one was different. Few of the patients here were seriously ill, though down on earth most of them would have been dead or completely disabled, owing to the effect of gravity on their weakened hearts. Many were eventually able to return to earth, others could live safely only on the moon or Mars, and the severest cases had to remain permanently on the station. It was a kind of exile, but they seemed cheerful enough. The hospital was a huge place, ablaze with sunshine, and almost everything that could be found on earth was available—everything, that is, that did not depend on gravity.

  Only about half of the station was taken up by the hospital; the remainder was devoted to research of various kinds. We were given some interesting conducted tours of the gleaming, spotless labs. And on one of these tours—well, this is what happened.

  The commander was away on some business in the Technical Section, but we had been invited to visit the Biology Department, which, we were promised, would be highly interesting. As it turned out, this was an understatement.

  We’d been told to meet a Dr. Hawkins on Corridor Nine, Biology Two. Now it’s very easy to get lost in a space station—since all the local inhabitants know their way around perfectly, no one bothers with signposts. We found our way to what we thought was Corridor Nine, but couldn’t see any door labeled “Biology Two.” However, there was a “Biophysics Two,” and after some discussion we decided that would be near enough. There would certainly be someone inside who could redirect us.

  Tim Benton was in front and opened the door cautiously.

  “Can’t see a thing,” he grumbled. “Phew—it smells like a fishmonger’s on a hot day!”

  I peered over his shoulder. The light was very dim, and I could make out only a few vague shapes. It was also very warm and moist, with sprays hissing continuously on all sides. There was a peculiar odor that I couldn’t identify, a cross between a zoo and a hothouse.

  “This place is no good,” said Ronnie Jordan in disgust. “Let’s try somewhere else.”

  “Just a minute,” exclaimed Norman, whose eyes must have become accustomed to the gloom more quickly than mine. “What do you think! They’ve got a tree in here. At least, it looks like it, though it’s a mighty queer one.”

  He moved forward, and we drifted after him, drawn by the same curiosity. I realized that my companions probably hadn’t seen a tree or even a blade of grass for many months. It would be quite a novelty to them.

  I could see better now. We were in a very large room, with jars and glass-fronted cages all around us. The air was full of mist from countless sprays, and I felt as if we were in some tropical jungle. There were clusters of lamps all around, but they were turned off and we couldn’t see the switches.

  About forty feet away was the tree that Norman had noticed. It was certainly an unusual object. A slender, straight trunk rose out of a metal box to which were attached various tubes and pumps. There were no leaves, only a dozen thin, tapering branches drooping straight down, giving it a slightly disconsolate air. It looked like a weeping willow that had been stripped of all its foliage. A continual stream of water played over it from clusters of jets, adding to the general moistness of the air. I was beginning to find it difficult to breathe.

  “It can’t be from earth,” said Tim, “and I’ve never heard of anything like it on Mars or Venus.”

  We had now drifted to within a few feet of the object, and the closer we got, the less I liked it. I said so, but Norman only laughed.

  His laugh turned to a yell of pure fright. For suddenly that slender trunk leaned toward us, and the long branches shot out like whips. One curled around my ankle, another grasped my waist. I was too scared even to yell. I realized, too late, that this wasn’t a tree at all—and that its “branches” were tentacles.

  7 WORLD OF MONSTERS

  My reaction was instinctive and violent. Though I w
as floating in mid-air and so unable to get hold of anything solid, I could still thrash around pretty effectively. The others were doing the same, and presently I came into contact with the floor so that I was able to give a mighty kick. The thin tentacles released their grip as I shot toward the ceiling. I just managed to grasp one of the light fittings in time to stop myself from crashing into the roof, and then looked down to see what had happened to the others.

  They had all got clear, and now that my fright was subsiding I realized how feeble those clutching tentacles had really been. If we had been on solid ground with gravity to help us, we could have disengaged ourselves without any trouble. Even here, none of us had been hurt, but we were all badly scared.

  “What the devil is it?” gasped Tim when he had recovered his breath and untangled himself from some rubber tubing draped along the wall. Everyone else was too shaken to answer. We were making our way unsteadily to the door when there was a sudden flood of light, and someone called out, “What’s all the noise?” A door opened and a white-smocked man came drifting in. He stared at us for a moment and said:

  “I hope you haven’t been teasing Cuthbert.”

  “Teasing!” spluttered Norman. “I’ve never had such a fright in my life. We were looking for Dr. Hawkins and ran into this—this monster from Mars or whatever it is.”

  The other chuckled. He launched himself away from the door and floated toward the now motionless cluster of tentacles.

  “Look out!” cried Tim.

  We watched in fascinated horror. As soon as the man was within range, the slim tendrils struck out again and whipped round his body. He merely put up an arm to protect his face, but made no other movement to save himself.

  “I’m afraid Cuthbert isn’t very bright,” he said. “He assumes that anything that comes near him is food and grabs for it. But we’re not very digestible, so he soon lets go—like this.”

  The tentacles were already relaxing. With a gesture exactly like disdain, they thrust away their captive, who burst out laughing at our startled faces.

  “He’s not very strong, either. It would be quite easy to get away from him, even if he wanted to keep you.”

  “I still don’t think it’s safe to leave a beast like that around,” said Norman with dignity. “What is it, anyway? Which planet does it come from?”

  “You’d be surprised—but I’ll let Dr. Hawkins explain that. He sent me to look for you when you didn’t turn up. And I’m sorry that Cuthbert gave you such a fright. That door should have been locked, but someone’s been careless again.”

  And that was all the consolation we got. I’m afraid our mishap had left us in the wrong mood for conducted tours and scientific explanations, but despite this bad start we found the Biology Labs quite interesting. Doctor Hawkins, who was in charge of research here, told us about the work that was going on and about some of the exciting prospects that low gravity had opened up in the way of lengthening the span of life.

  “Down on earth,” he said, “our hearts have to fight gravity from the moment we’re born. Blood is being continually pumped round the body, from head to foot and back again. Only when we’re lying down does the heart really get a good rest, and even for the laziest people that’s only about a third of their lives. But here, the heart has no work at all to do against gravity.”

  “Then why doesn’t it race, like an engine that has no load?” asked Tim.

  “That’s a good question. The answer is that nature’s provided a wonderful automatic regulator. And there’s still quite a bit of work to be done against friction, in the veins and arteries. We don’t know yet just what difference zero gravity’s going to make, because we haven’t been in space long enough. But we think that the expectation of life out here ought to be well over a hundred years. It may even be as much as that on the moon. If we can prove this, it may start all the old folks rushing away from the earth!

  “Still, all this is guesswork. Now I’m going to show you something which I think is just as exciting.”

  He had led us into a room whose walls consisted almost entirely of glass cages, full of creatures which at first sight I could not identify. Then I gave a gasp of astonishment.

  “They’re flies! But where did they come from?”

  They were flies, all right. Only one thing was wrong—these flies had a wing span of a foot or more.

  Doctor Hawkins chuckled.

  “Lack of gravity, again, plus a few special hormones. Down on earth, you know, an animal’s weight has a major effect on controlling its size. A fly this size couldn’t possibly lift itself into the air. It’s odd to watch these flying; you can see the wing beats quite easily.”

  “What kind of flies are they?” asked Tim.

  “Drosophila—fruit flies. They breed rapidly, and have been studied on earth for about a century and a half. I can trace this fellow’s family tree back to around 1920!”

  Personally, I could think of much more exciting occupations, but presumably the biologists knew what they were doing. Certainly the final result was highly impressive—and unpleasant. Flies aren’t pretty creatures, even when normal size.

  “Now here’s a bit of a contrast,” said Dr. Hawkins, making some adjustments to a large projection microscope. “You can just about see this chap with the naked eye—in the ordinary way, that is.”

  He flicked a switch, and a circle of light flashed on the screen. We were looking into a tiny drop of water, with strange blobs of jelly and minute living creatures drifting through the field of vision. And there in the center of the picture, waving its tentacles lazily, was…

  “Why,” exclaimed Ron, “that’s like the creature that caught us.”

  “You’re quite right,” replied Dr. Hawkins. “It’s called a hydra, and a big one is only about a tenth of an inch long. So you see Cuthbert didn’t come from Mars or Venus, but was brought from Earth. Increasing his size is our most ambitious experiment yet.”

  “But what’s the idea?” asked Tim.

  “Well, you can study these creatures much more easily when they’re large. Our knowledge of living matter has been extended enormously since we’ve been able to do this sort of thing. I must admit, though, that we rather overdid it with Cuthbert. It takes a lot of effort to keep him alive, and we’re not likely to try and beat this record.”

  After that, we were taken to see Cuthbert again. The lights were switched on this time; it seemed that we’d stumbled into the lab during one of the short periods of artificial “night.” Though we knew that the creature was safe, we wouldn’t go very close. Tim Benton, however, was persuaded to offer a piece of raw meat, which was grabbed by a slim tentacle and tucked into the top of the long, slender “trunk.”

  “I should have explained,” said Dr. Hawkins, “that hydras normally paralyze their victims by stinging them. There are poison buds all along those tentacles, but we’ve been able to neutralize them. Otherwise, Cuthbert would be as dangerous as a cageful of cobras.”

  I felt like saying I didn’t really think much of their taste in pets, but I remembered in time that we were guests.

  Another high light of our stay at the hospital was the visit to the Gravity Section. I’ve already mentioned that some of the space stations produce a kind of artificial gravity by spinning slowly on their axes. Inside the hospital they had a huge drum, or centrifuge, that did the same thing. We were given a ride in it, partly for fun and partly as a serious test of our reactions to having weight again.

  The gravity chamber was a cylinder about fifty feet in diameter, supported on pivots at either end and driven by electric motors. We entered through a hatch in the side and found ourselves in a small room that would have seemed perfectly normal down on earth. There were pictures hanging from the walls, and even an electric light fixture suspended from the “ceiling.” Everything had been done to create an impression, as far as the eye was concerned, that “up” and “down” existed again.

  We sat in the comfortable chairs and waited. Prese
ntly there was a gentle vibration and a sense of movement: the chamber was beginning to turn. Very slowly, a feeling of heaviness began to steal over me. My legs and arms required an effort to move them: I was a slave of gravity again, no longer able to glide through the air as freely as a bird….

  A concealed loud-speaker gave us our instructions.

  “We’ll hold the speed constant now. Get up and walk around—but be careful.”

  I rose from my seat and almost fell back again with the effort.

  “Wow!” I exclaimed. “How much weight have they given us? I feel as if I’m on Jupiter!”

  My words must have been picked up by the operator, because the loud-speaker gave a chuckle.

  “You’re just half the weight you were back on earth. But it seems considerable, doesn’t it, after you’ve had none at all for a couple of weeks!”

  It was a thought that made me feel rather unhappy. When I got down to earth again, I’d weigh twice as much as this! Our instructor must have guessed my thoughts.

  “No need to worry. You get used to it quickly enough on the way out, and it will be the same on the way back. You’ll just have to take things easy for a few days when you get down to earth, and try and remember that you can’t jump out of top-floor windows and float gently to the ground.”

  Put that way, it sounded silly, but this was just the sort of thing I’d grown accustomed to doing here. I wondered how many spacemen broke their necks when they got back to earth!

  In the centrifuge, we tried out all the tricks that were impossible under zero gravity. It was funny to watch liquids pour in a thin stream and remain quietly at the bottom of a glass. I kept on making little jumps, just for the novel experience of coming down quickly again in the same place.

  Finally we were ordered back to our seats, the brakes were put on, and the spin of the chamber was stopped. We were weightless again—back to normal!

  I wish we could have stayed in the Hospital Station for a week or so, in order to explore the place thoroughly. It had everything that the Inner Station lacked, and my companions, who hadn’t been to earth for months, appreciated the luxury even more than I did. It was strange seeing shops and gardens and even going to the theater. That was an unforgettable experience. Thanks to the absence of gravity, one could pack a large audience into a small space and everyone could get a good view. But it created a very difficult problem for the producer, as he had to give an illusion of gravity somehow. It wouldn’t do in a Shakespeare play for all the characters to be floating around in mid-air. So the actors had to use magnetic shoes—a favorite dodge of the old science fiction writers, though this was the only time I ever found them used in reality.