Queen Bee satellite and launcher were taken through to the other side, and the satellite was successfully put into orbit; it's already sending back TV reports of what it sees.'
"That's correct,' Don Stanley added. 'So far it's functioning perfectly. From that vantage point we can learn more about this other world in an hour than fifty surface teams can learn in a year. But of course we're going to augment the TB's data with geological analysis; that's what Woodbine was referring to. And we've borrowed a botanist from Georgetown University; he's over there right now, inspecting plants. And there's a zoologist on the way from Harvard; he should arrive any time now.' After a pause, Stanley said thoughtfully, 'And we've contacted the sociology and anthropology departments at the University of Chicago to stand by in case, we need them.'
'Hmm,' Turpin said. What did that mean, for heaven's sake ? He was lost. Anyhow, Stanley and
Frank Woodbine appeared to have the situation well in hand; evidently there was nothing to worry about. Even if he did not quite comprehend the situation, they did.
'I'm anxious; to go over,' Woodbine said. 'I haven't been there yet, Turpin; they asked me to wait for you.'
'Then let's get started,' Turpin said eagerly. 'Lead the way.' He started toward the 'scuttler.
Frank Woodbine lit a cigar. 'Good enough. But don't be too disappointed, Turpin, if it leads us right back here. This break-through may be nothing but a doorway to our own world, a connection with some remote spot, say the extreme northern part of India where I understand native trees and grasses are still allowed to grow wild. Or it may turn out to be an African bird sanctuary.' He grinned. 'That will upset my good friend Mr. Briskin, if it's so.'
'Briskin ?' Leon Turpin echoed. 'I've heard of him. Oh yes; he's that political fellow.'
'He's the one who made the speech,' Don Stanley said, accompanying the two of them through the small mob of engineers and researchers, up to the hooped entrant of the 'scuttler.
Puffing out clouds of gray cigar smoke, Woodbine stepped through the hoop and into the tube.
Assisting Leon Turpin, Stanley followed. The three of them were at once followed by a gang of
TV cameramen and homeopape autonomic recording machines as well as human reporters.
Already the data-gathering extensors of the media were busily at work, collecting, recording, transmitting all. Woodbine did not seem to be bothered, but Leon Turpin felt slightly irritable.
Publicity was of course necessary, but why did they have to push so close ? I guess they're just interested, he decided. Doing their job. Can't blame them; this is important, especially with
Woodbine here. He wouldn't have come if this wasn't something big. And they know it.
Halfway down the tube of the Jiffi-scuttler Frank Woodbine conferred with a TD engineer and then stooped down. His cigar jutting stiffly ahead of him, he crept headfirst through the wall of the tube and disappeared.
'I'll be darned!' Turpin said, amazed. 'Can I get through there, Don ? I mean, it's all been tested, like you said; it's safe ?'
With the assistance of three TD engineers Turpin managed to kneel down and crawl tremulously after Woodbine. Felt like a kid again, Turpin said, to himself, experiencing both fear and delight.
Haven't done anything like this in ninety years. The wall of the tube shimmered before him. 'You in there somewhere, Frank ?' he called as he gingerly made his way forward. The shimmer passed over him, and now he saw blue sky and a horizontal procession of great trees.
Taking hold of him by the shoulders, Woodbine lifted Turpin to his feet and set him upright on the grass-covered soil. The air smelled of weird things. Leon Turpin inhaled, perplexed; the scents were old and familiar, but he could not place them. I've experienced this before, in my childhood, sometime, he said to himself. Back in the twentieth century. Yes, this certainly is
Earth; nothing else could smell this way. This is no alien, foreign planet. But was that good or bad ? He did not know.
Bending, Woodbine picked a meager white flower. 'Have a morning glory,' he said to Turpin.
Ahead of them, TD space engineers sat at mobile high-frequency receiving equipment; they were no doubt accepting communications from the Queen Bee satellite somewhere overhead. The
'scope of the central van revolved slowly, a peculiar presence on this pastoral landscape.
'We're particularly interested in what it obtains from the dark side,' Don Stanley said. 'That's where it is, now.'
Glancing at him, Woodbine said, 'Lights, you mean.'
'Yes.' Stanley nodded.
'Lights of what ?' Turpin asked.
'If there are lights,' Stanley said patiently, 'anywhere, in any quantity, it means that this place is inhabited by a sentient race.' He added, 'It's found roads, already, on the sun side. Or at least what appear to be roads. The QB isn't by any means the best observation satellite; actually it was selected because it's the easiest and quickest to launch. We'd follow it up in a few days with more sophisticated equipment, of course,'
'If a developed society exists here,' Woodbine said, 'it'll be of enormous importance anthropologically. But it'll hurt Jim Briskin. His whole speech took as its premise the unestablished fact that this planet is vacant and available for colonization. I don't know which to hope for; I'd personally like to see the bibs revived and conveyed here, but...'
'Yes,' Turpin agreed. 'We put a fortune into those language translating machines, decades ago, and never got anything back. Woodbine, where do you think we are ?
'You figure it out, Turpin,' Woodbine said with a spasmodic grimace. 'After all, you people built the 'scuttler. In fact, you invented it. I don't work by a priori theory; I'm a data type. I have to gather a good deal of information before I can figure out what's going on.' He gestured. 'Like those people who followed us over here.' Behind them the media reporters had appeared, still hard at work at their job of scrutinizing everything in sight. They did not appear very awed by what they had found so far.
'I don't care about the bibs,' Turpin said candidly. He saw no need to obscure his personal convictions. 'And I certainly don't care about what happens to that politician,, whatever his name is. Briskett or Briskman - you know, the one who made the speech. That's not my problem; I've got other things to worry about. For instance ...' He broke off, because a communications systems engineer was coming toward them, temporarily leaving the gear which monitored the satellite.
'Maybe this man can tell us something,' Turpin said. 'But I'll say one thing more: when I look around here all I see is grass and trees, so if it's inhabited, its tenants certainly don't have full control of the environment. That might leave room for limited colonization.'
The com-sys engineer said respectfully, 'Mr. Turpin, you don't know me but I'm Bascolm
Howard; I work for you and have been for years. It's a great honor for me to give you the news that the QB satellite has picked up sequences and arrangements of lights on the dark side of this body. There's absolutely no doubt about it; they're assemblages of habitation. In other words, towns.'
'Well, that's that,' Stanley said.
'Not at all,' Woodbine said sharply. To Howard he said, 'Where are these conglomerations of lights ? Where they're supposed to be ?'
Frowning, Howard said, 'I don't quite...'
'At London ?' Woodbine said. 'Paris ? Berlin ? Warsaw ? Moscow ? All the big centers ?'
'Some are in the right places,' Howard said. 'But some aren't. For instance, we're picking up no lights from the British Isles, and there should be colossal numbers, there. And, oddly, the image transmitted from above Africa shows many lights. Many more than there ought to be. But overall there are distinctly fewer lights than we're accustomed to; we noticed it right away. Perhaps only one third or one fourth as many as anticipated.'
'As anticipated where ?' Woodbine said. 'Back home ? But we're not back home, are we ? Or don't you believe that ? What is your operating theory ? Just where do you imagine you are ?'