Jerome sat up straighter. “You’re not talking about the Quicksilver, are you? The ship that’s already on its way?”
“I am,” Conforden said. “One of the crew is a Dorrinian, one of a number we have placed in astronaut training programmes. His assignment is to pick up the Thabbren at a prearranged point on the surface.”
“But how will you know where…?” Jerome paused, his thoughts racing. “So there isn’t any crashed ship from Outside?”
“Correct again, Rayner. We built a metal structure which looks as though it could be part of the hull of a large spacecraft, placed it on the surface and ensured that Earth would discover it. Eighteen Dorrinians lost their lives in that operation, but they understood the risks and we do not begrudge the sacrifice.”
Jerome’s eidetic memory was suddenly galvanized, producing an image of a semi-circular stamp on a discarded envelope. “When I was in Pitman’s office back in Whiteford I noticed some mail for him from CryoCare…”
“Movik was right when he decided that you should be transferred,” Conforden said. “Yes, CryoCare is largely a Dorrinian enterprise.”
“And do you have the four thousand bodies?”
“We do. It was a major task—finding that number of people who had no relations to complicate the issue, and who were dying of diseases we knew we could eliminate after the reincarnations. The need for total secrecy made things even more difficult, but we succeeded.”
“Secrecy has always been a big thing with you people,” Jerome said, voicing a minor criticism as a camouflage for the deep revulsion the Dorrinian’s words had inspired in him. The calmly enunciated sentences were predicated on scenes of purest horror.
Conforden shook his head. “It doesn’t come naturally to us. We have been forced to work in secret because of certain prejudices which are prevalent on Earth.”
“Against body-snatching!”
“Your words prove my point, Rayner. Just think how much more extreme your reaction would have been had you lived in more ignorant and more superstitious times. The connection with human combustion alone would have been enough to brand all Dorrinians as emissaries of the Devil. As things are, we already have too many obstacles and dangers to face.”
“Space flight itself is risky,” Jerome said. “With the…ah…Thabbren being so important to you, is it wise to try getting it to Earth on what is, after all, a fairly primitive kind of ship? Shouldn’t you hang on another fifty or hundred years until space travel is routine and safe?”
“That point has received a great deal of discussion.” Conforden’s eyes had a sad candour. “You have been away from your world for only three days. Have you already forgotten how things were’? Do you really feel that Earth is entering the kind of period of enlightenment and stability which is necessary for interplanetary development?”
“It’s hard to…”
“Don’t delude yourself, Rayner. As things are, the Quicksilver may well be the last ship Earth will send into space. Even if another civilization succeeds the present one, it could take tens of centuries for it to develop a space technology. We Dorrinians have the patience to wait that long—after all, time no longer exists for the Four Thousand—but we do not have the resources. No, my friend, the Thabbren goes to Earth on the Quicksilver.”
“Out of the solar frying pan into the nuclear fire?”
“That aspect of the situation has also been debated,” Conforden said, speaking with his wordy precision. “We are confident of our ability to inject positive new elements into the Terran culture and reverse its downward trend. An overt Dorrinian presence on Earth will have tremendous potential for good. Indeed, that is one of the prime moral justifications for our involvement with your world.”
“You’re a highly ethical people,” Jerome commented drily.
“As you say.” Conforden’s gaze hunted over Jerome’s face. “Now, Rayner, you are more-or-less in possession of the full facts. The purpose of these placement interviews is to ascertain how each new arrival can best be fitted into the society of the Precinct, to optimize his contribution—but first we want your promise of co-operation. We want willing workers.”
“I’ve been through this bit already, with Pitman,” Jerome said. “And I told him I didn’t like the idea of betraying everybody on Earth. I don’t like what you’ve done to me personally—and I’m not going to work for you.”
“That’s not the way of it, lad,” Thwaite put in, speaking for the first time since the start of the meeting. “We’re working for ourselves. It’s our only chance of getting back home.”
“I think you’ve lost me somewhere,” Jerome said, unable to accept Thwaite’s words at their face value. “Home is a long way off.”
“Getting the Thabbren to Earth will be only the first stage of a larger migration,” Conforden said. “When the Four Thousand have been reincarnated and a Dorrinian nation established on Earth, the next step will be to build a new generation of spacecraft and begin the work of rescuing our entire population. The idea may sound hopelessly impracticable and visionary, but it can become a reality—and, naturally, Terrans who have been transferred to Dorrin will have a high priority when it comes to assigning places on the ships.
“We are the last generation of humans who will be forced to live underground on this planet.” Conforden paused, then addressed himself directly to Jerome. “And you, my friend, could be back on Earth within ten years.”
CHAPTER 7
A series of leaks had developed near Lock 18 and a maintenance crew had been sent into the section to carry out repairs.
Jerome’s growing tiredness with the work was aggravated by annoyance at not being able to judge time properly. The Dorrinian “day’ had nothing to do with the planet’s rotation, but was a period based on circadian rhythms inherited from the legendary home world. Jerome had been told it was roughly equal to twenty-six Earth hours. As his new body had been attuned to it from birth there should have been no problems with adjustment, yet the annoyance persisted. He was accustomed to estimating work shifts in the convenient units of hours, and saw no merit in the Dorrinian system of a day which was split into a thousand undifferentiated units called mirds.
Dorrinian clocks and watches also seemed unnecessarily confusing. They operated through molecular resonances, products of the psychic micro-engineering at which the Dorrinians excelled. Their displays consisted of two rows of squarish Dorrinian digits—the upper one showing the mird count for that day, and the lower giving the number of days since the creation of the Thabbren. Other periodicities had apparently faded from the racial consciousness. Jerome found the system too linear for his liking. He missed the comforting arrangement of cycles within cycles, by which the members of his culture disguised the realities of entropy.
He also objected to working in a poorly designed vacuum suit. In the vicinity of Lock 18 the tunnel was close to the surface, and for a lengthy portion of the planetary day the temperature inside it was uncomfortably high. His suit, primitive by Terran standards, had no cooling system and even when the wearer was at rest quickly became a dank, choking autoclave. During periods of physical activity the enclosed environment was almost unbearable, but the suit was necessary in case a sudden major rupture of the tunnel wall exhausted the air.