Groton finished dressing Ivo, then turned to his own suit. In succinct bursts between motions he delivered the political reality, as seen by one who had not talked with the Senator directly. Ivo found this parallel viewpoint intriguing.
Senator Borland (Groton said) was no ordinary man. His connections were potent, not so much in America as in the UN. There were many influential personages behind him, and not a small amount of cash. His boast that he knew the governments of the station’s member-countries (that remark had orbited the personnel rapidly!) better than did their own nationals had not been empty; he was a sophisticated parlayer of influence on an international scale. He would do such-and-such, if in such-and-such a position, and the figures behind the thrones and presidencies knew what and how. It was to China’s interest that he achieve greater influence in the American farming scheme, for the potential of trading in grain remained; it was to Russia’s interest that he make the automotive-exports standards committee, for it regulated other machinery than cars, ranging from precision ball-bearings to theodolites; to South Africa’s interest that he establish private liaison with BlaPow, Inc.
Borland was all things to all peoples — but he was good at it. A promoter could accomplish a great deal, if sophisticated enough. He had already shown that he could and would deliver the goods while making political hay doing it. He had the connections, he had the charisma; somehow private meetings with him made public converts.
Ivo, remembering the Borland-Carpenter dialogue, understood that. Ivo himself was such a convert.
The death of such a man (Groton continued) was bound to mean real trouble, whatever the circumstances. Too many projects were balancing in the air, and the demise of the juggler meant that many would crash. Pledges could no longer be honored, repercussions no longer stymied.
The macroscope was the major UN effort. More international interests were crucially involved there than in any other area. Borland surely had seen its potential, and had acted to make it his own. It represented a ready way to make good on all his commitments, while benefiting the world as a whole. And perhaps he had intended to do just that, for altruistic reasons. (Ivo had not expected this tack.) Perhaps his ambition had gone beyond power, since he was in a position to appreciate how desperately the world needed help. Perhaps the answer to the ruin forecast by the Sung planet’s example had been Borland: someone to organize a more practical application of the immense knowledge available. Who could say for sure, now?
But Borland had died, and in the worst possible manner. He had not trusted hearsay evidence; he had not really believed that the destroyer could bring him down. So he had called its bluff — and lost. The UN would believe that the station personnel had murdered him, perhaps by tricking him into confrontation with that killer from space.
Trouble? As the international eggs began to fall and splatter, the need would grow very strong for an international scapegoat. The seeming cause of crisis: the macroscope.
Now they were both suited and Ivo had still not discovered what they were going about so urgently.
Afra was at the storeroom, moving things about with apparent abandon in the fractional gravity. Ivo spied crates of drugs, spices, grains, bandages and cheese, as well as cylinders of oxygen and liquid nutrient. “What’s your blood type?” she demanded of him.
“O-positive.” What could he do, but answer?
She selected a canister and dumped it near the door. Ivo looked at it: CONDENSED BLOOD O-POSITIVE. There was more technical description, but he averted his eyes, feeling unpleasantly giddy. Presumably there were ways to adjust for the myriad other factors involved in the matching of blood safely. What made her think he would need this?
The storeroom supervisor sat at his desk, head drooping forward as though he were asleep. “Shouldn’t he be checking this stuff out?” Ivo inquired.
“I fed him a mickey,” Afra said. “Or were you being facetious?”
Ivo did not know how to answer that, so didn’t try. There was so much he didn’t know about this situation!
Afra turned to Groton. “I’ll shape this up here and move it with the powercart. You get the personal junk assembled. Better make it one box each, limit.”
“What do you need?” Groton asked Ivo.
So many unanswered questions, but he had to do the answering! “If you mean what do I take with me when I leave this place, nothing. I have my flute with me.”
“I forgot — you’re already suited,” Afra said. “I’ll select some clothing for you; more efficient that way.” She turned to Groton. “Better fetch Joseph.”
Ivo started. “Joseph! Isn’t that the souped-up rocket?”
“Right,” Groton agreed. “Come on.”
He and Ivo jetted across to the huge rocket much as Brad had demonstrated the first trip to the macroscope proper, except for the necessary change in course this time. Spurts from a cylinder of hydrogen peroxide took care of the propulsion.
Joseph’s hull was like a planetoid, seeming much vaster than it was, since there were no nearby objects to contrast for size. Ivo managed to land on his feet, having gained from his prior experience, and the magnetic shoe-bands took hold so that he could walk. They marched to the control compartment airlock and knocked.
The interior was larger than that of the shuttle. Joseph had been gutted and rebuilt, so that the layout was like nothing Ivo had seen in space. Evidently the atomic equipment occupied less volume than had the chemical fuel before it, so that one of the monster internal tanks could be used for living space. He could almost imagine that he was in a futuristic submarine.
In a manner of thinking, this was a futuristic sub.
“Course correction,” Groton said to the attendant. “Can you hitch this baby up to the scope?”
“Sure, in a couple of days,” the man said amicably.
“This is an emergency. Two hours.”
“I can move it there, but I can’t hitch it up in that time. Take a trained crew of twenty men to do that.”
Groton rolled his eyes. “Ouch! Well, you move it over and I’ll do what I can. Ivo, better jet back to the scope and tell Afra, while I check with Kovonov. This is going to be sticky.”
The attendant held up a hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, naturally — but don’t you think you’d better see Miss Summerfield?”
“No. Ivo doesn’t—” Groton stopped. “Damn, yes. It has to be that way. Ivo, go tell Kovonov what we need. Then join us there. Don’t waste any time.”
Ivo hung on to his patience. “Exactly what are you doing? Why do you want to hitch Joseph to the macroscope?”
“To correct the scope’s course, as I explained.”
“What’s the matter with its present course? It’s attached to the station, after all.”
“We think it is about to fall into the sun.”
“That’s ridiculous! It’s in orbit! And the station—”
The attendant smiled. “It might as well fall. The UN will destroy it anyway.”
“So you see, we need that crew immediately. Tell Kovonov.”
Ivo saw that they weren’t going to give him a legitimate explanation. Angrily, he snapped his helmet to and left the compartment.
Kovonov’s office was a niche in a heavy-gravity shell. It struck Ivo that this was an effective way to keep visits brief; anyone who stayed too long would fatigue rapidly. Momentary weight-increase could be put up with, but a steady diet of it was distinctly unpleasant. He wondered how the host endured it.