“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.
Kovonov looked up from a book set in what Ivo assumed to be Russian type. He did not speak.
The language barrier! “Groton says we need a crew of twenty men to stop the macroscope from falling into the sun,” Ivo said, knowing that the Russian could not understand a word.
Kovonov listened gravely, then touched two switches. Ivo heard his own words played back: they had been recorded. Another voice rattled off incomprehensible syllables: the translation.
Kovonov nodded.
“Can you tell me what this is all about? I don’t—”
The hand came up to silence him. Kovonov switched off the machine without obtaining the translation and brought out a small blackboard and two colored pieces of chalk. He made three blue dots.
What was this fascination with sprouts? The scientists of this station acted as though a simple game were more important than life or death. Did Kovonov seriously mean to ignore his question and rechallenge for the championship?
But it was not a contest this time. Kovonov filled in the connections himself without offering the chalk to Ivo. He was setting up a three-spot demonstration game of no particular complexity. The series went seven moves:
The result reminded Ivo of a shovel. “But it isn’t finished,” he said. “There’s a free spot at either end.”
Kovonov turned the panel over without erasing it and set up three dots more nearly in line, this time in red. He played through in the same fashion as before. This game, when halted, looked more like a telescope.
He handed the board to Ivo.
Obviously the designs were significant, rather than the games from which they were derived. The shovel on one side, telescope on the other. They were topologically equivalent, Ivo’s talent informed him; one could be distorted into the other without the erasure or crossing of any of the lines. They were, in fact, the same game, played in the same fashion. A three-spot sprout effort brought to one step from conclusion.
Kovonov was trying to tell him something.
Then he had it. The shovel, the scope — the same, linked by the sprouts. By extension, the steam-shovel and the macroscope. He had entered the sprouts tourney—
And won the macroscope!
Senator Borland’s death spelled the end of the project, by whatever line of reasoning one approached it. This was a culmination none of the participating scientists or other personnel desired. There was no internal rivalry in this connection; nationality had been superseded by a higher calling. There appeared to be no way to reverse the ponderous, political, UN decision.
Unless someone took away the macroscope, and thus preserved it from harm. Kovonov had obviously intended to win this privilege — until Ivo had defeated him in the runoff. Now the onus was his own.
It would mean banishment from Earth, of course. Such a colossal theft—
Ivo knew he was going to do it. They were right: the macroscope was far too valuable to abolish, or even to entrust to political whim. The presence of the destroyer, far from arguing against the macroscope, pointed up the extreme necessity of further study. Mankind could not turn isolationist; that was the way of the proboscoids.
The knowledge of the universe (the galaxy, at least) lay within man’s reach, if not his grasp. It was a knowledge man had to have, however shortsighted the local politicians. Ivo had the ability to use the macroscope, since he had demonstrated his ability to survive the destroyer. He did not have to fear ambush and mindlessness in the main band. He also had contact — potential contact — with the person who could make the most of that knowledge: Schön. Perhaps this was the real reason Brad had summoned him. Not to crack the destroyer; to make use of the knowledge behind it, once cracked.
Except that he did not intend to involve Schön. This was something he would undertake by himself — no matter how lonely a task it was. He had won the right. At least he would have the macroscope for company, and would be able to watch the events of Earth. If the political situation changed, he would know it, and could bring home the instrument.
Kovonov was waiting patiently for his chain of thought to finish. Ivo erased the blackboard, both sides, and set it down. He stood up and gravely offered his hand to the Russian. Perhaps, of the two of them, the Russian had the more difficult task, for the UN investigation would not be kind. Heads, figuratively and possibly literally, would roll.
In a gesture as grave as Ivo’s, Kovonov took that hand.
CHAPTER 4
The crew was already at work; Kovonov’s terse instruction had evidently been sufficient. It was amazing how much could be accomplished on an unofficial basis. Nobody had to admit to complicity in the theft, and he was sure the UN would have an impossibly difficult time making a case against anyone staying behind. How would they, for example, prove that the storeroom attendant had knowingly accepted Afra’s doped offering?
On the other hand, that same theft might solve the UN problem. If they intended to close down the macroscope — well, that had already been accomplished for them. There could be a great public hue, but minor private sorrow.
How extravagantly his conjecture fluctuated! One moment he was sure disaster stalked the station personnel; the next, that all was well. But he would not need to conjecture. He could watch the whole show on the macroscope!
The rocket’s snout fitted into a matching cavity in the bottom of the scope’s housing, so that docking was possible without fouling the guy lines. He was sure that depression had not been there before; the crew must have removed the covering plates. Probably it was crowded inside, too, with that metal intruding, but it was a neat travel arrangement.
The assembled package resembled a massive mushroom, with stubby rootlets and a relatively small spherical head. The fifty-foot diameter of the macroscope housing bulged beyond the thirty-three-foot-thick rocket, but was smaller in overall volume. Even so, it hardly seemed large enough to hold the complex equipment necessary — but of course the computers were miniaturized, using laser memory and other remarkable techniques. Presumably the unit would take off at right angles to the doughnut, breaking the ties, then maneuver to head in the right direction.