"And there is the proof," Nissim said happily. "Transmitter, perfect. Receiver, perfect — we can count on that. But no signal getting through. Therefore my spatial-distortion factor must be present. Once we correct for that, contact will be reestablished."
"Soon, I hope," Aldo said, slightly depressed, looking up at the curved walls of their cell. "Because until the correction is made we are staying right here, sealed into the heart of this king-sized ball bearing. And even if there were an exit we have no place to go, stuck here at the bottom of an ammonia sea under twenty thousand miles of lethal atmosphere."
"Relax. Have a drink while I work out the first corrections. Once the theory is correct the engineering is just a matter of hardware."
"Yeah," Aldo said, leaning back and closing his eyes.
Stan was still exhausted when he woke up; sleep under this heavy gravity was less than satisfactory. He yawned and shifted position, but stretching proved more debilitating than satisfying. When he turned to the others he saw Nissim working concentratedly with his computer while Aldo held a blood-stained handkerchief to his nose.
"Gravity bleeding?" Stan asked. "I better paint it with some adrenalin."
"Not gravity." Aldo's voice was muffled by the cloth. "That bastard hit me."
"Right on that big beak," Nissim said, not looking up from his computer. "It was too good a target to miss.
"What seems to be the trouble?" Stan asked, glancing quickly from one to the other. "Isn't the MT working?"
"No it's not," Aldo said warmly. "And our friend here blames me for that and—"
"The theory is correct, the mechanics of application are wrong."
" — when I suggested that there might be an error or two in his equations he swung on me in a fit of infantile anger."
Stan moved in quickly to stop the developing squabble, his drill field voice drowning out the others.
"Hold on now. Don't both talk at once because I can't understand a thing. Won't someone please put me into the picture and let me know exactly what's happening?"
"Of course," Nissim said, then waited impatiently until Aldo's complaints had died down. "How much do you know about MT theory?"
"The answer is simple — nothing. I'm a torch jockey and I stick to my trade. Someone builds them, someone fixes them, I fly them. Would you kindly simplify?"
"I'll attempt to." Nissim pursed his lips in thought. "The first thing you must realize is that an MT does not scan and transmit like, say, a television transmitter does. No signal, as we commonly think of signals, is sent. What is done is that the plane of the screen of the transmitter is placed into a state of matter that is not a part of space as we normally know it. The receiving screen is placed in the same condition and tuning is accomplished once they are locked onto the same frequency. In a sense they became part of one another and the distance of the intervening space does not matter. If you step into one you will step out of the other without any awareness of either time or spatial separation. I am explaining very badly."
"You're doing fine, Nissim. What comes next?"
"The fact that spatial distance between transmitter and receiver does not matter, but the condition of that space does
"You're beginning to lose me."
"I'll give you a not unrelated example. Light rays travel in a straight line through space, unless interfered with in some physical manner — refraction, reflection, so forth. But — these rays can also be bent when they pass through an intense gravitational field such as that of the sun. We have noticed the same kind of effect in MT, and corrections are always made for the bulk of the Earth or other planetary bodies. Another condition affecting space appears deep in the frigid soup this planet calls an atmosphere. The incredible pressures affect the very binding energy of the atoms and stresses, are produced. These interfere with the MT relationships. Before we can move an object from one MT screen to another down here we must make allowances and corrections for these new interferences. I have worked out the corrections, we must now apply them."
"Very simple the way he explains it," Aldo said distastefully, dabbing at his nose and examining the results on his handkerchief. "But it doesn't work out that way in practice. No signals are getting through. And our friend will not agree with me that we'll have to step up the strength of our output if we're ever going to punch through all that pressurized gunk out there."
"It's quality not quantity," Nissim shouted, and Stan stepped in once again.
"By that do you mean that we're going to have to unlimber the MT monster down under the floor?"
"I damned well do. That's why it was built in in the first place, with adjustable components rather than sealed block units."
"It will take us a month to move everything and we'll probably kill ourselves trying," Nissim shouted.
"Not that long, I hope," Stan said, sitting up and trying not to groan with the effort. "And the exercise will be good for our muscles."
It took them almost four days to clear away and get up the flooring, and they were over the edge of exhaustion before they had finished. Mechanical preparations had been made with this eventuality in mind; there were ringbolts to suspend the equipment from, and power hoists to lift it, but a certain amount of physical effort was still needed. In the end almost the entire floor area had been cleared and raised, leaving a ledge around the wall, on which their test equipment and couches alone remained. The rest of the floor consisted of MT screen. From the hard comfort of their couches they looked at it.
"A monster," Stan said. "You could drop a landing barge through it."
"It has more than size," Aldo told him, gasping for air. He could hear the hammer of blood in his ears and was sure that his heart had suffered from the strain. "All the circuitry is beefed up, with spare circuits and a hundred times the power-handing capacity it would need anywhere else."
"How do you dig into its guts for adjustments? I can't see anything except the screen?"
"That's deliberate." He pointed into the threaded hole in the armor, from which they had unscrewed a foot-thick plug. "Our operating controls are in there. Before we leave we put the plug back and it seals itself into place. To make adjustments we have to lift up sections of the screen."
"Am I being dense or is it the gravity? I don't understand."
Aldo was patient. "This MT screen is the whole reason for this expedition. Getting the MT to work down here is vital to us — but only secondary to the original research. When we get out the technicians will come through and replace all the circuitry with solid state, block sealed units — then evacuate. The upper section of the interior of the hull will be progressively weakened by automatic drills. This screen will be tuned to another MT in space above the ecliptic. Eventually the weakened Ball will collapse, implode, push right down on top of the screen. The screen will not be harmed because it will transmit all the debris through into space. Then the phasing will be adjusted slowly until transmission stops. At which point we will have access to the bottom of Saturn's sea. The cryogenicists and high-pressure boys are looking forward to that."
Stan nodded but Nissim was looking up at the cluttered dome above, almost open-mouthed, thinking of that imploding mass of metal, the pressure of the poison sea behind it.
"Let's get started," he said quickly, struggling to rise. "Get the screens up and the changes made. It's time we are getting back."
The other men helped with the labor of lifting the screen segments, but only Aldo could make the needed adjustments. He worked intensely, cursing feebly, on the units that the remote handler placed before him. When he was too tired he stopped and closed his eyes so he would not see Nissim's worried glances to him, up at the dome above, and back to him again. Stan served them food and doled out the G drugs and stimulants with a cheerful air. He talked about the varied experiences of space flight, which monologue he enjoyed even if they did not.