It took many days for the humans to reclaim and fumigate the drive cylinders, and much longer for the fetid smell—a hint of which Nicklin had picked up when he first entered the ship—to be totally eliminated. And, inevitably, the machinery and equipment in the cylinders had suffered during the alien occupation. Some of the damage had been caused by dampness, but anything soft—insulation, seal materials, vibration mounts and the like—had disappeared into a multitude of tiny digestive systems.
Corey Montane had been appalled by visions of the consequent delay and expense; but the machine-lover in Nicklin had commiserated with the ship itself. I’ll make you well again, he had promised it, conceiving an alluring plan to comprehend every scientific and engineering principle, to master every system, to learn every part number, and use the knowledge to restore the patient, uncomplaining entity that was the ship to a state of good health.
It was a grandiose project, one which very few would have undertaken, but it had kept him sane during the heartbreaking year on the road. He had built up a library of manufacturers’ manuals in book, disk and tape form, and had eased the frustration of each new delay in the journey by telephoning orders for components which could be installed on the move. He had been aided in diverse ways by Scott Hepworth, who had imparted relevant knowledge in exchange for gin, and by Gerl Kingsley, who had thrown his muscular power into physically demanding tasks that a man could not accomplish on his own.
Now that the Tara was safely docked on the rim of Portal One the main restoration work was beginning. Nicklin and Hepworth had made a joint decision that every aspect of it could be handled by existing mission personnel, working under their guidance. Montane had been happy to accept that arrangement because it was likely to be the most economical. Moving the ship to Beachhead—an undertaking which had involved building temporary bridges in some places—had cost a fortune, and his financial resources were not unlimited.
The Tara was classed as an exploration vessel, and therefore had not been designed to carry large numbers of passengers, but it had the same major dimensions as all other ships of the 5M general type. The ubiquitous 5M label showed that the Tara’s three cylinders had an external radius of five metres—and therefore would accept a vast range of standardised off-the-shelf components, including diaphragm decks. At present it had only eight such decks—the minimum legal requirement for stiffening the central cylinder—but the plan was to fit many more at a spacing of two metres, thus making twenty-five available for passenger accommodation.
On that basis, it seemed that the maximum complement for the New Eden flight would be in the region of “two hundred souls”, as Montane had put it. Nicklin—for whom it was all a kind of a game, an academic exercise—had suggested that, for straightforward biological considerations, all but a few of the souls should be housed in the bodies of nubile women. Montane had given him the expected lecture on the need to preserve moral standards, making it clear that he wanted to sign up only young married couples with a proven record of church-going.
He had reverted to being secretive about his corporate finances, but Nicklin had picked up enough clues to let him know that the preconditions imposed by Montane were limiting the mission’s revenue. There were quite a few eccentric individuals around who were prepared to hand over large sums to secure places on the much-publicised expedition, but only a small minority of them fully matched Montane’s stringent requirements.
The argument had reminded Nicklin of a basic fact which at times could slip his memory—that Corey Montane was an irrational being. He was not a religious maniac in the usual sense of the term; he was a certifiably insane person whose delusions simply happened to have a religious theme. His Ordinary Joe dress and general demeanour made it possible to forget about the coffin-cum-teatable, about the consultations with the corpse that lay within, about the deeply seated megalomania, about the lunatic goal towards which his entire life was directed.
It was difficult to imagine anything more ludicrous than the latest revelation—that Montane seemed to visualise the first landing on an unknown planet as something akin to an exclusive Youth For Christ adventure holiday, with air-beds and leaflets on how to erect the perimeter fence.
It was easy to ridicule the preacher and his crazy ideas, but crazy ideas sometimes had a way of translating themselves into reality. The massive, ungainly structure beyond the office window was proof of that. As he watched the snow sifting down over the mountainous triple hull, Nicklin experienced a strange, cool moment of unease. It was preposterous, he knew, but was a day going to come—was it really going to come?—when that grimy feature of the landscape would slide down into the portal and, like a seal entering water, be transformed by its new environment into a creature of confidence and surging power? Was it really going to bore through the blackness towards dim and irrelevant points of light? And might people die as a result? He was committed to restoring the Tara to its former magnificence, but purely as a machine—a fascinating toy—and ideally it would then be placed on static display, in a drowsy museum of technology, so that visitors could wonder at the polish and perfection of every component. It was oddly disconcerting to think that the results of his hobbyist enthusiasm and toil might end up in a decaying orbit around some remote planet, or—just as likely—drifting into infinity.
I’ll tell you something for nothing, O Gaseous Vertebrate, he thought. If she ever does head off into the wild black yonder, yours truly will be at home in his favourite armchair, feet up and glass in hand, watching the big event on television…
“When is this man going to get here?” Hepworth demanded, coming to stand at the window.
“You should ask Corey that.” Nicklin glanced sideways, and as always his eyes triangulated of their own accord on the enormous blackhead at the side of Hepworth’s nose.
“I wouldn’t like to interrupt him, just to ask what’s the hold-up with our distinguished visitor.”
“The weather is probably delaying him a little,” Montane said unconcernedly, without looking up from his desk. “Try to be a little more patient.”
“Yes, and try not to fidget as much—you’re like a pair of infants,” added Ropp Voorsanger, Montane’s accountant and legal adviser, from his position at the next desk. Voorsanger was a narrow-headed, narrow-faced man who was about thirty and looked twenty years older. He was also a lay preacher, which probably had something to do with his recruitment to the mission, but he was less tolerant and more severe than Montane in his manner. He had no time at all for either Nicklin or Hepworth.
“I do beg your pardon,” Hepworth said to Voorsanger, his plump features showing indignation, “but there is work waiting for me in the ship. Real work! Not the sort of unproductive crap that you occupy your time with.”
Nicklin suppressed a smile, knowing that the real work Hepworth had in mind was his hourly tot of gin. His original hope that the untidy and verbose physicist would make a good colleague had been realised. In spite of the heavy drinking, Hepworth never became muzzy or unwilling to pull his weight, and Nicklin made a point of backing him in every dispute.
“That’s right, Corey,” he said. “Scott and I have things to do, and-”
“And I’m tired of sending out search parties for you,” Montane cut in. “No, I want the both of you here when Renard arrives. I want you to hear what he has to say, so just try to relax.” He raised his head and looked significantly at Hepworth. “Why don’t you have a cup of tea?”