Finally he remarked, in as mild and noncommittal a voice as he could manage: “That’s a very interesting concept, and though I don’t go along with your faith, it’s a tantalizingly plausible one.” He was not being hypocritical or flattering; stripped of its religious overtones, Rodrigo’s theory was at beast as convincing as half a dozen others he had heard. Suppose some catastrophe was about to befall the human race, and a benevolent higher intelligence knew all about it? That would explain everything, very neatly. However, there were still a few problems…
“A couple of questions, Boris. Rama will be at perihelion in three weeks; then it will round the sun and leave the solar system just as fast as it came in. There’s not much time for a Day of Judgement or for shipping across those who are, er, selected—however that’s going to be done.”
“Very true. So when it reaches perihelion, Rama will have to decelerate and go into a parking orbit—probably one with aphelion at Earth’s orbit. There it might make another velocity change, and rendezvous with Earth.”
This was disturbingly persuasive. If Rama wished to remain in the solar system it was going the right way about it. The most efficient way to slow down was to get as close to the sun as possible, and carry out the braking manoeuvre there. If there was any truth in Rodrigo’s theory—or some variant of it—it would soon be put to the test.
“One other point, Boris. What’s controlling Rama now?”
“There is no doctrine to advise on that. It could be a pure robot. Or it could be—a spirit. That would explain why there are no signs of biological life forms.”
The Haunted Asteroid; why had that phrase popped up from the depths of memory? Then he recalled a silly story he had read years ago; he thought it best not to ask Boris if he had ever run into it. He doubted if the other’s tastes ran to that sort of reading.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Boris,” said Norton, abruptly making up his mind. He wanted to terminate this interview before it got too difficult, and thought he had found a good compromise.
“Can you sum up your ideas in less than—oh, a thousand bits?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well, if you can make it sound like a straightforward scientific theory, I’ll send it, top priority, to the Rama Committee. Then a copy can go to your Church at the same time, and everyone will be happy.”
“Thank you, Commander, I really appreciate it.”
“Oh, I’m not doing this to save my conscience. I’d just like to see what the Committee makes of it. Even if I don’t agree with you all along the line, you may have hit on something important.”
“Well, we’ll know at perihelion, won’t we?”
“Yes. We’ll know at perihelion.”
When Boris Rodrigo had left, Norton called the bridge and gave the necessary authorization. He thought he had solved the problem rather neatly; besides, just suppose that Boris was right.
He might have increased his chances of being among the saved.
21. After the Storm
As they drifted along the now familiar corridor of the Alpha Airlock complex, Norton wondered if they had let impatience overcome caution. They had waited aboard Endeavour for forty-eight hours—two precious days—ready for instant departure if events should justify it. But nothing had happened; the instruments left in Rama had detected no unusual activity. Frustratingly, the television camera on the Hub had been blinded by a fog which had reduced visibility to a few metres and had only now started to retreat.
When they operated the final airlock door, and floated out into the cat’s-cradle of guide-ropes around the Hub, Norton was struck first by the change in the light. It was no longer harshly blue, but was much more mellow and gentle, reminding him of a bright, hazy day on Earth.
He looked outwards along the axis of the world—and could see nothing except a glowing, featureless tunnel of white, reaching all the way to those strange mountains at the South Pole. The interior of Rama was completely blanketed with clouds, and nowhere was a break visible in the overcast. The top of the layer was quite sharply defined; it formed a smaller cylinder inside the larger one of this spinning world, leaving a central core, five or six kilometres wide, quite clear except for a few stray wisps of cirrus.
The immense tube of cloud was bit from underneath by the six artificial suns of Rama. The locations of the three on this Northern continent were clearly defined by diffuse strips of light, but those on the far side of the Cylindrical Sea merged together into a continuous, glowing band.
What is happening down beneath those clouds? Norton asked himself. But at least the storm, which had centrifuged them into such perfect symmetry about the axis of Rama, had now died away. Unless there were some other surprises, it would be safe to descend.
It seemed appropriate, on this return visit, to use the team that had made the first deep penetration into Rama. Sergeant Myron—like every other member of Endeavour’s crew—now fully met Surgeon-Commander Ernst’s physical requirements; he even maintained, with convincing sincerity, that he was never going to wear his old uniforms again.
As Norton watched Mercer, Calvert and Myron “swimming” quickly and confidently down the ladder, he reminded himself how much had changed. That first time they had descended in cold and darkness; now they were going towards light and warmth. And on all earlier visits, they had been confident that Rama was dead. That might yet be true, in a biological sense. But something was stirring; and Boris Rodrigo’s phrase would do as well as any other. The spirit of Rama was awake. When they had reached the platform at the foot of the ladder and were preparing to start down the stairway, Mercer carried out his usual routine test of the atmosphere. There were some things that he never took for granted; even when the people around him were breathing perfectly comfortably, without aids, he had been known to stop for an air check before opening his helmet. When asked to justify such excessive caution, he had answered: “Because human senses aren’t good enough, that’s why. You may think you’re fine, but you could fall flat on your face with the next deep breath.”
He looked at his meter, and said “Damn!”
“What’s the trouble?” asked Calvert.
“It’s broken—reading too high. Odd; I’ve never known that to happen before. I’ll check it on my breathing circuit.”
He plugged the compact little analyser into the test point of his oxygen supply, then stood in thoughtful silence for a while. His companions looked at him with anxious concern; anything that upset Karl was to be taken very seriously indeed.
He unplugged the meter, used it to sample the Rama atmosphere again, then called Hub Control.
“Skipper! Will you take an O2 reading?”
There was a much longer pause than the request justified. Then Norton radioed back: “I think there’s something wrong with my meter.”
A slow smile spread across Mercer’s face.
“It’s up fifty per cent, isn’t it?”
“Yes, what does that mean?”
“It means that we can all take off our masks. Isn’t that convenient?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Norton, echoing the sarcasm in Mercer’s voice. “It seems too good to be true.” There was no need to say any more. Like all spacemen, Commander Norton had a profound suspicion of things that were too good to be true.
Mercer cracked his mask open a trifle, and took a cautious sniff. For the first time at this altitude, the air was perfectly breathable. The musty, dead smell had gone; so had the excessive dryness, which in the past had caused several respiratory complaints. Humidity was now an astonishing eighty per cent; doubtless the thawing of the Sea was responsible for this. There was a muggy feeling in the air, though not an unpleasant one. It was like a summer evening, Mercer told himself, on some tropical coast. The climate inside Rama had improved dramatically during the last few days…