Such natural cataclysms, however, were completely beyond my power to ordain or even predict.
I considered radioactivity. If by some pretext I could expose myself to a sufficient number of roentgens ...
I sat back in my chair, suddenly excited. In the early days atomic wastes were sometimes buried, sometimes blended with concrete and dropped into the ocean. If only I were able to-but no. Dr. Jones would hardly allow me to dig in the desert or dive in the ocean, even if the radioactivity were not yet vitiated.
Some other disaster must be found in which I could serve the role of a casualty. If, for instance, I had foreknowledge of some great meteor, and where it would strike...
The idea awoke an almost forgotten association. I sat up in my chair. Then, conscious that knowledgeable minds speculated upon my every expression, I once again slumped forlornly.
Behind the passive mask of my face, my mind was racing, recalling ancient events. The time was too far past, the circumstances obscured. But details could be found in my great History of Man,
I must by all means avoid suspicion. I yawned, feigned acute ennui. Then with an air of surly petulance, I secured the box of numbered rods which was my index. I dropped one of them into the viewer, focused on the molecule-wide items of information.
Someone might be observing me. I rambled here and there, consulting articles and essays totally unrelated to my idea: The Origin and Greatest Development of the Dithyramb; The Kalmuk Tyrants; New Camelot, 18119 A.D.; Oestheotics; The Caves of Phrygia; The Exploration of Mars; The Launching of the Satellites. I undertook no more than a glance at this last; it would not be wise to show any more than a flicker of interest. But what I read corroborated the inkling which had tickled the back of my mind.
The date was during the twentieth century, during what would have been my normal lifetime.
The article read in part:
Today HESPERUS, last of the unmanned satellites was launched into orbit around Earth. This great machine will swing above the equator at a height of a thousand miles, -where atmospheric resistance is so scant as to be negligible. Not quite negligible, of course; it is estimated that in something less than a hundred thousand years HESPERUS will lose enough momentum to return to Earth.
Let us hope that no citizen of that future age suffers injury when HESPERUS falls.
I grunted and muttered. A fatuous sentiment! Let us hope that one person, at the very least, suffers injury. Injury enough to erase him from life!
I continued to glance through the monumental work which had occupied so much of my time. I listened to aquaclave music from the old Poly-Pacific Empire; read a few pages from the Revolt of the Manitobans. Then, yawning and simulating hunger, I called for my evening meal.
Tomorrow I must locate more exact information, and brush up on orbital mathematics.
The Hesperus will drop into the Pacific Ocean at Latitude 0° (X 0.0" ± 0.1", Longitude 141° 12" 63.9" ± 0.2", at 2 hours 22 minutes 18 seconds after standard noon on January 13 of next year. It will strike with a velocity of approximately one thousand miles an hour, and I hope to be on hand to absorb a certain percentage of its inertia.
I have been occupied seven months establishing these figures. Considering the necessary precautions, the dissimulation, the delicacy of the calculations, seven months is a short time to accomplish as much as I have. I see no reason why my calculations should not be accurate. The basic data were recorded to the necessary refinement and there have been no variables or fluctuations to cause error.
I have considered light pressure, hysteresis, meteoric dust; I have reckoned the calendar reforms which have occurred over the years; I have allowed for any possible Einsteinian, Gambade, or Bolbinski perturbation. What is there left to disturb the Hesperus! Its orbit lies in the equatorial plane, south of spaceship channels; to all intents and purposes it has been forgotten.
The last mention of the Hesperus occurs about eleven thousand years after it was launched. I find a note to the effect that its orbital position and velocity were in exact accordance with theoretical values. I believe I can be certain that the Hesperus will fall on schedule.
The most cheerful aspect to the entire affair is that no one is aware of the impending disaster but myself.
The date is January 9. To every side long blue swells are rolling, rippled with cat's-paws. Above are blue skies and dazzling white clouds. The yacht slides quietly southwest in the general direction of the Marquesas Islands.
Dr. Jones had no enthusiasm for this cruise. At first he tried to dissuade me from what he considered a whim but I insisted, reminding him that I was theoretically a free man and he made no further difficulty.
The yacht is graceful, swift, and seems as fragile as a moth. But when we cut through the long swells there is no shudder or vibration-only a gentle elastic heave. If I had hoped to lose myself overboard, I would have suffered disappointment. I am shepherded as carefully as in my own house. But for the first time in many years I am relaxed and happy. Dr. Jones notices and approves.
The weather is beautiful-the water so blue, the sun so bright, the air so fresh that I almost feel a qualm at leaving this life. Still, now is my chance and I must seize it. I regret that Dr. Jones and the crew must die with me. Still-what do they lose? Very little. A few short years. This is the risk they assume when they guard me. If I could allow them survival I would do so-but there is no such possibility.
I have requested and have been granted nominal command of the yacht. That is to say, I plot the course, I set the speed. Dr. Jones looks on with indulgent amusement, pleased that I interest myself in matters outside myself.
January 12. Tomorrow is my last day of life. We passed through a series of rain squalls this morning, but the horizon ahead is clear. I expect good weather tomorrow.
I have throttled down to Dead-Slow, as we are only a few hundred miles from our destination.
January 13. I am tense, active, charged with vitality an awareness. Every part of me tingles. On this day of my death it is good to be alive. And why? Because of anticipation eagerness, hope.
I am trying to mask my euphoria. Dr. Jones is extreme! sensitive; I would not care to start his mind working at this late date.
The time is noon. I keep my appointment with Hesperus in two hours and twenty-two minutes. The yacht is coasting easily over the water. Our position, as recorded by a pin-point of light on the chart, is only a few miles from our final position, At this present rate we will arrive in about two hours and fifteen minutes. Then I will halt the yacht and wait...
The yacht is motionless on the ocean. Our position is exactly at Latitude 0° (X 0.0", Longitude 141° 12" 63.9". The degree of error represents no more than a yard or two. This graceful yacht with the unpronounceable name sits directly on the bull's eye. There is only five minutes to wait
Dr. Jones comes into the cabin. He inspects me curiously. "You seem very keyed up, Henry Revere."
"Yes, I feel keyed up, stimulated. This cruise is affording me much pleasure."
"Excellent!" He walks to the chart, glances at it. "Why are we halted?"
"I took it into my mind to drift quietly. Are you impatient?"
Time passes-minutes, seconds. I watch the chronometer. Dr. Jones follows my glance. He frowns in sudden recollection, goes to the telescreen. "Excuse me; something I would like to watch. You might be interested."
The screen depicts an arid waste. "The Kalahari Desert, Dr. Jones tells me. "Watch."
I glance at the chronometer. Ten seconds-they tick off.
Five-four-three-two-one. A great whistling sound, a
roar, a crash, an explosion! It comes from the telescreen. The yacht rides on a calm sea.