Collected Stories Of Arthur C. Clarke (145 page)

There was a long moment of silent sympathy; then I asked, ‘What did he get?’

‘Three years,’ said Inspector Rawlings.

‘That doesn’t seem very much.’

‘Mars years; that makes it almost six of ours. And a whacking fine which, by an odd coincidence, came to just the refund value of his return ticket to Earth. He isn’t in jail, of course; Mars can’t afford that kind of nonproductive luxury. Danny has to work for a living, under discreet surveillance. I told you that the Meridian Museum couldn’t afford a night watchman. Well, it has one now. Guess who.’

‘All passengers prepare to board in ten minutes! Please collect your hand baggage!’ ordered the loud-speakers.

As we started to move toward the air lock, I couldn’t help asking one more question.

‘What about the people who put Danny up to it? There must have been a lot of money behind him. Did you get them?’

‘Not yet; they’d covered their tracks pretty thoroughly, and I believe Danny was telling the truth when he said he couldn’t give us any leads. Still, it’s not my case; as I told you, I’m going back to my old job at the Yard. But a policeman always keeps his eyes open – like an art dealer, eh, Mr Maccar? Why, you look a bit green about the gills. Have one of my space-sickness tablets.’

‘No, thank you,’ answered Mr Maccar, ‘I’m quite all right.’

His tone was distinctly unfriendly; the social temperature seemed to have dropped below zero in the last few minutes. I looked at Mr Maccar, and I looked at the Inspector. And suddenly I realised that we were going to have a very interesting trip.

Into the Comet

First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
, October 1960, as ‘Inside the Comet’

Collected in
Tales of Ten Worlds

‘I don’t know why I’m recording this,’ said George Takeo Pickett slowly into the hovering microphone. ‘There’s no chance that anyone will ever hear it. They say the comet will bring us back to the neighbourhood of Earth in about two million years, when it makes its next turn around the sun. I wonder if mankind will still be in existence then, and whether the comet will put on as good a display for our descendants as it did for us? Maybe they’ll launch an expedition, just as we have done, to see what they can find. And they’ll find us …

‘For the ship will still be in perfect condition, even after all those ages. There’ll be fuel in the tanks, maybe even plenty of air, for our food will give out first, and we’ll starve before we suffocate. But I guess we won’t wait for that; it will be quicker to open the air lock and get it all over.

‘When I was a kid, I read a book on polar exploration called
Winter Amid the Ice
. Well, that’s what we’re facing now. There’s ice all around us, floating in great porous bergs.
Challenger
’s in the middle of a cluster, orbiting round one another so slowly that you have to wait several minutes before you’re certain they’ve moved. But no expedition to Earth’s poles ever faced
our
winter. During most of that two million years, the temperature will be four hundred and fifty below zero. We’ll be so far away from the sun that it’ll give about as much heat as the stars. And who ever tried to warm his hands by Sirius on a cold winter night?’

That absurd image, coming suddenly into his mind, broke him up completely. He could not speak because of memories of moonlight upon snowfields, of Christmas chimes ringing across a land already fifty million miles away. Suddenly he was weeping like a child, his self-control dissolved by the remembrance of all the familiar, disregarded beauties of the Earth he had forever lost.

And everything had begun so well, in such a blaze of excitement and adventure. He could recall (was it only six months ago?) the very first time he had gone out to look for the comet, soon after eighteen-year-old Jimmy Randall had found it in his homemade telescope and sent his famous telegram to Mount Stromlo Observatory. In those early days, it had been only a faint polliwog of mist, moving slowly through the constellation of Eridanus, just south of the Equator. It was still far beyond Mars, sweeping sunward along its immensely elongated orbit. When it had last shone in the skies of Earth, there were no men to see it, and there might be none when it appeared again. The human race was seeing Randall’s comet for the first and perhaps the only time.

As it approached the sun, it grew, blasting out plumes and jets, the smallest of which was larger than a hundred Earths. Like a great pennant streaming down some cosmic breeze, the comet’s tail was already forty million miles long when it raced past the orbit of Mars. It was then that the astronomers realised that this might be the most spectacular sight ever to appear in the heavens; the display put on by Halley’s comet, back in 1986, would be nothing in comparison. And it was then that the administrators of the International Astrophysical Decade decided to send the research ship
Challenger
chasing after it, if she could be fitted out in time; for here was a chance that might not come again in a thousand years.

For weeks on end, in the hours before dawn, the comet sprawled across the sky like a second but far brighter Milky Way. As it approached the sun, and felt again the fires it had not known since the mammoths shook the Earth, it became steadily more active. Gouts of luminous gas erupted from its core, forming great fans which turned like slowly swinging searchlights across the stars. The tail, now a hundred million miles long, divided into intricate bands and streamers which changed their patterns completely in the course of a single night. Always they pointed away from the sun, as if driven starward by a great wind blowing forever outward from the heart of the solar system.

When the
Challenger
assignment had been give to him, George Pickett could hardly believe his luck. Nothing like this had happened to any reporter since William Laurence and the atom bomb. The facts that he had a science degree, was unmarried, in good health, weighed less than one hundred and twenty pounds, and had no appendix undoubtedly helped. But there must have been many others equally qualified; well, their envy would soon turn to relief.

Because the skimpy pay load of
Challenger
could not accommodate a mere reporter, Pickett had had to double up in his spare time as executive officer. This meant, in practice, that he had to write up the log, act as captain’s secretary, keep track of stores, and balance the accounts. It was very fortunate, he often thought, that one needed only three hours’ sleep in every twenty-four, in the weightless world of space.

Keeping his two duties separate had required a great deal of tact. When he was not writing in his closet-sized office, or checking the thousands of items stacked away in stores, he would go on the prowl with his recorder. He had been careful, at one time or another, to interview every one of the twenty scientists and engineers who manned
Challenger
. Not all the recordings had been radioed back to Earth; some had been too technical, some too inarticulate, and others too much the reverse. But at least he had played no favourites and, as far as he knew, had trodden on no toes. Not that it mattered now.

He wondered how Dr Martens was taking it; the astronomer had been one of his most difficult subjects, yet the one who could give most information. On a sudden impulse, Pickett located the earliest of the Martens tapes, and inserted it in the recorder. He knew that he was trying to escape from the present by retreating into the past, but the only effect of that self-knowledge was to make him hope the experiment would succeed.

He still had vivid memories of that first interview, for the weightless microphone, wavering only slightly in the draft of air from the ventilators, had almost hypnotised him into incoherence. Yet no one would have guessed: his voice had its normal, professional smoothness.

They had been twenty million miles behind the comet, but swiftly overtaking it, when he had trapped Martens in the observatory and thrown the opening question at him.

‘Dr Martens,’ he began, ‘just what
is
Randall’s comet made of?’

‘Quite a mixture,’ the astronomer had answered, ‘and it’s changing all the time as we move away from the sun. But the tail’s mostly ammonia, methane, carbon dioxide, water vapour, cyanogen—’

‘Cyanogen? Isn’t that a poison gas? What would happen if the Earth ran into it?’

‘Not a thing. Though it looks so spectacular, by our normal standards a comet’s tail is a pretty good vacuum. A volume as big as Earth contains about as much gas as a matchbox full of air.’

‘And yet this thin stuff puts on such a wonderful display!’

‘So does the equally thin gas in an electric sign, and for the same reason. A comet’s tail glows because the sun bombards it with electrically charged particles. It’s a cosmic skysign; one day, I’m afraid, the advertising people will wake up to this, and find a way of writing slogans across the solar system.’

‘That’s a depressing thought – though I suppose someone will claim it’s a triumph of applied science. But let’s leave the tail; how soon will we get into the heart of the comet – the nucleus, I believe you call it?’

‘Since a stern chase always takes a long time, it will be another two weeks before we enter the nucleus. We’ll be ploughing deeper and deeper into the tail, taking a cross section through the comet as we catch up with it. But though the nucleus is still twenty million miles ahead, we’ve already learned a good deal about it. For one thing, it’s extremely small – less than fifty miles across. And even that’s not solid, but probably consists of thousands of smaller bodies, all milling round in a cloud.’

‘Will we be able to go into the nucleus?’

‘We’ll know when we get there. Maybe we’ll play safe and study it through our telescopes from a few thousand miles away. But personally, I’ll be disappointed unless we go right inside. Won’t you?’

Picket switched off the recorder. Yes, Martens had been right. He
would
have been disappointed, especially since there had seemed no possible source of danger. Nor was there, as far as the comet was concerned. The danger had come from within.

They had sailed through one after another of the huge but unimaginably tenuous curtains of gas that Randall’s comet was still ejecting as it raced away from the sun. Yet even now, though they were approaching the densest regions of the nucleus, they were for all practical purposes in a perfect vacuum. The luminous fog that stretched around
Challenger
for so many millions of miles scarcely dimmed the stars; but directly ahead, where lay the comet’s core, was a brilliant patch of hazy light, luring them onward like a will-o’-the-wisp.

The electrical disturbances now taking place around them with ever-increasing violence had almost completely cut their link with Earth. The ship’s main radio transmitter could just get a signal through, but for the last few days they had been reduced to sending ‘OK’ messages in Morse. When they broke away from the comet and headed for home, normal communication would be resumed; but now they were almost as isolated as explorers had been in the days before radio. It was inconvenient, but that was all. Indeed, Pickett rather welcomed this state of affairs; it gave him more time to get on with his clerical duties. Though
Challenger
was sailing into the heart of a comet, on a course that no captain could have dreamed of before the twentieth century, someone still had to check the provisions and count the stores.

Very slowly and cautiously, her radar probing the whole sphere of space around her,
Challenger
crept into the nucleus of the comet. And there she came to rest – amid the ice.

Back in the nineteen-forties, Fred Whipple, of Harvard, had guessed the truth, but it was hard to believe it even when the evidence was before one’s eyes. The comet’s relatively tiny core was a loose cluster of icebergs, drifting and turning round one another as they moved along their orbit. But unlike the bergs that floated in polar seas, they were not a dazzling white, nor were they made of water. They were a dirty grey, and very porous, like partly thawed snow. And they were riddled with pockets of methane and frozen ammonia, which erupted from time to time in gigantic gas jets as they absorbed the heat of the sun. It was a wonderful display, but Pickett had little time to admire it. Now he had far too much.

He had been doing his routine check of the ship’s stores when he came face to face with disaster – though it was some time before he realised it. For the supply situation had been perfectly satisfactory; they had ample stocks for the return to Earth. He had checked that with his own eyes, and now had merely to confirm the balances recorded in the pinhead-sized section of the ship’s electronic memory which stored all the accounts.

When the first crazy figures flashed on the screen, Pickett assumed that he had pressed the wrong key. He cleared the totals, and fed the information into the computer once more.

Sixty cases of pressed meat to start with; 17 consumed so far; quantity left: 99999943.

He tried again, and again, with no better result. Then, feeling annoyed but not particularly alarmed, he went in search of Dr Martens.