In the Ocean of Night (6 page)
“They’re sure?” Len said.
“As certain as they can be,” Dave said, and something veiled in his voice brought Nigel back out of his contemplation.
“Cut off Houston for a minute, Len,” he said.
“Sure. There. What is it?”
“How do we know David isn’t lying?”
“Oh…I guess we don’t.”
“It seems a little funny. A big rock skipping on the top of the atmosphere—one of the astrophysicists mentioned it in a briefing, but he said for a mass as large as Icarus it couldn’t happen.”
“What about for a tenth of that mass?”
“I don’t know. And—damn it!—it’s crucial.”
“An ocean strike…If that happens, billions of people…”
“Right.”
“You know…I don’t think I want to…”
“I don’t either.” Nigel paused. And something flitted across his mind.
“Wait a second,” he said. “Something odd here. This rock is hollow, that makes it lighter.”
“Sure. Less mass.”
“But that will make it easier to fragment, too. The chances of having a big chunk of rock left around after we set off the Egg is less, too.”
“I guess so.”
“But why didn’t Dave mention that? It makes the odds
better.
”
A silence.
“He’s lying.”
“Damn right he is.” Saying the words made Nigel sure of it.
“So our chances are good.”
“Better than Dave says, anyway. They must be.”
“
If
the Egg goes off at all. We’ve hauled it all this way, maybe it’s crapped out by now. They told us there would be a seven percent probability of that even before we left, remember? The thing might not work at all, Nigel.”
“I’ll bet it’s going to, though.”
“How much?”
“What?”
“How much will you bet? The lives of the rest of the human race?”
“If I have to.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No. The odds are good. Dave is lying to us.”
“Why would he do that?”
Nigel frowned. Len’s doubts were beginning to reinforce his own. How sure
was
he? But he shook off the mood and said, “They don’t want any
risk,
Len. They want two heroes and a lot of lives saved and no worries. They want to just keep it simple.”
“And you’re after—”
“I want to know what this thing is. Who built it. How they propelled it, where they came from—”
“That’s a lot to expect of a bunch of artifacts.” “Maybe not. I saw some panels and consoles in there, I think. Could be the computerized records they used are still around.”
“If they used computers at all.”
“They must’ve. If we could get to some of the storage units—”
“You really think we could?”
Nigel shrugged. “Yes, I think so. I don’t
know
—nobody does. But if we can find out something new here, Len, it could pay off. New technology could get us out of the mess the world is in.”
“Like what?”
“A new power source. Maybe something with higher efficiency. That would be worth the chance.”
“Maybe.”
“Well …” Nigel felt his energy begin to drain away. “If you’re not with me, Len…”
There came a silence.
Ping
went the capsule, stretching with the sun’s uneven heating. A metallic voice, asking
tick ping
its own questions. Could he really do it? No, absurd. Pointless. For what, after all? Why this comical risk? (Why leave England? Why go into space?
Ping.
) His parents had wondered that, he knew, though they’d never said it. Worried, even as they nudged him onward, where it would lead. And what
was
he going to look for in there? New wine, in this rocky old bottle? Or had humanity had enough wine already, thanks, hand held flat over the mouth of the glass, no. No, absurd. He was being impolite. All this stuff he’d done, all the work, really, you see, what was the point? Very well to search, but who pays the bill? Did he know—here his hands clenched, whitening—did he know what he was looking for? Step aside for a moment. Look at this matter. Was it rational? No. Absurd. No. He couldn’t. He spun from
tick
the voice but could not escape it. No.
Ping.
He spun… spun…
Nigel wet his lips and waited. The sun lay hot on the rock rim above. Its light reflected in the cabin and deepened the lines of strain in his face. He found he was holding his breath.
Then: “Nigel… look… don’t put me on the spot like this.”
Nigel sealed his suit again, automatically. He reached up and popped the hatch cover.
“I… I’ve got to go with Dave, buddy. This thing is too big for me to—”
“Okay,” Nigel said abruptly. “Okay, okay.”
“Look, I don’t want you to feel—”
“Yeah.” He reached up and pulled himself through the hatch, into the full glare. Looking up, his inner ear played a trick and he suddenly felt as though he was falling down a narrow canyon and into the sun, drawn by it. Automatically he clung to the hatch and twisted himself out, letting his equilibrium return with the sense of motion. He felt curiously calm.
“Nigel?”
He said nothing. Halfway along the module’s length was a flat brown box the size of a typewriter. He went for it hand over hand, legs free, his breath sounding abnormally loud. The clamps around the box opened easily and with one hand he swung it to his side and clipped it to his utility belt.
“Nigel? Dave wants to know—”
“I’m here. Wait a second.”
He found the extra food and air units to the aft of the module—emergency supplies, easily portable. He felt clumsy with all of them clinging to his waist, but if he moved carefully he should be able to carry them some distance without tiring. Sluggishly he made his way to the brownish-black rock below.
“Nigel?”
He checked his suit. Everything seemed all right. His shoulder itched around his suit yoke and he moved, trying to scratch.
The irony was inescapable: the blowout of gases through the vent made the cometary tail flare out from this ancient vessel, causing him and Len to come here and discover it—but that same eruption deflected Icarus enough to strike the Earth, and made necessary its destruction. Fate is a double-edged blade.
“Nigel?”
He started toward the vent and then stopped. Might as well finish it.
“Listen, Len—and be sure Dave hears this, too. I’ve got the arming circuits and the trigger. You can’t set off the Egg without them. I’m taking them into the vent with me.”
“Hey! Look—” Behind Len’s voice was a faint chorus of cries from Houston. Nigel went on.
“I’m going to hide them somewhere inside. Even if you follow me in, you won’t be able to find them.”
“Jesus! Nigel, you don’t under—”
“Shut up. I’m doing this for time, Len. Houston had better send us more air and supplies, because I’m going to use the full week of margin I think we’ve got. One week—to look for something worth saving out of this derelict. Maybe those computer banks, if there are any.”
“No, no, listen,” Len said, a thin edge of desperation in his voice. “You’re not just gambling with those Indians, man. Or even with everybody who lives near the seacoasts, if you even care about that. If the Egg doesn’t work and Houston can’t reach that rock with the unmanned warheads, and it hits the water—”
“Right.”
“There’ll be storms.”
“Right.”
“Enough to keep a shuttle from coming up to get us back into Earth orbit.”
“I don’t think they’d want to bother, anyway,” Nigel said wryly. “We won’t be too popular.”
“
You
won’t.”
“The search will be twice as effective if you come down here and help, Len.” Nigel smiled to himself. “You can gain us some time that way.”
“You son of a bitch!”
He began moving toward the vent again. “Better hurry up, Len. I won’t stick around out here for long to guide you in.”
“Shit! You used to be a nice guy, Nigel. Why are you acting like such a bastard now?”
“I never had a chance to be a bastard for something I believed in before,” he said, and kept moving.
2034
H
e awoke, basking in the orange glow of sun on his eyelids. A yellow shaft of light streamed through the acacias outside the window and warmed his shoulder and face. Nigel stretched, warm and lazy and catlike. Though it was early, already the heavy, scented heat of the Pasadena spring filled the bedroom. He rolled over and looked appreciatively at Alexandria, who was seriously studying herself in the mirror.
“Vanity,” he said, voice blurred from sleep. “Insurance.”
“Why can’t you simply be a scruff, like me?” “Business,” she said distantly, smearing something under her eyes. “I’m going to be far too busy today to pay attention to my appearance.”
“And you must be spiffy to face the public.” “Ummm. I think I’ll pin up my hair. It’s a mess, but I don’t have time to…”
“Why not? It’s early yet.”
“I want to get into the office and thrash through some paperwork before those representatives from Brazil arrive. And I have to leave work early—have an appointment with Dr. Hufman.”
“Again?”
“He’s got those tests back.”
“What’s the upshot?”
“That’s what I’m to find out.”
Nigel squinted at her groggily, trying to read her mood.
“I don’t think it’s really important,” she volunteered. The bed sloshed as he rolled out and teetered on one foot, an arm extended upward in a theatrical gesture.
“Jack be nimble,” Alexandria said, smiling and brushing her hair about experimentally.
“You didn’t say that last night.”
“When you fell out of bed?”
“When
we
fell out of bed.”
“The party on top is in charge of navigation. Code of the sea.”
“My mind must have been elsewhere. Silly of me.” “Um. Where’s breakfast?”
Naked, he padded across the planking. The yielding, creaking feel of oiled and varnished wood was one of the charms of this old trisected house, and worth the cost of leasing. He went into the bathroom, lifted the ivory toilet seat and peed for a long moment; first pleasure of the day. Finished, he lowered the seat and its magenta cover but did not push the handle. At thirty-five cents a flush, he and Alexandria had decided to let things go until absolutely necessary. As an economy measure the savings weren’t necessary for them, but the waste of not doing so seemed inelegant.
He slipped on his sandals where he’d stepped out of them the night before and walked through the archway of thick oak beams, into the kitchen. The tiled room held the night chill long after the remainder of the house had surrendered to day. The slapping of his sandals echoed back at him; he flipped on the audio channels and dialed first music, then—finding nothing he liked, this early—the news spots.
He grated out some sharp cheddar cheese while a calm, undisturbed voice told him that another large strike was brewing, threatening to cut off shipping again. He rapped open six eggs, thought a moment and then added two more, and rummaged through the refrigerator for the creamy, small curd cottage cheese he’d bought the day before. The President, he heard, had made a “tough, hard-hitting” speech against secret corporate gestation-underglass programs; the newscaster made no mention of similar government projects. Two of the recent hermaphrodites had married, proclaiming the first human relationship free of stereotypes. Nigel sighed and dumped the lot into the blender. He added some watery brown sauce he’d made up in batches for just this purpose and sprinkled in marjoram, salt and pepper. The blender purred it all into a smooth soup. He fetched tomato sauce while the audio went on about a new industrial coalition which had linked up with an equally massive crowd of labor unions, to back a bill granting extraordinary protectionist import taxes on goods from Brazil, Australia and China. For variety and in the name of pure blind experiment he added coriander to the mix, poured it into a souffle dish and started it baking. The oven popped with industrious heat.
Alexandria was showering as he dressed. He put the bedroom in order; last night, tumbling toward the bed, they’d scattered oddments of underclothing like debris from some domestic collision. He rolled up his flared shirt cuffs in anticipation of the day’s warmth and Alexandria emerged from the vapor shower, her expressive bottom jiggling beneath a sheen of moisture.
She slipped the shower cap from around her knotted hair and said, “Read me my horoscope, will you? It’s on the end table, there.”
Nigel grimaced. “I prefer entrails, myself. Shall I nip out for a small goat, put him to the knife and give you a prognosis for the day?”
“Read.”
“Much more satisfying, I should think. Gutsy—” “Read.”
“Gemini, April twentieth to May twentieth.” He paused. “Let’s see, ‘You are quick, intelligent and well organized. Try to use these to advantage today. Unfortunately, people will probably tend to think you are overly aggressive. Try not to flaunt your power, and resist the impulse to hurt small animals—this is a bad character trait. Avoid orange juice pits and dwarfs today.’ Sound advice, I’d say.”
