Prisoners of Tomorrow (52 page)

The agricultural sector looked presentable again after the heroic efforts that had gone into saving its face—not to mention those of the Soviet leaders—and terraces of grain, fruit, and vegetables, and pastures with reasonably contented-looking cows lined the route beneath the inverted blue-yellow skybowl all the way past Agricultural Station 3 to Novyi Kazan. Here, they exited from the throughway by the reservoir, where a couple of boats were out sailing, and ascended the ramp to the gate in front of the surface buildings of Zamork. They passed through the checkpoint into the outer yard, where they disembarked from the van and entered the Administration Building.

A few minutes later, Paula came out on her own through the rear guardpost into the surface-level compound. In talking the situation over, she had agreed with Olga and Protbornov that the best chance of succeeding with Earnshaw lay in sustaining an appearance of everything’s being normal, which meant he couldn’t be allowed to know that the Russians were involved. Obviously the days of the elaborate clandestine operation that had run from B-3 were now over. But before they intervened to close it down, the authorities would permit it to serve this one final purpose.

Istamel was reading on his bunk in Hut 8 when Paula arrived. Seeing from her face that something urgent was afoot, he got up and went over to the cassette player. For some time now the occupants of Hut 8 and the regular visitors to it had been recording assorted conversation, usually arranged to be as boring as possible, between different individuals for occasions like these. Istamel selected one that featured just the two of them talking interminably about medieval Turkish poetry, dropped it into the player, and connected the output into the microphone circuit. That way the conversation would correlate with who had been seen entering the hut, if it happened to be under observation.

Paula had decided during the drive from Turgenev that there wasn’t time to go through the whole thing again to let Istamel know what had happened. Besides, the whole ploy was to tell Earnshaw only that Olga had sent a message alerting the West to receive the laser signal, and to make him believe everything beyond that was normal. Istamel would play his part better if that was as much as he knew, too—and he could find out when she told Earnshaw. “I have to go down to the Crypt immediately,” she said. “Do you know if Lew is there?”

“He should be. I was there earlier and left him with Razz and Albrecht. They seemed busy. Where’s Olga? I thought you’d both be back together.”

“A lot has happened. Look, it’s too much to explain now. Come back down and hear it with the others.”

Istamel nodded and asked no more. They went through to the shower and opened the hatch in the cubicle floor. Istamel went down first, and Paula followed, closing the hatch over them. They came out of the roof where the ladder ended, threaded their way through the machinery compartment, and crossed the girder bridge to the outside of the elevator shaft. Paula had been over this route many times now, and the traverse across the shaft to the recess on the far side no long troubled her. On the next two crossings after her first introduction by Peter Sargent, she had balanced with the help of a handrope that was stowed nearby to be temporarily strung across if needed, but now she could manage without. Istamel still used the rope, which inwardly gave her a certain satisfaction. They completed the descent, left the shaft through the maintenance hatch at the lower level, and made their way between the lines of tanks toward the Crypt, taking care not to trigger Rashazzi’s alarm system on the way. As they came within sight of the Crypt’s lights, they caught the sound of raised voices arguing excitedly. That in itself was unusual. Paula pursed her mouth determinedly and steeled herself for the coming confrontation.

Earnshaw was with Rashazzi and Haber, as Istamel had said. In addition, Koh had appeared. They were standing around the large table, which was strewn with pieces of paper, and they continued gesticulating and making sketches even while Paula and Istamel were climbing down into the workspace, as if unaware of their approach. Then Earnshaw turned his head to acknowledge their presence, and the others fell silent.

It wasn’t a time for observing niceties. Paula drew up facing the group and moved her arm in a brief gesture that took in the whole of the workshop and its contents. “All of this can wait for a while,” she told them. “I’ve just come from Turgenev. Olga is there, sending off a message. It’s an important message. A lot of things have been happening that you don’t know about down here.” Haber motioned to one of the sheets of paper that he and the others had been talking over and started to say something, but Paula cut him off with a wave of her hand. “We received a message from Tycoon this morning which said, in effect, that the West believes the Soviets are about to launch a first strike. I mean, they’re not fooling. This is
it!”

Istamel was staring at her incredulously. “But you never mentioned anything about this . . .”

“There wasn’t time up there. I’m mentioning it now.”

“But what did it say? Why should they think the Russians would attack now, with all their leaders here? It doesn’t—”

“That’s the whole point,” Paula said. “They don’t believe the Russian leaders are here. They’re suspicious that the TV broadcasts going out might be recordings—in other words, a deception concocted to cover a strike. Anyhow, Olga and I have already sent a signal back confirming that the leaders are up here. That was as much as we could do right away. But we don’t think it’s enough. What we want you to—”

“Shut up.” Earnshaw’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried such an unexpected whiplike snap that Paula did shut up. He acknowledged with a nod. “Now, run that by me again.” Paula was too taken aback to reply. He said it for her. “Our side has reasons for thinking the Soviets might be about to strike if their leaders aren’t really up in
Tereshkova
—is that right? But you know it’s all a mistake, because the leaders really are here. And that’s what you’ve told Tycoon.”

Paula nodded and returned a puzzled look. When he didn’t respond immediately, she collected herself together again and got back into stride. “We did what we could, but the signal only had my validation code. I’m not sure that would carry enough weight in Washington. To really convince them . . .” Her voice trailed away as she saw that Earnshaw and the two scientists were not listening, but exchanging ominous looks among themselves. Koh had backed inconspicuously into the shadows, but Paula’s confusion just at that moment was such that she didn’t notice.

“It fits,” Earnshaw murmured. “They’ve put them all down a big hole, somewhere out of the way. Jesus, they
are
about to launch a strike. They’re on their countdown right now!”

“The whole thing is a super-battlestation,” Rashazzi whispered. “They’re probably only waiting for that UN ship to arrive.”

“About sixteen hours from now,” Haber said numbly.

It was dawning on Paula that she’d been running off the tracks since somewhere way back up the line. She sent an uncomprehending look from one to another. “I . . . don’t understand what you’re talking about. What’s going on?”

Earnshaw exhaled a long sigh and turned away, as if needing a moment longer to integrate the new information into his thinking. Rashazzi turned absently away toward the bench, lost in a world of his own and thinking furiously. Haber still looked thunderstruck. Paula looked around for Koh and noticed for the first time that he had disappeared. Earnshaw saw the question forming on her face and stepped forward, cutting her off before she could speak. “Maybe there are a few things that
you
ought to know before you do any more talking,” he said. Just for an instant, Paula sensed the tenseness in his voice, an urgency to divert her attention.

Without warning Earnshaw whirled round and his fist streaked out in the same movement, bunched karate-style to deliver a devastating blow to the V below Istamel’s ribs. The Turk emitted a strained gurgling sound and dropped to his knees as his legs buckled. In the same instant Koh materialized from the darkness behind and slid his right arm around Istamel’s neck to seize the jacket collar high on the opposite side below the ear, while his left arm came round from the other side to grasp the right lapel. Koh drove his knee into the Turk’s back, gaining leverage to tighten his arms scissor-fashion in a way that slid aside the muscle covering the carotid artery and exposed it to the full pressure of the bony edge of Koh’s forearm—cutting off the brain’s blood supply brings unconsciousness much faster than strangulation. Rashazzi turned from the bench with a heavy metal bar in his hand, ready to help out if needed. Istamel tried to struggle, but the blow from Earnshaw had paralyzed his breathing. His efforts became feeble, then his eyes rolled upward and he went limp. Koh sustained the pressure for a few seconds longer and shook his head regretfully. “Something like this seems to happen whenever you two meet,” he commented to Earnshaw as he released the body and let it crumple to the floor.

Earnshaw squatted down and opened Istamel’s jacket. He undid the shirt and uncovered a Soviet communicator pad secured on a waistband. A quick but thorough search added a .45 automatic in an underarm sling, some extra clips of ammunition, and a general-clearance badge. Haber produced some cord, and Earnshaw helped him truss up the Turk out of the way in a sitting position with his back to one of the supporting pillars. Rashazzi tied a gag around his mouth.

Paula could only shake her head in helpless bewilderment as she watched. Earnshaw straightened up and turned back toward her. “You pick nice friends,” he commented.

“What is this?” Paula mumbled. “Will somebody tell me what’s going on? How did you know he was a plant?”

Rashazzi, Haber, and Koh moved back around the table. “He said he went to the hub on one of our missions,” Earnshaw said.

Paula still hadn’t fully accommodated to what had just happened. “So?”

“There isn’t any hub,” Rashazzi said.

Paula shifted her gaze uncertainly from one to another of them, finally letting it come to rest on Earnshaw. His face had an odd, challenging expression. “Suppose we told you that this place we’re in is not
Valentina Tereshkova,”
he said. “In fact, it isn’t even in space at all.”

The statement was so preposterous that for a moment it didn’t register and Paula answered mechanically. “That’s crazy. Of course it’s in space. Go to one of the ag sectors and look up through a window. Everyone knows they came here from Earth, don’t they? I know that you and I did.”

“Do you?” Rashazzi’s quietly reasonable tone broke her stupor and made her look away from Earnshaw. Only now did her face show its first sign of any willingness to try to understand. Rashazzi went on, “You may know that you were taken out to
Tereshkova
on a transporter from Earth over six months ago, but that’s not quite the same thing. A lot has happened since then.”

“Just out of curiosity . . .” Earnshaw said. Paula’s head jerked back to face him. “Were you taken sick soon after we were arrested?” Her expression supplied the answer. He nodded. “So was I. And when you came round, did a doctor tell you you’d been out for a couple of days? These guys had similar experiences, too. Now, isn’t that strange? What do you think might have happened during that couple of days?”

“That’s . . . absurd,” Paula said. This time, however, her voice had lost its earlier conviction. Instead it was asking how what they were saying could be possible.

Rashazzi stepped over to the table and picked up a pencil. Paula moved forward, while the others closed around. Taking a blank sheet of paper, Rashazzi sketched a shallow, truncated, inverted cone—a circular strip, banked all the way round, like a racetrack.

“Suppose this were a large platform, miles in circumference, with miniature cities, agricultural sectors, and landscaping on it, all contained in a big, donut-shaped tunnel deep underground somewhere,” he said. “Now support the entire platform on a system of superconducting magnetic fields and rotate it at such speed that the force vectors of gravity and centrifugal force combine into a single resultant perpendicular to the floor. If you want some specific numbers, from the tests we’ve conducted I’d estimate a banking angle of twenty-five degrees and a rotation period of ninety seconds, which implies a radius of a little under a kilometer, or about six tenths of a mile.”

Paula shook her head in the way of somebody trying to wake up. “It can’t be . . . I mean, adding the vectors like that . . . Everything would weigh more.”

“By about ten percent, with the figures I’ve just quoted,” Rashazzi agreed. “Which is about the most you could expect people to adjust to reasonably quickly, and why you couldn’t go to a larger banking angle. And in fact, the gravitational acceleration as measured in Zamork is ten percent greater than Earth-normal. A strange way to design a space colony, wouldn’t you think?”

“And incidentally, the scales they weigh you on in the infirmary are calibrated to read ten percent light,” Haber interjected. “That is very interesting, yes?”

“Do you remember feeling weak and heavy in the limbs when you woke up?” Earnshaw asked her. “We did, too. It wore off after a few days.”

Paula was looking at Rashazzi’s sketch with a changed expression, as if she wanted to be convinced. But now the scientist in her asserted itself, searching for the flaws. “Why rotate it at all?” she asked. “If it’s on Earth and in a gravity field to begin with, why bother?”

“Because of the curvature that can be built into the structure,” Rashazzi answered. “A static platform would have to be flat, like a washer. It could never support the illusion of being the inside of a big hamsterwheel, as it would have to do to look real. But banking it introduces a vertical component of curvature and gives you a floor that does indeed bend upward as it recedes.”

Paula stared down at Rashazzi’s sketch dubiously. She thought for a while, then took the pencil and on another sheet drew a pair of curves coming inward from the sides as if from behind an observer, and then retreating and converging to one side. It was a representation of Rashazzi’s racetrack as seen by somebody standing on it. She added a series of radial lines sloping down at intervals from its higher, outer edge to the inner, and then some crude human figures at varying distances.