Rama II

58 HOBSON’S CHOICE

I’m certain that Heilmann and Yamanaka were being extremely cau­tious,” Richard Wakefield explained. “They probably left early so they could take extra supplies. And with these lightweight pods, each extra kilogram can be critical.”

“How critical?” asked Nicole.

“Well — it could make all the difference between getting into a safe orbit around Earth — or shooting past it so quickly that we couldn’t be rescued.”

“Does that mean,” O’Toole inquired somberly, “that only one of us might be able to use the pod?”

Richard paused before answering. “I’m afraid that’s possible; it’s a func­tion of the time of departure. We’ll have to do some quick calculations to determine exactly. But personally I see no reason why we shouldn’t consider flying this entire spacecraft. I was trained as a backup pilot, after all. . We have only limited control authority, since the ship is so large, but if we jettison everything we don’t absolutely need, we may be able to do it Again, we’ll need to do the computations.”

Nicole’s assignments from General O’Toole and Richard were to check the supplies that had been placed in the pod, determine their adequacy, and then approximate both the mass and packaging volume required to support either two or three travelers. In addition Richard, still favoring flying back to Earth in the military ship, asked Nicole to go through the Newton supply manifest and estimate how much mass could be thrown overboard.

While O’Toole and Wakefield used the computers in the control center, Nicole worked alone in the huge bay. First she examined the remaining pod very carefully. Although the pods were normally used by a single person for local extravehicular activity (EVA), they had also been designed as emer­gency escape vehicles. Two people could sit behind the tough, transparent front window with a week’s supplies on the shelves at the rear of the small cabin. But three people? Nicole wondered. Impossible. Someone would have to squeeze into the shelf space. And then there would not be adequate room for the supplies. Nicole thought momentarily about being confined to the tiny shelves for seven or eight days. It would be even worse than the pit in New York.

She looked through the supplies that had been hastily thrown into the pod by Heilmann and Yamanaka. The food allocation was more or less correct, both in quantity and variety, for a one-week voyage; the medical kit, how­ever, was woefully inadequate. Nicole made a few notes, constructed what she considered to be a proper supply list for either a two or three person crew, and estimated the mass and packaging requirements. She then started to cross the bay.

Her eyes were drawn to the bullet-shaped nuclear weapons lying placidly on their sides right beside the pod airlock. Nicole walked over and touched the bombs, her hands idly running across the polished metal surface. So these are the first great weapons of destruction, she thought, the outcome of the brilliant physics of the twentieth century.

What a sad commentary on our species, Nicole mused, as she was walking among the nuclear bombs. A visitor comes to see us. It cannot speak our language, but it does discover where we live. When it turns the corner onto out street, while its purpose is still utterly unknown, we blast it into oblivion.

She shuffled across the bay toward the living quarters, aware of a profound feeling of sadness deep within her. Your problem, Nicole said to herself, is that you always expect too much. From yourself. From those you love. Even from the human race. We are yet too immature a species.

A momentary wave of nausea forced Nicole to stop for a moment. What’s this? she thought. Are these bombs making me ill? In the back of her mind Nicole recalled a similar feeling of nausea fifteen years before, two hours into her flight from Los Angeles to Paris. It can’t be, she told herself. But III check just to be certain…

“That’s the second reason why the three of us cannot all fit in a single pod. Don’t feel bad, Nicole. Even if the physical space could accommodate our bodies and the needed supplies, the velocity change capability of the pod with all that mass is barely enough to close the orbit around the Sun. Our chances of being rescued would be virtually nil.”

“Well,” Nicole replied to Richard, trying to be cheerful, “at least we still have the other option. We can go home in this big vehicle. According to my estimates, we can dump in excess of ten thousand kilograms—”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t matter,” General O’Toole interrupted.

Nicole looked at Richard. “What’s he talking about?”

Richard Wakefield stood up and walked over to Nicole. He took her hands in his. “They screwed up the navigation system too,” Richard said. “Their automatic search algorithms, the big number crunchers being used to try to decrypt O’Toole’s code, were overlaid into the general purpose computers on top of the vidcomm and navigation subroutines. This ship is useless as a transportation module.”

General O’Toole’s voice was distant and lacked its usual upbeat timbre. “They must have started only minutes after I left. Richard read the com­mand buffers and found out that the decryption software was uplinked less than two hours after my departure.”

“But why would they incapacitate the Newton?” Nicole asked.

“Don’t you understand?” O’Toole said with passion. “The priorities had changed. Nothing was as important as detonating the nuclear weapons. They didn’t want to waste the time for the radio signals to go back and forth to Earth. So they moved the computations up here, where each successive candidate code could be commanded from the computer without delay.”

“In fairness to mission control,” Richard interjected, now pacing around the room, “we should acknowledge that the fully loaded Newton military ship actually has less orbit change capability than a two-person pod with an auxiliary propulsion system. In the eyes of the ISA safety manager, there was no increased risk associated with making this craft inoperable.”

“But none of this should have happened in the first place,” the general argued. “Dammit! Why couldn’t they just have waited for my return?”

Nicole sat down abruptly in one of the available chairs. Her head was spinning and she felt momentarily dizzy. “What’s the matter?” Richard said, approaching her with alarm.

“I have been having occasional periods of nausea today,” Nicole replied. “I think I’m pregnant. I’ll know for certain in about twenty minutes.” She smiled at the dumbfounded Richard. “It’s extremely rare for a woman to become pregnant within ninety days of an injection of neutrabriolate. But it has happened before. I don’t suppose—”

“Congratulations,” an enthusiastic General O’Toole suddenly interrupted. “I had no idea that the two of you were planning to have a family.”

“Nor did I,” Richard replied, still looking shocked. He gave Nicole a vigorous hug and held her close. “Nor did I,” he repeated.

“There will be no more discussion of this subject!” General O’Toole said emphatically to Richard. “Even if Nicole weren’t pregnant with your child, I would insist that the two of you go in the pod and leave me here. It’s the only sensible decision. In the first place, we both know that mass is the most critical parameter and I am the heaviest of the three of us by far. In addition, I am old and you two are both quite young. You know how to fly the pod; I’ve never even trained inside it a single time. Besides,” he added dryly, “I will be court-martialed on Earth for refusing to follow orders.”

“As for you, my good doctor,” O’Toole continued moments later, “I don’t need to tell you that you are carrying a very special baby. He or she will be the only human child that was ever conceived inside an extraterrestrial space vehicle.” He stood up and glanced around. “Now,” he said, “I propose we open a bottle of wine and celebrate our last evening together.”

Nicole watched General O’Toole glide over to the larder. He opened it and started rummaging around. “I’m perfectly happy with fruit juice, Mi­chael,” she said. “I shouldn’t drink more than a single glass of wine now anyway.”

“Of course,” he replied quickly. “I temporarily forgot. I was hoping that we could do something special on this last night. I wanted to share one last time—” General O’Toole stopped himself and brought the wine and juice back to the table. He handed cups to both Richard and Nicole. “I want you both to know,” he said quietly, his mood now subdued, “that ! cannot imagine a finer pair of people than the two of you. I wish you every success, especially with the baby.”

The three cosmonauts drank in silence for several seconds. “We all know it, don’t we?” General O’Toole said in barely audible tone. “The missiles must be on their way. How long do you figure I have, Richard?”

“Judging from what Admiral Heilmann said on the tape, I would say that the first missile will reach Rama at 1-5 days. That would be consistent both with the pod being outside the debris field and the deflection velocities that must be imparted to the surviving pieces of the spacecraft.” “I’m afraid I’m lost,” Nicole said. “What missiles are we talking about?” Richard leaned over toward her. “Both Michael and I are certain!” he said gravely, “that the COG has ordered a missile strike against Rama. They had no assurance that the general would ever return to the Newton and enter his code. And the search algorithm with the automatic punch was a long shot at best. Only a missile strike could guarantee that Rama would not have the capability of harming our planet.”

“So I have a little more than forty-eight hours to make my final peace with God,” General O’Toole said after reflecting for several seconds. “I have lived a fabulous life. I have much to be thankful for. I will go into His arms without regret.”