Rendezvous with Rama

7. Two Wives

If his wives ever compared his videograms, Commander Norton thought with more amusement than concern, it would involve him in a lot of extra work. Now, he could make one long ’gram and dupe it, adding only brief personal messages and endearments before shooting the almost identical copies off to Mars and Earth.

Of course, it was highly unlikely that his wives ever would do such a thing; even at the concessionary rates allowed to spacemen’s families, it would be expensive. And there would be no point in it; his families were on excellent terms with each other, and exchanged the usual greetings on birthdays and anniversaries. Yet, on the whole, perhaps it was just as well that the girls had never met, and probably never would. Myrna had been born on Mars and so could not tolerate the high gravity of Earth. And Caroline hated even the twenty-five minutes of the longest possible terrestrial journey.

“Sorry I’m a day late with this transmission,” said the Commander after he had finished the general-purpose preliminaries, “but I’ve been away from the ship for the last thirty hours, believe it or not…”

“Don’t be alarmed—everything is under control, going perfectly. It’s taken us two days, but we’re almost through the airlock complex. We could have done it in a couple of hours, if we’d known what we do now. But we took no chances, sent remote cameras ahead, and cycled all the locks a dozen times to make sure they wouldn’t seize up behind us after we’d gone through…”

“Each lock is a simple revolving cylinder with a slot on one side. You go in through this opening, crank the cylinder round a hundred and eighty degrees and the slot then matches up with another door so that you can step out of it. Or float, in this case.”

“The Ramans really made sure of things. There are three of these cylinder-locks, one after the other just inside the outer hull and below the entry pillbox. I can’t imagine how even one would fail, unless someone blew it up with explosives, but if it did, there would be a second back-up, and then a third…”

“And that’s only the beginning. The final lock opens into a straight corridor, almost half a kilometre long. It looks clean and tidy, like everything else we’ve seen; every few metres there are small ports that probably held lights, but now everything is completely black and, I don’t mind telling you, scary. There are also two parallel slots, about a centimetre wide, cut in the walls and running the whole length of the tunnel. We suspect that some kind of shuttle runs inside these, to tow equipment—or people—back and forth. It would save us a lot of trouble if we could get it working…”

“I mentioned that the tunnel was half a kilometre long. Well, from our seismic soundings we knew that’s about the thickness of the shell, so obviously we were almost through it. And at the end of the tunnel we weren’t surprised to find another of those cylindrical airlocks.”

“Yes, and another. And another. These people seem to have done everything in threes. We’re in the final lock chamber now, awaiting the OK from Earth before we go through. The interior of Rama is only a few metres away. I’ll be a lot happier when the suspense is over.”

“You know Jerry Kirchoff, my Exec, who’s got such a library of real books that he can’t afford to emigrate from Earth? Well, Jerry told me about a situation just like this, back at the beginning of the twenty-first—no, twentieth century. An archaeologist found the tomb of an Egyptian king, the first one that hadn’t been looted by robbers. His workmen took months to dig their way in, chamber by chamber, until they came to the final wall. Then they broke through the masonry, and he held out a lantern and pushed his head inside. He found himself looking into a whole roomful of treasure—incredible stuff gold and jewels…”

“Perhaps this place is also a tomb; it seems more and more likely. Even now, there’s still not the slightest sound, or hint of any activity. Well, tomorrow we should know.”

Commander Norton switched the record to HOLD. What else, he wondered, should he say about the work before he began the separate personal messages to his families? Normally, he never went into so much detail, but these circumstances were scarcely normal. This might be the last ’gram he would ever send to those he loved; he owed it to them to explain what he was doing.

By the time they saw these images, and heard these words, he would be inside Rama—for better or for worse.