mind that Litman may have substituted Magnelube D, or even C. (I do not believe he would have done this out of pure malice, but if there was a shortage of blocks of the top grade metal and I had discovered it I would have ordered a redesign or would have stripped some of the
In the meantime, the flight continues uninterrupted. Over prairies, lakes, mountains, seas, forests — and then over more and more of the same. A million kilometres is an invisible fraction of O’s circumference, and yet seeing it like this has stunned one part of my mind. I was taught at school that a man’s brain is unable to comprehend what is meant by a light-year — now I know we cannot comprehend as much as a light-second. So far in this journey we have, in effect, encircled twenty-five Earths; but my heart and mind are suspended, like netted birds, somewhere above the third or fourth range of mountains. They have run into the comprehension barrier, while my body has travelled onwards, heedless of what penalties may fall due.
Like Litman, like the others, I am becoming a different person.
I sometimes go for a whole day without thinking about Elizabeth Lindstrom. And now I can think about Aileen and Chris without experiencing much pain. It is as if they are in a mental jewel box. I can take them out of it, examine them, receive pleasure — then put them back into it and close the lid. The thought has occurred to me that the life of a loved one must be considered algebraically — setting the positive total of happiness and contentment against the negative quantity represented by pain and death. This process, even for a very short life, results in a positive expression. I wish I could discuss this idea with someone who might understand, but Denise is on another ship.
We have lost Tayman’s ship, No 6. It happened while we were landing for our second scheduled stop, putting down in formation on an ideal-looking plain. There was a hidden spar of rock which wrecked one of Tayman’s skids, causing the plane to dip a wing. Nobody was hurt, but No 6 had to be written off. (In future we will land in sequence on the lead aircraft’s skid marks to reduce the risk of similar incidents.) Tayman and his crew — which includes two women — took the mishap philosophically and we spent an extra day on the ground getting them set up for a prolonged stay. Among the parts we took from No 6 were the propeller shaft bearings, one of which was immediately installed in No 7’s starboard engine.
I suppose the latter has to be regarded as a kind of bonus — fleet speed is back to maximum cruise — but the loss of Jack Tayman’s steady optimism is hard to accept. Strangely, I find myself missing his aircraft most at night. We have no radio altimeters or equivalents because the conditions on O will not permit electromagnetic transmission, and the environment also makes barometric pressure readings too unreliable, so we use the ancient device of two inclined spotlights on each aircraft, one at each end of the fuselage. The forward laser ray is coloured red, the aft one white, and they intersect at five hundred metres, which means that a machine flying at the chosen height projects a single pink spot. Looking downwards through the darkness we can see our V- formation slipping across the ground, hour after hour, a squadron of silent moons, and the disappearance of one of those luminous followers is all too apparent.
Within the space of ten days propeller shaft bearing trouble has developed on five ships, and fleet speed has been reduced by fifty kilometres an hour. Prognosis is that there will be continued deterioration, with progressive cuts in flying speed. Everybody is properly dismayed, but I think I can detect an undercurrent of relief at the possibility of so many aircraft having to drop out at the same time, thus providing for the setting up of a larger and stronger community. I have discussed the situation with Cliff Napier over the lightphone and even he seems to be losing heart.
The only aspect of the matter which looks at all ‘hopeful’ is that the ships which have experienced the trouble are No 3 through to No 8, which reflects the order in which they came off the production line. The first and second ships — mine and Napier’s — are all right, and it may be that Litman had enough Grade E metal available for our propeller bearings. I put the word hopeful in quotes in this context because, on reflection, it simply is not appropriate. Being reduced to two airplanes at this stage of the mission would be disastrous, and it would take fairly comprehensive technical resources to restore us to strength. Resources which are not available.
I am writing this at night, mainly because I can’t sleep, and I find it difficult to fight off a sense of defeat. The Big O is too…
Garamond set his stylus aside as Joe Braunek, who had been in the cockpit serving as stand-by pilot, appeared in the gangway beside his bunk. The young man’s face was deeply shadowed by the single overhead light tube but his eyes, within their panda-patches of darkness, were showing an abnormal amount of white.
“What is it, Joe?” Garamond closed his diary.
“Well, sir…” “Vance.”
“Sorry, I keep… Do you want to come up front a minute, Vance?”
“This gets us back to square one — is there anything wrong? I’m trying to rest and I don’t want to get up without a good reason.”
“There are some lights we can’t explain.”
“Which panel?”
Braunek shook his head. “Not that sort of light. Outside the ship — near the horizon. It looks like there’s a city of some kind ahead of us.”
seventeen
At first sight, the lights were disappointing. Because the fleet was travelling roughly eastwards, the blue and darker blue bands which represented day and night on other parts of Orbitsville were arcing across the sky from side to side. The lower one looked in the eastern sky the narrower and closer together the bands appeared to grow, until they merged in the opalescent haze above the upcurving black horizon. Even when Braunek had shown him where to look Garamond had to scan the darkness for several seconds before he picked out a thin line of yellowish radiance, like a razor cut just below the edge of a cardboard silhouette.
Delia Liggett, who was at the controls, raised her face to him. “Is there any chance that… ?”
“It isn’t Beachhead City,” Garamond said. “Let’s get that clear.”
“I thought there might have been a mistake over distances.” “Sorry, Delia. We’re working on a very rough estimate of how far the
“Then what is that?”
Garamond perversely refused to admit excitement. “It looks like sky reflections on a lake.”
“Wrong colour,” Braunek said, handing Garamond a pair of binoculars. “Try these.”
“It has to be an alien settlement,” Garamond admitted as the glasses revealed the beaded brightness of a distant city. “And it’s so far from the entrance to the sphere.”
At that moment Cliff Napier’s voice came through on the lightphone. “Number Two speaking — is that Vance I can see in the cockpit?”
“I hear you, Cliff.”
“Have you seen what we’ve seen?”
“Yeah — and are you wondering what I’m wondering?”
