all offended. “But now we have direct American aid—not for space technologies, mind you, but for military and economic programs that will permit us to develop such. The prospect of bartering coffee, sisal, and refined petroleum products for computer technology and educational opportunities is a major step forward.”
“Thirty seconds and counting.”
“That’s aid from a superpower, isn’t it?” Joshua remarked. “I think you’re splitting hairs on this point.”
“Well, certainly, we intend to take advantage of what others have learned through trial and error. It would be stupid to insist that we ignore existing technologies, put blinders on ourselves, and create an unadulterated Zarakali space program in the desert of our national purity. And we are not stupid, Mr. Kampa.”
To change the subject, Joshua said, “Are those barrels padded?”
“Most assuredly. Finest quality American foam rubber.”
The wires connecting the barrels to the suspension-bridge cables began slackening. The barrels themselves began rocking from side to side as their pilots prepared for launch. Through the larger holes in the capsules Joshua could see the men’s immaculate white uniforms, like bits of tissue paper in punctured cookie tins.
“Ten, nine, eight, seven—”
“Pay attention, Mr. Kampa. The first trial run is often the most exhilarating, for the observer as well as the trainee.”
“—three, two, one: DROP-OFF!”
The wires on the capsules yanked free, and the Zarakali astronauts came barreling down the Weightlessness Simulation Incline at a dizzying clip. The barrels bounced like balloons from some surfaces, skidded like rolling pins along others, occasionally caromed off one another like billiard balls. In a matter of seconds, it was over. The hatches on two of the barrels popped open, and their pilots wriggled out into the bottom of the gorge. The man in the remaining barrel, however, required assistance, and he was carefully extracted and led into the shade by his comrades.
“Brave men,” said Mzee Tharaka. “Very brave men.”
“Much braver than I, Mr. President.” Joshua believed it, too. All he had to do on Woody Kaprow’s Backstep Scaffold was close his eyes and dream. The time-displacement equipment and his own dreaming consciousness did the rest. It was as easy as falling downstairs.
“Not necessarily, Mr. Kampa, but perhaps you would be interested to know that many of our astronauts-in-training must overcome a powerful psychological reluctance to take part in these experiments. Tribal ways and allegiances sometimes militate against their willingness to test pilot our WSI vehicles.”
“I don’t understand.”
“These trainees are members of the Kikembu tribe. In their society, Mr. Kampa, one of the punishments reserved for sorcerers—evil persons who inflict illness or misfortune on their neighbors—quite resembles an exercise on the Weightlessness Simulation Incline.”
Joshua waited, knowing that the President intended to detail the similarity whether he replied or not.
“When the sorcerer is apprehended, you see, usually by a contingent of men who have lain in wait for him, they find an immense beehive, put the sorcerer inside it alive, seal the hive, and send it tumbling down a slope. At the bottom, Mr. Kampa, the sorcerer is invariably discovered to have given up the ghost. One of our first trainees, interestingly enough, died of fright during his maiden descent of the WSI. He must have assumed that his selection to our program constituted a formal accusation of sorcery. On the other hand, he may actually have been guilty of poisoning someone or practicing witchcraft. As a result, his guilt combined with the trauma of weightlessness simulation to punish him for his crimes. Not only are our trainees brave, they are virtuous.”
“I reckon so,” Joshua said.
“What about you, Mr. Kampa? You modestly downplay your own bravery, which must be considerable—but are you virtuous?”
“Virtuous?”
Everyone in the hutch, including Alistair Patrick Blair, was looking at him. Was he virtuous?
“Pardon me, Mzee. I’m not sure how to answer. I voted Democratic in the last two presidential elections.”
Mutesa David Christian Ghazali Tharaka patted Joshua’s hand; whether in tribute or consolation was not clear. They watched four more barrel races before the President wearied of the show and returned with his retinue to Marakoi.
“You made a good impression,” Blair had told Joshua on the way back to his barracks.
“How?”
“Perhaps by preserving your sang-froid when you caught sight of his ceremonial attire. Besides, he’s always been partial to Americans.”
* * *
Yes, sang-froid. That was what he would require now, for Kaprow’s omnibus was prowling the lake margin (the lunar battlement of the Rift’s western wall like a mirage on their left), and tomorrow morning he would be playing chrononaut for keeps. Joshua’s stomach knotted, and the jumbled slide show