Rendezvous With Rama - Arthur C. Clarke Page 0,24

before.

Even on Earth, or on some familiar planet, that experience is disquieting, though it is not particularly rare. Most men have known it at some time or other, and usually they dismiss it as the memory of a forgotten photograph, a pure coincidence—or, if they are mystically inclined, some form of telepathy from another mind, or even a flashback from their own future.

But to recognize a spot that no other human being can possibly have seen—that is quite shocking. For several seconds, Norton stood rooted to the smooth crystalline surface on which he had been walking, trying to straighten out his feelings. His well-ordered universe had been turned upside down, and he had a dizzying glimpse of those mysteries at the edge of existence that he had successfully ignored for most of his life.

Then, to his immense relief, common sense came to the rescue. The disturbing sensation of déjà vu faded out, to be replaced by a real and identifiable memory from his youth.

It was true, he had once stood between such steeply sloping walls, watching them drive into the distance until they seemed to converge at a point indefinitely far ahead. But they had been covered with neatly trimmed grass; and underfoot had been broken stone, not smooth crystal.

It had happened thirty years ago, during a summer vacation in England. Largely because of another student (he could remember her face, but he had forgotten her name), he had taken a course in industrial archeology, then very popular among science and engineering graduates. They had explored abandoned coal mines and cotton mills, climbed over ruined blast furnaces and steam engines, goggled unbelievingly at primitive (and still dangerous) nuclear reactors, and driven priceless turbine-powered antiques along restored motor roads.

Not everything that they saw was genuine. Much had been lost during the centuries, for men seldom bother to preserve the commonplace articles of everyday life. But where it was necessary to make copies, they had been reconstructed with loving care.

And so, young Bill Norton had found himself bowling along at an exhilarating hundred kilometers an hour while he furiously shoveled precious coal into the firebox of a locomotive that looked two hundred years old but was actually younger than he was. The thirty-kilometer stretch of the Great Western Railway, however, was quite genuine, though it had required a good deal of excavating to get it back into commission.

With whistle screaming, they had plunged into a hillside and raced through a smoky, flame-lit darkness. An astonishingly long time later, they had burst out of the tunnel into a deep, perfectly straight cutting between steep grassy banks. The long-forgotten vista was almost identical with the one before him now.

“What is it, Skipper?” called Rodrigo. “Have you found something?”

As Norton dragged himself back to present reality, some of the oppression lifted from his mind. There was mystery here—yes; but it might not be beyond human understanding. He had learned a lesson, though it was not one that he could readily impart to others. At all costs, he must not let Rama overwhelm him. That way lay failure, perhaps even madness.

“No,” he answered. “There’s nothing down here. Haul me up. We’ll head straight to Paris.”

CHAPTER 14

STORM WARNING

“I’ve called this meeting of the committee,” said His Excellency the Ambassador from Mars to the United Planets, “because Dr. Perera has something important to tell us. He insists that we get in touch with Commander Norton right away, using the priority channel we’ve been able to establish—after, I might say, a good deal of difficulty. Dr. Perera’s statement is rather technical, and, before we come to it, I think a summary of the present position might be in order. Dr. Price has prepared one. Oh yes—some apologies for absence. Sir Lewis Sands has had to leave for Earth for a conference he’s chairing, and Dr. Taylor asked to be excused.”

He was rather pleased about that last absence. The anthropologist had rapidly lost interest in Rama when it became obvious that it would present little scope for him. Like many others, he had been bitterly disappointed to learn that the mobile worldlet was dead; now there would be no opportunity for sensational books and “viddies” about Raman rituals and behavioral patterns. Others might dig up skeletons and classify artifacts, but that sort of thing did not appeal to Conrad Taylor. Perhaps the only discovery that would bring him back in a hurry would be some highly explicit works of art, like the notorious frescoes of Thera and Pompeii.

Thelma Price took