Rendezvous With Rama - Arthur C. Clarke Page 0,26

operating at all times. In this way he hopes to use his limited manpower at maximum efficiency.

“It’s a good plan, but there may be no time to carry it out. In fact, I would advise an immediate alert, and a preparation for total withdrawal at twelve hours’ notice. Let me explain.

“It is surprising how few people have commented on a rather obvious anomaly about Rama. It is now well inside the orbit of Venus, yet the interior is still frozen. And the temperature of an object in direct sunlight at this point is about five hundred degrees!

“The reason, of course, is that Rama has not had time to warm up. It must have cooled down to near absolute zero—270 degrees below—while it was in interstellar space. Now, as it approaches the Sun, the outer hull is already almost as hot as molten lead. But the inside will stay cold until the heat works its way through that kilometer of rock.

“There’s some kind of fancy dessert with a hot exterior and ice cream in the middle—I don’t remember what it’s called—”

“Baked Alaska. It’s a favorite at U.P. banquets, unfortunately.”

“Thank you, Sir Robert. That’s the situation in Rama at the moment, but it won’t last. All these weeks, the solar heat has been working its way through, and we can expect a sharp temperature rise to begin in a few hours. That’s not the problem, however. By the time we’ll have to leave anyway, it will be no more than comfortably tropical.”

“Then what’s the difficulty?”

“I can answer in one word, Mr. Ambassador: hurricanes.”

CHAPTER 15

THE EDGE OF THE SEA

There were now more than twenty men and women inside Rama—six of them down on the plain, the rest ferrying equipment and expendables through the air-lock system and down the stairway. The ship itself was almost deserted, with the minimum possible staff on duty. The joke went around that Endeavour was really being run by the four simps, and that Goldie had been given the rank of acting commander.

For these first explorations, Norton had established a number of ground rules; the most important dated back to the earliest days of man’s space-faring. Every group, he had decided, must contain one person with prior experience. But not more than one. In that way, everybody would have an opportunity to learn as quickly as possible.

And so, the first party to head for the Cylindrical Sea, though it was led by Surgeon Commander Laura Ernst, had as its one-time veteran Boris Rodrigo, just back from Paris. The third member, Sergeant Pieter Rousseau, had been with the back-up teams at the hub. He was an expert on space-reconnaissance instrumentation, but on this trip he would have to depend on his own eyes and a small portable telescope.

From the foot of Stairway Alpha to the edge of the sea was just under fifteen kilometers, or an Earth equivalent of eight under the low gravity of Rama. Laura Ernst, who had to prove that she lived up to her own standards, set a brisk pace. They stopped for thirty minutes at the midway mark, and made the whole trip in a completely uneventful three hours.

It was also quite monotonous, walking forward in the beam of the searchlight through the anechoic darkness of Rama. As the pool of light advanced with them, it slowly elongated into a long, narrow ellipse; this foreshortening of the beam was the only visible sign of progress. If the observers up on the hub had not given them continual distance checks, they could not have guessed whether they had traveled one kilometer or five or ten. They just plodded onward through the million-year-old night, over an apparently seamless metal surface.

But at last, far ahead, at the limits of the now weakening beam, there was something new. On a normal world it would have been a horizon; as they approached, they could see that the plain on which they were walking came to an abrupt stop. They were Hearing the edge of the sea.

“Only a hundred meters,” said Hub Control. “Better slow down.”

That was hardly necessary, yet they had already done so. From the level of the plain to that of the sea—if it was a sea, and not another sheet of that mysterious crystalline material—was a sheer straight drop of fifty meters. Although Norton had impressed upon everyone the danger of taking anything for granted in Rama, few doubted that the sea was really made of ice. But for what conceivable reason was the cliff on the