Rendezvous With Rama - Arthur C. Clarke Page 0,71

days most had disappeared. Now it was quite unusual to see even one.

They had been replaced by a whole menagerie of much more impressive creatures, and it had been no minor task to think of suitable names for them. There were the “window cleaners,” with large padded feet, who were apparently polishing their way the whole length of Rama’s six artificial suns. Their enormous shadows, cast right across the diameter of the world, sometimes caused temporary eclipses on the far side.

The crab that had demolished Dragonfly seemed to be a “scavenger.” A relay chain of identical creatures had approached Camp Alpha and carried off all the debris that had been neatly stacked on the outskirts; they would have carried off everything else if Norton and Mercer had not stood firm and defied them. The confrontation had been anxious but brief. Thereafter, the scavengers seemed to understand what they were allowed to touch, and arrived at regular intervals to see if their services were required. It was a most convenient arrangement, and indicated a high degree of intelligence—on the part of either the scavengers themselves or some controlling entity elsewhere.

Garbage disposal on Rama was simple: everything was thrown into the sea, where it was presumably broken down into forms that could be used again. The process was rapid. Resolution had disappeared overnight, to the great annoyance of Ruby Barnes. Norton had consoled her by pointing out that it had done its job magnificently and he would never have allowed anyone to use it again. The sharks might not be as discriminating as the scavengers.

No astronomer discovering an unknown planet could have been happier than Rousseau was when he spotted a new type of biot and secured a good photo of it through his telescope. Unfortunately, it seemed that all the interesting species were over at the South Pole, where they were performing mysterious tasks around the horns. Something that looked like a centipede with suction pads could be seen from time to time exploring Big Horn itself, while Rousseau had caught a glimpse of a burly creature around the lower peaks that could have been a cross between a hippopotamus and a bulldozer. And there was even a double-necked giraffe, which apparently acted as a mobile crane.

Presumably Rama, like any ship, required testing, checking, and repairing after its immense voyage. The crew was already hard at work. When would the passengers appear?

Biot-classifying was not Rousseau’s main job. His orders were to keep watch on the two or three exploring parties that were always out, to see that they did not get into trouble, and to warn them if anything approached. He alternated every six hours with anyone else who could be spared, though more than once he had been on duty for twelve hours at a stretch. As a result, he now knew the geography of Rama better than any other man who would ever live. It was as familiar to him as the Colorado mountains of his youth.

When Lieutenant Commander Kirchoff emerged from Air-Lock Alpha, Rousseau knew at once that something unusual was happening. Personnel transfers never occurred during the sleeping period, and it was now past midnight by mission time. Then Rousseau remembered how short-handed they were, and was shocked by a much more startling irregularity.

“Jerry—who’s in charge of the ship?”

“I am,” said the Exec coldly as he flipped open his helmet. “You don’t think I’d leave the bridge while I’m on watch, do you?”

He reached into his suit carryall and pulled out a small can bearing the label CONCENTRATED ORANGE JUICE. TO MAKE FIVE LITERS.

“You’re good at this, Pieter. The Skipper is waiting for it.”

Rousseau hefted the can, then said, “I hope you’ve put enough mass inside it. Sometimes they get stuck on the first terrace.”

“Well, you’re the expert.”

That was true enough. The hub observers had had plenty of practice sending down small items that had been forgotten or were needed in a hurry. The trick was to get them safely past the low-gravity region, and then to see that the Coriolis Effect did not carry them too far away from the camp during the eight-kilometer roll downhill.

Rousseau anchored himself firmly, grasped the can, and hurled it down the face of the cliff. He did not aim directly toward Camp Alpha, but almost thirty degrees away from it.

Almost immediately, air resistance robbed the can of its initial speed, but then the pseudo-gravity of Rama took over and it started to move downward at a constant velocity. It hit