Rendezvous With Rama - Arthur C. Clarke Page 0,83

could play this game for hours, he decided, with increasing degrees of impropriety.

“That’s the idea,” replied Norton. “This may be an indexed catalog for 3-D images—templates—solid blueprints, if you like to call them that.”

“For what purpose?”

“Well, you know the theory about the biots—the idea that they don’t exist until they’re needed and then they’re created—synthesized—from patterns stored somewhere?”

“I see,” said Mercer, and he went on slowly and thoughtfully: “So when a Raman needs a left-handed blivet, he punches out the correct code number and a copy is manufactured from the pattern in here.”

“Something like that. But please don’t ask me about the practical details.”

The pillars through which they had been moving had been steadily growing in size, and were now more than two meters in diameter. The images were correspondingly larger. It was obvious that, for doubtless excellent reasons, the Ramans believed in sticking to a one-to-one scale. Norton wondered how they stored anything really big, if this was the case.

To increase their rate of coverage, the four explorers had now spread out through the crystal columns and were taking photographs as quickly as they could get their cameras focused on the fleeting images. This was an astonishing piece of luck, Norton told himself, though he felt that he had earned it; they could not possibly have made a better choice than this Illustrated Catalog of Raman Artifacts. And yet, in another way, it could hardly have been more frustrating. There was nothing actually here except impalpable patterns of light and darkness. These apparently solid objects did not really exist.

Even knowing this, more than once Norton felt an almost irresistible urge to laser his way into one of the pillars so that he could have something material to take back to Earth. It was the same impulse, he thought wryly, that would prompt a monkey to grab the reflection of a banana in a mirror.

He was photographing what seemed to be some kind of optical device when Calvert’s shout started him running through the pillars.

“Skipper—Karl—Will—look at this!”

Calvert was prone to sudden enthusiasms, but what he had found now was enough to justify any amount of excitement.

Inside one of the two-meter columns was an elaborate harness, or uniform, obviously made for a vertically standing creature much taller than a man. A very narrow central metal band apparently surrounded the waist, thorax, or some division unknown to terrestrial zoology. From this rose three slim columns, tapering outward and ending in a perfectly circular belt, an impressive meter in diameter. Loops equally spaced along it could be intended only to go around upper limbs or arms—three of them.

There were numerous pouches, buckles, bandoliers from which tools (or weapons?) protruded, pipes and electrical conductors, even small black boxes that would have looked perfectly at home in an electronics lab on Earth. The whole arrangement was almost as complex as a spacesuit, though it obviously provided only partial covering for the creature wearing it.

And was that creature a Raman? Norton asked himself. We’ll probably never know; but it must have been intelligent, because no mere animal could cope with all that sophisticated equipment.

“About two and a half meters high,” said Mercer thoughtfully, “not counting the head—whatever that was like.”

“With three arms—and presumably three legs. The same plan as the spiders, on a much more massive scale. Do you suppose that’s a coincidence?”

“Probably not. We design robots in our own image; we might expect the Ramans to do the same.”

Myron, unusually subdued, was looking at the display with something like awe. “Do you suppose they know we’re here?” he half whispered.

“I doubt it,” said Mercer. “We’ve not even reached their threshold of consciousness—though the Hermians certainly had a good try.”

They were standing there, unable to drag themselves away, when Rousseau called from the hub, his voice full of urgent concern.

“Skipper, you’d better get outside.”

“What is it—biots heading this way?”

“No. Something much more serious. The lights are going out.”

CHAPTER 43

RETREAT

When he hastily emerged from the hole they had lasered, it seemed to Norton that the six suns of Rama were as brilliant as ever. Surely, he thought, Rousseau must have made a mistake—though that was not like him at all.

But Rousseau had anticipated just this reaction.

“It happened so slowly,” he explained apologetically, “that it was a long time before I noticed any difference. But there’s no doubt about it—I’ve taken a meter reading. The light level’s down forty per cent.”

Now, as his eyes readjusted themselves after the gloom of the glass temple, Norton could believe him. The