Rendezvous With Rama - Arthur C. Clarke Page 0,89

the solar system. In less than two hours its direction of motion had swung through more than ninety degrees, and it had given a final, almost contemptuous proof of its total lack of interest in all the worlds whose peace of mind it had so rudely disturbed.

It was dropping out of the ecliptic, down into the southern sky, far below the plane in which all the planets move. Though that, surely, could not be its ultimate goal, it was aimed squarely at the Greater Magellanic Cloud, and the lonely gulfs beyond the Milky Way.

CHAPTER 46

INTERLUDE

“Come in,” said Commander Norton absent-mindedly, at the quiet knock on his door.

“Some news for you, Bill. I wanted to give it first, before the crew gets into the act. And anyway, it’s my department.”

Norton still seemed far away. He was lying with his hands clasped under his head, eyes half shut, cabin light low—not really drowsing, but lost in some reverie or private dream.

He blinked once or twice, and was suddenly back in his body.

“Sorry, Laura, I don’t understand. What’s it all about?”

“Don’t say you’ve forgotten!”

“Stop teasing, you wretched woman. I’ve had a few things on my mind recently.”

Surgeon Commander Ernst slid a captive chair across in its slots and sat down beside him.

“Though interplanetary crises come and go, the wheels of Martian bureaucracy grind steadily away. But I suppose Rama helped. Good thing you didn’t have to get permission from the Hermians as well.”

Light was dawning. “Oh—Port Lowell has issued the permit!”

“Better than that. It’s already being acted on.” Laura glanced at the slip of paper in her hand. “Immediate,” she read. “Probably right now your new son is being conceived. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I hope he hasn’t minded the wait.”

Like every astronaut, Norton had been sterilized when he entered the service. For a man who would spend years in space, radiation-induced mutation was not a risk; it was a certainty. The spermatozoon that had just delivered its cargo of genes on Mars, two hundred million kilometers away, had been frozen for thirty years, awaiting its moment of destiny.

Norton wondered if he would be home in time for the birth. He had earned rest, relaxation, and such normal family life as an astronaut could ever know. Now that the mission was essentially over, he was beginning to unwind, and to think once more about his own future, and that of both his families. Yes, it would be good to be home for a while, and to make up for lost time—in many ways.

“This visit,” protested Laura rather feebly, “was purely in a professional capacity.”

“After all these years,” replied Norton, “we know each other better than that. Anyway, you’re off duty now.” This situation, he knew, was doubtless being repeated throughout the ship. Even though they were weeks from home, the end-of-mission “orbital orgy” would be in full swing.

“Now what are you thinking?” demanded Laura, much later. “You’re not becoming sentimental, I hope.”

“Not about us. About Rama. I’m beginning to miss it.”

“Thanks very much for the compliment.”

Norton tightened his arms around her. One of the nicest things about weightlessness, he often thought, was that you could really hold someone all night without cutting off the circulation. There were those who claimed that love at one gee was so ponderous that they could no longer enjoy it.

“It’s a well-known fact, Laura, that men, unlike women, have two-track minds. But seriously—well, more seriously—I do feel a sense of loss.”

“I can understand that.”

“Don’t be so clinical; that’s not the only reason. Oh, never mind.” He gave up. It was not easy to explain, even to himself.

He had succeeded on this mission beyond all reasonable expectation. What his men had discovered in Rama would keep scientists busy for decades. And, above all, he had done it without a single casualty.

But he had also failed. One might speculate endlessly, but the nature and the purpose of the Ramans was still utterly unknown. They had used the solar system as a refueling stop, a booster station—call it what you will; and had then spurned it completely, on their way to more important business. They would probably never even know that the human race existed. Such monumental indifference was worse than any deliberate insult.

When Norton had glimpsed Rama for the last time, a tiny star hurtling outward beyond Venus, he knew that part of his life was over. He was just fifty-five, but he felt he had left his youth down there on the curving Central Plain, among mysteries and wonders now receding inexorably beyond the reach of man. Whatever honors and achievements the future brought him, for the rest of his life he would be haunted by a sense of anticlimax and the knowledge of opportunities missed.

So he told himself; but even then, he should have known better.

And on far-off Earth, Dr. Carlisle Perera had as yet told no one of how he had wakened from a restless sleep with the message from his subconscious echoing in his brain:

The Ramans do everything in threes.