The Star (45 page)
‘For wherever there’s something strange or beautiful or novel, people will want to see it. The rings of Saturn are the greatest spectacle in the known universe: I’ve always guessed so, and now you’ve convinced me. Today it takes a fortune to reach them, and the men who go there must risk their lives. So did the first men who flew—but now there are a million passengers in the air every second of the day and night.
‘The same thing is going to happen in space. It won’t happen in ten years, maybe not in twenty. But twenty-five is all it took, remember, before the first commercial flights started to the moon. I don’t think it will be as long for Saturn…
‘I won’t be around to see it—but when it happens, I want people to remember me. So—where should we build?’
I still thought he was crazy, but at last I was beginning to understand what made him tick. And there was no harm in humouring him, so I gave the matter careful thought.
‘Mimas is too close,’ I said, ‘and so are Enceladus and Tethys.’ (I don’t mind telling you, those names were tough after all that brandy.) ‘Saturn just fills the sky, and you think it’s falling on top of you. Besides, they aren’t solid enough—they’re nothing but overgrown snowballs. Dione and Rhea are better—you get a magnificent view from both of them. But all these inner moons are so tiny; even Rhea is only eight hundred miles across, and the others are much smaller.
‘I don’t think there’s any real argument; it will have to be Titan. That’s a man-sized satellite—it’s a lot bigger than
our
moon, and very nearly as large as Mars. There’s a reasonable gravity too—about a fifth of Earth’s—so your guests won’t be floating all over the place. And it will always be a major refuelling point because of its methane atmosphere, which should be an important factor in your calculations. Every ship that goes out to Saturn will touch down there.’
‘And the outer moons?’
‘Oh, Hyperion, Japetus, and Phoebe are much too far away. You have to look hard to see the rings at all from Phoebe! Forget about them. Stick to good old Titan. Even if the temperature is two hundred below zero, and ammonia snow isn’t the sort of stuff you’d want to ski on.’
He listened to me very carefully, and if he thought I was making fun of his impractical, unscientific notions he gave no sign of it. We parted soon afterward—I don’t remember anything more of that dinner—and then it must have been fifteen years before we met again. He had no further use for me in all that time; but when he wanted me, he called.
I see now what he had been waiting for; his vision had been clearer than mine. He couldn’t have guessed, of course, that the rocket would go the way of the steam engine within less than a century—but he knew
something
better would come along, and I think he financed Saunderson’s early work on the Paragravity Drive. But it was not until they started building fusion plants that could warm up a hundred square miles of a world as cold as Pluto that he got in contact with me again.
He was a very old man, and dying. They told me how rich he was, and I could hardly believe it. Not until he showed me the elaborate plans and the beautiful models his experts had prepared with such remarkable lack of publicity.
He sat in his wheel chair like a wrinkled mummy, watching my face as I studied the models and blueprints. Then he said: ‘Captain, I have a job for you…’
So here I am. It’s just like running a spaceship, of course—many of the technical problems are identical. And by this time I’d be too old to command a ship, so I’m very grateful to Mr Perlman.
There goes the gong. If the ladies are ready, I suggest we walk down to dinner through the Observation Lounge.
Even after all these years, I still like to watch Saturn rising—and tonight it’s almost full.
First published in
Analog
, May 1961
Collected in
Tales of Ten Worlds
Washington had never looked lovelier in the spring; and this was the last spring, thought Senator Steelman bleakly, that he would ever see. Even now, despite all that Dr Jordan had told him, he could not fully accept the truth. In the past there had always been a way of escape; no defeat had been final. When men had betrayed him, he had discarded them—even ruined them, as a warning to others. But now the betrayal was within himself; already, it seemed, he could feel the laboured beating of the heart that would soon be stilled. No point in planning now for the Presidential election of 1976; he might not even live to see the nominations…
It was an end of dreams and ambition, and he could not console himself with the knowledge that for all men these must end someday. For him it was too soon; he thought of Cecil Rhodes, who had always been one of his heroes, crying ‘So much to do—so little time to do it in!’ as he died before his fiftieth birthday. He was already older than Rhodes, and had done far less.
The car was taking him away from the Capitol; there was symbolism in that, and he tried not to dwell upon it. Now he was abreast of the New Smithsonian—that vast complex of museums he had never had time to visit, though he had watched it spread along the Mall throughout the years he had been in Washington. How much he had missed, he told himself bitterly, in his relentless pursuit of power. The whole universe of art and culture had remained almost closed to him, and that was only part of the price that he had paid. He had become a stranger to his family and to those who were once his friends. Love had been sacrificed on the altar of ambition, and the sacrifice had been in vain. Was there anyone in all the world who would weep at his departure?
Yes, there was. The feeling of utter desolation relaxed its grip upon his soul. As he reached for the phone, he felt ashamed that he had to call the office to get this number, when his mind was cluttered with memories of so many less important things.
(There was the White House, almost dazzling in the spring sunshine. For the first time in his life he did not give it a second glance. Already it belonged to another world—a world that would never concern him again.)
The car circuit had no vision, but he did not need it to sense Irene’s mild surprise—and her still milder pleasure.
‘Hello, Renee—how are you all?’
‘Fine, Dad. When are we going to see you?’
It was the polite formula his daughter always used on the rare occasions when he called. And invariably, except at Christmas or birthdays, his answer was a vague promise to drop around at some indefinite future date.
‘I was wondering,’ he said slowly, almost apologetically, ‘if I could borrow the children for an afternoon. It’s a long time since I’ve taken them out, and I felt like getting away from the office.’
‘But of course,’ Irene answered, her voice warming with pleasure. ‘They’ll love it. When would you like them?’
‘Tomorrow would be fine. I could call around twelve, and take them to the Zoo or the Smithsonian, or anywhere else they felt like visiting.’
Now she was really startled, for she knew well enough that he was one of the busiest men in Washington, with a schedule planned weeks in advance. She would be wondering what had happened; he hoped she would not guess the truth. No reason why she should, for not even his secretary knew of the stabbing pains that had driven him to seek this long-overdue medical checkup.
‘That would be wonderful. They were talking about you only yesterday, asking when they’d see you again.’
His eyes misted, and he was glad that Renee could not see him.
‘I’ll be there at noon,’ he said hastily, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. ‘My love to you all.’ He switched off before she could answer, and relaxed against the upholstery with a sigh of relief. Almost upon impulse, without conscious planning, he had taken the first step in the reshaping of his life. Though his own children were lost to him, a bridge across the generations remained intact. If he did nothing else, he must guard and strengthen it in the months that were left.
Taking two lively and inquisitive children through the natural-history building was not what the doctor would have ordered, but it was what he wanted to do. Joey and Susan had grown so much since their last meeting, and it required both physical and mental alertness to keep up with them. No sooner had they entered the rotunda than they broke away from him, and scampered toward the enormous elephant dominating the marble hall.
‘What’s that?’ cried Joey.
‘It’s an elephant, stupid,’ answered Susan with all the crushing superiority of her seven years.
‘I know it’s an effelant,’ retorted Joey. ‘But what’s its name?’
Senator Steelman scanned the label, but found no assistance there. This was one occasion when the risky adage ‘Sometimes wrong, never uncertain’ was a safe guide to conduct.
‘He was called—er—Jumbo,’ he said hastily. ‘Just look at those tusks!’
‘Did he ever get toothache?’
‘Oh no.’
‘Then how did he clean his teeth? Ma says that if I don’t clean mine…’
Steelman saw where the logic of this was leading, and thought it best to change the subject.
‘There’s a lot more to see inside. Where do you want to start—birds, snakes, fish, mammals?’
‘Snakes!’ clamoured Susan. ‘I wanted to keep one in a box, but Daddy said no. Do you think he’d change his mind if you asked him?’
‘What’s a mammal?’ asked Joey, before Steelman could work out an answer to that.
‘Come along,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ll show you.’
As they moved through the halls and galleries, the children darting from one exhibit to another, he felt at peace with the world. There was nothing like a museum for calming the mind, for putting the problems of everyday life in their true perspective. Here, surrounded by the infinite variety and wonder of Nature, he was reminded of truths he had forgotten. He was only one of a million million creatures that shared this planet Earth. The entire human race, with its hopes and fears, its triumphs and its follies, might be no more than an incident in the history of the world. As he stood before the monstrous bones of Diplodocus (the children for once awed and silent), he felt the winds of Eternity blowing through his soul. He could no longer take so seriously the gnawing of ambition, the belief that he was the man the nation needed.
What
nation, if it came to that? A mere two centuries ago this summer, the Declaration of Independence had been signed; but this old American had lain in the Utah rocks for a hundred million years…
He was tired when they reached the Hall of Oceanic Life, with its dramatic reminder that Earth still possessed animals greater than any that the past could show. The ninety-foot blue whale plunging into the ocean, and all the other swift hunters of the sea, brought back memories of hours he had once spent on a tiny, glistening deck with a white sail billowing above him. That was another time when he had known contentment, listening to the swish of water past the prow, and the sighing of the wind through the rigging. He had not sailed for thirty years; this was another of the world’s pleasures he had put aside.
‘I don’t like fish,’ complained Susan. ‘When do we get to the snakes?’
‘Presently,’ he said. ‘But what’s the hurry? There’s plenty of time.’
The words slipped out before he realised it. He checked his step, while the children ran on ahead. Then he smiled, without bitterness. For in a sense, it was true enough. There
was
plenty of time. Each day, each hour could be a universe of experience, if one used it properly. In the last weeks of his life, he would begin to live.
As yet, no one at the office suspected anything. Even his outing with the children had not caused much surprise; he had done such things before, suddenly cancelling his appointments and leaving his staff to pick up the pieces. The pattern of his behaviour had not yet changed, but in a few days it would be obvious to all his associates that something had happened. He owed it to them—and to the party—to break the news as soon as possible; there were, however, many personal decisions he had to make first, which he wished to settle in his own mind before he began the vast unwinding of his affairs.
There was another reason for his hesitancy. During his career, he had seldom lost a fight, and in the cut and thrust of political life he had given quarter to none. Now, facing his ultimate defeat, he dreaded the sympathy and the condolences that his many enemies would hasten to shower upon him. The attitude, he knew, was a foolish one—a remnant of his stubborn pride which was too much a part of his personality to vanish even under the shadow of death.
He carried his secret from committee room to White House to Capitol, and through all the labyrinths of Washington society, for more than two weeks. It was the finest performance of his career, but there was no one to appreciate it. At the end of that time he had completed his plan of action; it remained only to dispatch a few letters he had written in his own hand, and to call his wife.
The office located her, not without difficulty, in Rome. She was still beautiful, he thought, as her features swam on to the screen; she would have made a fine First Lady, and that would have been some compensation for the lost years. As far as he knew, she had looked forward to the prospect; but had he ever really understood what she wanted?
‘Hello, Martin,’ she said, ‘I was expecting to hear from you. I suppose you want me to come back.’
‘Are you willing to?’ he asked quietly. The gentleness of his voice obviously surprised her.
‘I’d be a fool to say no, wouldn’t I? But if they don’t elect you, I want to go my own way again. You must agree to that.’
‘They won’t elect me. They won’t even nominate me. You’re the first to know this, Diana. In six months, I shall be dead.’
The directness was brutal, but it had a purpose. That fraction-of-a-second delay while the radio waves flashed up to the communication satellites and back again to Earth had never seemed so long. For once, he had broken through the beautiful mask. Her eyes widened with disbelief, her hand flew to her lips.
‘You’re joking!’
‘About
this
? It’s true enough. My heart’s worn out. Dr Jordan told me, a couple of weeks ago. It’s my own fault, of course, but let’s not go into that.’
