MacRoscope (15 page)

Twenty minutes passed. Kovonov’s broad forehead was damp and his dark hair seemed to erect itself stiffly. Ivo was nervous, too, having no idea where he stood in the game, or whether he really wanted to win. Something very serious was at stake; something Kovonov might well be more competent to possess. The prize might not be a physical one at all.

Why should he let victory or loss concern him? Groton wanted him to win — but Groton hardly knew the truth. There were so many far more important matters to worry about, yet he was taking this foolish tournament as seriously as he ever had taken anything. What did the sprouts championship of this station matter, when his closest friend was a vegetable? So victory would place his name at the top of the sprout-ladder; would that make everything worthwhile?

Then the state of the game clarified: he saw that he could win. Three moves later the Russian reluctantly conceded, and it was over.

Kovonov stood up and walked regretfully over to the statuette ensconced in the middle of the room. Two out of three was it, Ivo decided. Carefully the man lifted the gilded steam-shovel from its pedestal — Ivo could see that it was very heavy, for its size — and brought it to the table.

This was the prize? “What does it mean?” he asked, pointing to the letters on the pedestal, S D P S. He could think of no other comment to make.

He had not expected an answer, in the circumstances, but he received one. “Sooper Dooper Pooper Scooper,” Kovonov said with Russian accent, and smiled evilly. Then he, too, left, and Ivo remained to stare at this final evidence of Brad’s subterranean humor.

A platinum-plated steam-shovel, including the crescent moon symbol, with a world in its mouth. Exactly the type of image Brad would fashion. A friendly insult to the station with the day’s most powerful nose.

So they had had a tourney in Brad’s memory, and the winner inherited the icon. Its value was undoubtedly very high, monetarily and symbolically — but did he really want it?

Ivo tucked it under his arm somewhat awkwardly — it
was
heavy — and marched back to his room. He was afraid the gesture might be misunderstood, if he returned it to its pedestal.

Afra woke as he entered, instantly alert. “What are you doing with that?” she demanded. She was, of course, still in night clothing, and she had forgotten to replace her slippers. It was quite a contrast to her usual precision of dress, but her beauty powered through all obstacles.

“I guess I won it.”

“You
guess
you won it!” There was pink polish on her toenails.

“I entered this contest, and it was the prize. Should I put it back?”

“Shut up and let me think.” She recovered her slippers, dusted off her feet, jammed on the footwear. She paced around the room as a man would pace, taking wide strides and swinging into the turns abruptly. The motions, however, did unmanly things to her body.

Ivo watched, still supporting the S D P S. He discovered that he liked Afra angry, too. She had torn off the kerchief, and her bright hair swirled as she spun. Absolutely refined Caucasian, Northwest European, no admixtures… her torso a marvelous sight as thighs braked, arms accelerated, midriff flexed to avoid some structure. Definitely not for the polyglot creature that was what she would perceive him to be. Georgia born…

She halted, hair, breasts and slippers stabilizing in unison. “All right. It’s
not
all right, but all right! We’ll have to make the best of it. Go fetch Harold — he put you up to this, I’m sure of it — and bring him to my room pronto. No, leave that thing here. Go — on.”

Ivo set down the statuette and retreated before her urgency. He had intended to consult with Groton first; what had brought him back here with the S D P S?

Whom was he fooling? He
knew
what had brought him back.

“You did it!” Groton exclaimed when Ivo told him. “You took the Scooper!”

“I did it, yes. Now Afra’s furious. She wants to see you in her room. Pronto, she says.”

“Right. Smart girl, that. We’re going to be busy as hell.” Ivo had not heard Groton speak that colloquially before, and he took it as another indication of strain.
The afflatus of war
, he thought ironically,
was breathed upon them all
. History repeated itself, as ever. The Senator, in death, had destroyed the macroscope, and all that it might accomplish for the benefit of mankind.

Groton raised his voice. “Beatryx!”

“Yes, dear,” came the quick answer.

“Get into your suit and stand by the tube; we’ll be ferrying some stuff out in a hurry.” Without waiting for her acknowledgment, he drew Ivo back into the hall. “God, I’m glad you did it,” he said. “They have the screws into us, and this is the only way.”

“You’ve left me behind. What are you talking about?”

“No time,” Groton said.

Ivo shrugged once more and followed.

Afra was already in her own suit, the transparent helmet flopping at her back. “Change, Ivo,” she snapped. “Better stick with him, Harold; he’s slow on the uptake.”

“I ask again: what is this all about?” Ivo said as Groton hurried him into his space suit. “Why did you have me enter that tourney, and why is Afra so upset about it? Has the whole station lost its mind?”
The afflatus of
—

“It’s that dead senator,” Groton said, as though that clarified everything. “Borland is very important in politics, and we’re taking the rap for assassinating him. That flunky of his got on the teletype before we knew it and screamed murder — exactly that. That wipes us out.”

“Well, of course there would be an investigation. But he demanded to see the destroyer, and he had been warned. The evidence should be clear enough.”

Groton stopped for a moment. “You are out of touch! Don’t you know the situation here?”

“Just that the macroscope is under nominal UN auspices, as are all the projects beyond Earth-orbit. Brad told me about the formula for time and financing—” Actually, he could understand why a thing like the destroyer could result in the dismantling of the macroscope, particularly when scandal of this nature developed. But he wanted to hear Groton’s explanation, because that might finally clarify this other business with the tourney and the S D P S.

Groton finished dressing Ivo, then turned to his own suit. In succinct bursts between motions he delivered the political reality, as seen by one who had not talked with the Senator directly. Ivo found this parallel viewpoint intriguing.

Senator Borland (Groton said) was no ordinary man. His connections were potent, not so much in America as in the UN. There were many influential personages behind him, and not a small amount of cash. His boast that he knew the governments of the station’s member-countries (that remark had orbited the personnel rapidly!) better than did their own nationals had not been empty; he was a sophisticated parlayer of influence on an international scale. He would do such-and-such, if in such-and-such a position, and the figures behind the thrones and presidencies knew what and how. It was to China’s interest that he achieve greater influence in the American farming scheme, for the potential of trading in grain remained; it was to Russia’s interest that he make the automotive-exports standards committee, for it regulated other machinery than cars, ranging from precision ball-bearings to theodolites; to South Africa’s interest that he establish private liaison with BlaPow, Inc.

Borland was all things to all peoples — but he was good at it. A promoter could accomplish a great deal, if sophisticated enough. He had already shown that he could and would deliver the goods while making political hay doing it. He had the connections, he had the charisma; somehow private meetings with him made public converts.

Ivo, remembering the Borland-Carpenter dialogue, understood that. Ivo himself was such a convert.

The death of such a man (Groton continued) was bound to mean real trouble, whatever the circumstances. Too many projects were balancing in the air, and the demise of the juggler meant that many would crash. Pledges could no longer be honored, repercussions no longer stymied.

The macroscope was the major UN effort. More international interests were crucially involved there than in any other area. Borland surely had seen its potential, and had acted to make it his own. It represented a ready way to make good on all his commitments, while benefiting the world as a whole. And perhaps he had intended to do just that, for altruistic reasons. (Ivo had not expected this tack.) Perhaps his ambition had gone beyond power, since he was in a position to appreciate how desperately the world needed help. Perhaps the answer to the ruin forecast by the Sung planet’s example had been Borland: someone to organize a more practical application of the immense knowledge available. Who could say for sure, now?

But Borland had died, and in the worst possible manner. He had not trusted hearsay evidence; he had not really believed that the destroyer could bring him down. So he had called its bluff — and lost. The UN would believe that the station personnel had murdered him, perhaps by tricking him into confrontation with that killer from space.

Trouble? As the international eggs began to fall and splatter, the need would grow very strong for an international scapegoat. The seeming cause of crisis: the macroscope.

Now they were both suited and Ivo had still not discovered what they were going about so urgently.

Afra was at the storeroom, moving things about with apparent abandon in the fractional gravity. Ivo spied crates of drugs, spices, grains, bandages and cheese, as well as cylinders of oxygen and liquid nutrient. “What’s your blood type?” she demanded of him.

“O-positive.” What could he do, but answer?

She selected a canister and dumped it near the door. Ivo looked at it: CONDENSED BLOOD O-POSITIVE. There was more technical description, but he averted his eyes, feeling unpleasantly giddy. Presumably there were ways to adjust for the myriad other factors involved in the matching of blood safely.
What made her think he would need this?

The storeroom supervisor sat at his desk, head drooping forward as though he were asleep. “Shouldn’t he be checking this stuff out?” Ivo inquired.

“I fed him a mickey,” Afra said. “Or were you being facetious?”

Ivo did not know how to answer that, so didn’t try. There was so much he didn’t know about this situation!

Afra turned to Groton. “I’ll shape this up here and move it with the powercart. You get the personal junk assembled. Better make it one box each, limit.”

“What do you need?” Groton asked Ivo.

So many unanswered questions, but
he
had to do the answering! “If you mean what do I take with me when I leave this place, nothing. I have my flute with me.”

“I forgot — you’re already suited,” Afra said. “I’ll select some clothing for you; more efficient that way.” She turned to Groton. “Better fetch Joseph.”

Ivo started. “Joseph! Isn’t that the souped-up rocket?”

“Right,” Groton agreed. “Come on.”

He and Ivo jetted across to the huge rocket much as Brad had demonstrated the first trip to the macroscope proper, except for the necessary change in course this time. Spurts from a cylinder of hydrogen peroxide took care of the propulsion.

Joseph’s hull was like a planetoid, seeming much vaster than it was, since there were no nearby objects to contrast for size. Ivo managed to land on his feet, having gained from his prior experience, and the magnetic shoe-bands took hold so that he could walk. They marched to the control compartment airlock and knocked.

The interior was larger than that of the shuttle. Joseph had been gutted and rebuilt, so that the layout was like nothing Ivo had seen in space. Evidently the atomic equipment occupied less volume than had the chemical fuel before it, so that one of the monster internal tanks could be used for living space. He could almost imagine that he was in a futuristic submarine.

In a manner of thinking, this
was
a futuristic sub.

“Course correction,” Groton said to the attendant. “Can you hitch this baby up to the scope?”

“Sure, in a couple of days,” the man said amicably.

“This is an emergency. Two hours.”

“I can move it there, but I can’t hitch it up in that time. Take a trained crew of twenty men to do that.”

Groton rolled his eyes. “Ouch! Well, you move it over and I’ll do what I can. Ivo, better jet back to the scope and tell Afra, while I check with Kovonov. This is going to be sticky.”

The attendant held up a hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, naturally — but don’t you think
you’d
better see Miss Summerfield?”

“No. Ivo doesn’t—” Groton stopped. “Damn, yes. It has to be that way. Ivo, go tell Kovonov what we need. Then join us there. Don’t waste any time.”

Ivo hung on to his patience. “Exactly what are you doing? Why do you want to hitch Joseph to the macroscope?”

“To correct the scope’s course, as I explained.”

“What’s the matter with its present course? It’s attached to the station, after all.”

“We think it is about to fall into the sun.”

“That’s ridiculous! It’s in orbit! And the station—”

The attendant smiled. “It might as well fall. The UN will destroy it anyway.”

“So you see, we need that crew immediately. Tell Kovonov.”

Ivo saw that they weren’t going to give him a legitimate explanation. Angrily, he snapped his helmet to and left the compartment.

Kovonov’s office was a niche in a heavy-gravity shell. It struck Ivo that this was an effective way to keep visits brief; anyone who stayed too long would fatigue rapidly. Momentary weight-increase could be put up with, but a steady diet of it was distinctly unpleasant. He wondered how the host endured it.

Kovonov looked up from a book set in what Ivo assumed to be Russian type. He did not speak.

The language barrier! “Groton says we need a crew of twenty men to stop the macroscope from falling into the sun,” Ivo said, knowing that the Russian could not understand a word.

Kovonov listened gravely, then touched two switches. Ivo heard his own words played back: they had been recorded. Another voice rattled off incomprehensible syllables: the translation.