Resurgence

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Escape clause

“It has happened before, if you are willing to believe some of the ancient stories.” Teri Dahl’s arms felt ready to fall off and she was taking a brief break. “An old man pushed a rock up a hill all day. Whenever he reached the top it rolled back down and he had to start over.”

Torran Veck had been digging furiously, clearing away new snow and old ice from the runway in front of the Have-It-All. He paused for a moment. “I don’t know what they meant by an old man, but I doubt if he was much older than I’m feeling. We’ve done this three times so far. How many more?”

“As often as we need, until we can get out of here. I heard Louis Nenda talking with Hans Rebka. No one, not even E.C. Tally, can calculate the weather patterns. At least the temperature seems to be holding steady. Nenda says we just have to keep the thrustors free from snow and ice as often as they become clogged, and hold the runway open.”

“That’s easy for him to say. He’s not down here digging.”

“In some ways this is harder on Nenda than anyone else. It’s his ship that’s being torn to pieces and thrown away. Look at that.”

A flash of green showed at one of the upper hatches, and four storage lockers came sailing out to land on the snow.

Torran stared up. “That’s Claudius at the hatch. If they have him working, things must really be bad.”

“Nenda let him sit inside the shields on the forward reactor for a few hours, and it made all the difference. See how light a green he is? He’s drunk. In his condition he’s likely to throw himself out along with everything else.”

“Who’s keeping overall track of things?”

“E.C. Tally. That kind of job was made for him. He knows to the gram the mass of everything being thrown away, and he provides a running total anytime you ask for it—or even if you don’t.”

“How close are we to a decision, Teri? I’ve been too busy even to ask.”

“Asking won’t help. Tally says he doesn’t know. Nenda and Rebka do, and maybe Julian Graves. They know all the facts. But not one of them is telling. My guess is that we still have a long way to go, because internal fixtures are bring thrown away faster than ever.”

A fat disk, three meters across and half a meter thick, went spinning away through the air from an upper level of the ship. It flew thirty or forty meters before it plowed sideways into deep snow.

Teri said, “I think that’s Louis Nenda’s special luxury bed. The only one aboard who could throw it like that is Archimedes. I wonder where Nenda will sleep now?”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s his top priority. Nobody should plan much sleep anywhere for the next day or two.” Torran glanced up at the sun. “Uh-oh. I had no idea it was so late. It will be sunset in another hour. We have to get back to work.”

“I can’t believe it’s so close to sundown.” Teri looked to the readout in her suit’s faceplate. “And my suit agrees with the way I feel. It says we have four hours and more before dark.”

“That’s strange.” Torran paused again in his work. “My suit is saying the same thing as yours. But our eyes aren’t lying, either.”

They stared at the sun, barely above the horizon, then turned to look at each other.

At last Teri said, “I have no idea what is going on.”

“Nor do I. But this is strange enough, whatever it is, we have to report it this minute.”

Teri Dahl was right. They did indeed have a long way to go. But she was wrong in thinking that Louis Nenda and Hans Rebka knew how far.

“We’re not down to the wire yet, nowhere near it. There’s loads more stuff can go.” Nenda was in the conference room with Hans Rebka, along with E.C. Tally, Julian Graves, Darya Lang, and Atvar H’sial. Nenda’s beloved conference table had long since vanished, torn apart by Archimedes and thrown outside. The chairs had suffered the same fate. The members of the group sat around on the floor.

Nenda went on, “One thing’s for sure, if we have a chance at all, it’s a slim one. I pulled us together because we need to make a couple of decisions. Tally, what we got up to now?”

“In our present situation, we have no chance whatsoever of achieving orbit.”

“That’s just lovely. What I had in mind was a bit more detail. Like, maybe, a few numbers, a few facts, some probabilities.”

“Those I will gladly provide.”

“But not too many of ’em.”

“Can there be too many facts? However, let us begin with fundamentals. In order to reach a Bose entry node in this system, the Have-It-All must achieve escape velocity from Marglot. We must somehow attain with our drive a final velocity of better than 9.43 kilometers a second. Based on the Have-It-All’s present mass, and assuming a drive efficiency of thirty-eight percent, which appears to be the best that we can hope for, our top final velocity would be 7.61 kilometers a second.”

“So we’re not even close. Not even close to close. You’re tellin’ us we somehow have to get rid of twenty percent of the ship’s original mass.”

“Nineteen point three percent, to be more precise. However, considerable mass reduction is still possible. We have scarcely begun to remove the second class of inessentials.” Tally glanced around the conference room. “For example, wall paneling such as that. It is not needed for flight. It must go.”

“That paneling is special hardwoods from Kleindienst. I’ll never be able to replace it. Go on.”

“All non-structural interior bulkheads are expendable. All food refrigeration systems, together with all food that would spoil. All but an absolute minimum of other foods. All water recycling equipment may be dispensed with, since present water supplies will suffice for a trip back to the Orion Arm. All drinks but water. All storage lockers, all furniture except for control chairs, all sleeping accommodations, all soft furnishings, all carpets and drapes. All clothing beyond what people are wearing at the time we leave. All spare suits. Most lighting fixtures. All exercise and recreational equipment. All toilet and bathroom fixtures, unless you feel it necessary to keep one working toilet.”

Nenda said, “That would be nice.” Hans Rebka added, “Keep going, E.C. This is beginning to sound familiar—just like it was where I grew up.”

“All air quality monitoring and air purification equipment. This introduces a slight risk, which the councilor believes to be tolerable.”

Julian Graves nodded. “Compared to the risk if we stay on Marglot, it’s negligible.”

“Most communication and navigation equipment, beyond a bare minimum. All cosmetics. All personal computing equipment. I volunteer to upload their contents into my own internal storage, and will download them again into new equipment if and when the opportunity arises. All interior temperature control and air circulation systems. Individuals must seek their own comfort zones. There are also many smaller potential savings. For example, Kallik assures me that a Hymenopt can go months without food or water, and she is quite willing to do so. My own body can be left behind, and only my brain retained. Should we survive, a new embodiment will present no problem. Though I cringe at the prospect of Sue Harbeson Ando’s indignation if I return to her yet again for a replacement.”

“I cringe at the prospect of somethin’ a lot worse than that. Suppose we do the list, every one?”

“We will achieve a further mass reduction of 7.44 percent. Making the same assumptions as before as to engine efficiency, that provides us a final velocity of 8.27 kilometers a second.”

“And we need 9.43 or better. It won’t do. We’re still more than twelve percent short.”

“I don’t understand something.” Darya Lang had been sitting silent. “Seems to me we’re missing out on something huge. What about all the equipment associated with atmospheric flight? There are the air-breathing engines, the extensible wings, the stabilizers, and the landing gear.”

E.C. Tally was nodding. “Most of the landing gear is also needed for an air-breathing power takeoff. However, if we were to dispense with the rest, we would achieve a further mass reduction of two percent of our original. This would bring us to a final velocity of 8.44 kilometers a second. However, the consensus seems to be that we should not readily abandon a capability for atmospheric travel. Captain Rebka is worried that we may need to fly atmospheric for other reasons.”

“I am. Keep going, E.C. You still haven’t mentioned the beetlebacks.”

“They are on my list of relevant facts. They move slowly, perhaps because the snow is hindering their progress. But they do move, and groups of them are still converging on our location. Given their possible role in the destruction of Marglot, it is difficult to believe that they come to do us anything but harm.”

“So we may have to take a short hop. After that, maybe we burn our bridges and get rid of the Have-It-All’s engines for air travel. There’s one more thing we need to sort out, an’ maybe it’s the main reason I wanted us to meet.” Nenda looked around at the others. “This isn’t a deal where we all get to pick, an’ everyone has their personal preference. We’re in one ship. Somebody has to make the call: if we fly, when we fly, how we fly. Some of you have been in trouble as often as I have—maybe more. You know you don’t run emergencies by committee.”

Darya said at once, “Take me out of the decision-making loop. I like to sit and think for a year before I make up my mind.”

“You made your mind up about that quick enough. But all right.”

Hans Rebka said, “I’m not like Darya, I can make up my mind fast. But I don’t know this ship the way you do, Nenda. I don’t know what it will and won’t do, when you can change your mind, how you can cut corners. This one has to be yours. The rest of us can listen, and maybe make suggestions. But calling the shots must be your job.”

“I was afraid you would say that. I don’t like it much, but I know I’d like anythin’ else a whole lot less.” Nenda stood up. “All right. I’ll say when. Meanwhile, we hold on to the equipment to fly atmospheric. Everythin’ else goes.”

He paused. The door of the conference room was history, ripped off its hinges and thrown overboard by Archimedes. Now Torran Veck and Teri Dahl stood in the opening, the lower part of their suits still caked with frozen snow.

“You got problems? We’re busy here.”

“No problems with the runway and the engines.” Torran Veck took a step forward. “They’re not perfect, but we’ll have a hard time doing better. There’s something else going on that we don’t understand.”

“Join the club.”

“When we arrived at Marglot, we thought it was tidally locked to the gas-giant M-2.”

“It was. It still is. This just isn’t a Hot Pole anymore, because everywhere is cold.”

“You don’t need to tell us that. It’s seventy below outside. And Marglot isn’t tidally locked to M-2. Its rotation rate is changing.”

Nenda didn’t believe it. Hans Rebka didn’t believe it, Darya didn’t believe it. Nobody believed it, until they saw the evidence.

That came from above, and it was not obvious at once to human senses. Outside the ship it was night, the sky was clear, and stars were visible. The sensors of the Have-It-All—those few that remained—made a series of observations and fed them to the ship’s computer. Within microseconds, a precise calculation was completed. The computer reported:

The rotational period of Marglot when the Have-It-All arrived at this system was measured to be 39.36142 standard hours, with a variation of one unit in the final digit probably caused by planetary internal activity. The rotational period as measured in the sequence of observations that was just completed is 14.388 standard hours.

“Marglot ain’t tidally locked any more?”

That is correct.

“It’s in free rotation relative to M-2. How the hell can that happen?”

Nenda was talking to the group around him, but the computer answered: There is no mechanism described in our data banks which can account for such a thing.

E.C. Tally added, “Nor in mine.”

The computer had not finished. The same sequence of observations that provides a new value for the rotation period also shows that the rotation rate is still increasing, by 0.0644 radians per hour per hour.

Tally shook his head in a human gesture of bewilderment. “I do not understand that, either.”

“I don’t understand it, an’ I sure as hell don’t like it. But I’m forced to believe it. Tally, we need to dump out all the items on your list, fast as we can do it. Everybody helps. If you’re in doubt, don’t come back an’ ask. Chuck it.” He waved his arm. “Go on, go on. Get outa here.”

It was Nenda’s ship, and his control cabin. Everyone moved out—reluctantly—except Hans Rebka and Atvar H’sial. The two men stared at each other.

“You realize it won’t be enough, no matter what you tell people to throw out. We still can’t reach orbit.”

“ ’Course I do. I’m not a dummy. I just didn’t see any point advertisin’ disaster. Suppose you were me, and had to act. What would you do?”

“Clean off the engines, reduce mass as far as I could—exactly the same as you are doing. Then I’d cross my fingers and fly. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to second-guess you. I just want to be sure we’re on the same wavelength.”

“I think we are. Let’s go and dump somethin’ expendable—or maybe not so expendable. When in doubt, throw it out.”

Hans Rebka left, leaving only Louis and Atvar H’sial in the room.

“How about you, At? What’s the problem, too proud to work?”

“When my personal existence is at stake? Not at all. I wish to draw to your attention a factor which seems to have been overlooked. But first, a question. In terms of the rotational axis of Marglot, what is the Have-It-All’s current location?”

“We’re almost at what used to be the Hot Pole, which puts us just about smack on the rotational equator. What’s your point, At? It’s a bit late for a geography lesson.”

“But not, perhaps, for one in elementary mechanics. The acceleration due to gravity on the rotational equator of Marglot is 8.411 meters per second per second. With a rotational period of 39.36 hours, as it was when we first arrived here, and a radius of 5,286 kilometers, the centripetal acceleration on the equator was 0.01 meters per second per second. That is negligible when compared with the acceleration of gravity, little more than a thousandth of it. With a shorter period of rotation, equal to its present value of about 14.4 hours, the centripetal acceleration has increased to 0.08 meters per second squared. This is still a small value, an outward force equal to only about one percent of the gravitational force. It is insignificant when compared to the large reduction of mass needed by the Have-It-All in order to achieve orbit. However, the rotation rate is still increasing. Let us suppose, as a theoretical exercise, that it continues to increase at its current rate. This will have three effects, two of them undesirable and one desirable. The first undesirable effect will result from atmospheric inertia. The air of Marglot will resist being dragged around with the body of the planet. We must anticipate huge winds from the east, which I note are already arising. Second, the balance of forces on the planet will force it to assume a different shape. Marglot will become increasingly oblate, bulging more at the equator. That will undoubtedly induce major structural changes. We must expect great earthquakes, of unknown magnitude.”

“Wonderful. Just one more reason to get the hell out of here—if only we could.”

“We already had reasons enough to leave. But the undesirable consequences are perhaps outweighed by the desirable effect of more rapid rotation. As the planet continues to spin faster and faster, the centripetal acceleration at the equator will increase. Furthermore, that acceleration increases quadratically, proportional to the square of the angular rate. Eighteen hours from now, the outward centripetal force at the equator will equal 12.3 percent of the inward gravitational force. The total downward force on an object on the surface at that time will equal the difference of those gravitational and centripetal forces. If the Have-It-All still exists then, and if there is a surface that permits a take-off, and if the thrustors perform at their estimated levels when we are in the air, we should be able to leave the surface and ascend to orbit.”

“That’s a whole lot of ifs you got there.”

“True. But which would you prefer, Louis Nenda?” Atvar H’sial rose from her crouched position. “A substantial set of contingent possibilities, or a single unpleasant certainty?”