Garamond tried to weigh the considerations, but he could see only the faces of his wife and child. “Right! We do it. I want to see a copy of the decision network plan, but start taking action right away. In the meantime I’ll talk to Fleet Control.”
The ten science-oriented and engineering officers at the table instantly launched into a polygonal discussion and the noise level in the room shot up as communications channels were opened to other parts of the ship. Within a minute perhaps thirty other men and women were taking part, many of them vicariously present in the form of miniaturized, but nonetheless solid and real-looking, images of their heads, which transformed the long room into a montage of crazy perspectives.
Garamond could almost feel the wavecrest of hope surging through all the levels of the disabled vessel. He told Napier to make an announcement about the situation on the general address system, then went into his private suite and put a call through to Fleet Control. It was taken not by the Fleet Movements Controller, as Garamond had expected, but by a Starflight admin man, Senior Secretary Lord Nettleton. The Senior Secretary was a handsome silver-haired man who had a reputation for his devotion to the Lindstrom hierarchy. He was of a type that Elizabeth liked to have around, capable of presenting a benign fatherly image, while keeping himself remote from the inner workings of the system.
“I was expecting somebody on the operations side,” Garamond said, dispensing with the standard formal mode of address.
“The President has taken the matter under her personal control. She is very much concerned.”
“I’ll bet she is.”
“I beg your pardon?” Nettleton’s resonant voice betrayed a degree of puzzlement which was an open challenge to Garamond to speak his mind.
Again Garamond thought about his wife and child. “The President’s concern for the welfare of her employees is well known.”
Nettleton inclined his head graciously. “I’m aware of how futile words are under the circumstances, Captain Garamond, but I would like to express my personal sympathy for you and your crew in this…”
“The reason I called is to inform Starflight that the Bissendorf has enough lateral control to enable it to pass through the aperture into the interior of Orbits… Lindstromland, and that is what I intend to do.”
“I don’t quite understand.” Nettleton’s image underwent several minute but abrupt changes of size which told Garamond other viewers were switching into the circuit. “I am informed that you are travelling at a hundred kilometres a second and have no means of slowing down.”
“That’s correct. The Bissendorf is going to hit Beachhead City like a bomb. You will have to evacuate the area around the aperture. My science staff can help with the estimates of how widespread the damage will be, but in any case I strongly recommend that you issue warnings immediately. You have less than eight hours.” Garamond went on to explain the proposed action in detail, while continued perturbations of the image showed that his unseen audience was increasing every second.
“Captain, what happens if your ship misses the aperture and strikes the shell material below the city itself?”
“We are confident of passing through the aperture.”
“All you’re saying is that the probability is high, but supposing you do miss?”
“It is our opinion that the shell would be undamaged.”
“But the shell is one of the greatest scientific enigmas ever known — on what do you base your predictions about its behaviour under that sort of impact?”
Garamond allowed himself a smile. “In the last hour or so our instinct about these things has become highly developed.”
“This is hardly a time for jokes.” Nettleton looked away for a moment, nodded to someone off screen, and when he turned back to Garamond bis eyes were sombre. “Captain, have you thought about the possibility that Starflight may not be able to grant you permission to aim for the aperture?”
Garamond considered the question. “No — but I’ve thought about the fact that there is absolutely nothing Starflight can do to stop me.”
Nettleton shook his head with regal sadness. “Captain, I’m going to put you through to the President on a direct connection.”
“I haven’t the time to speak to her,” Garamond told him. “Just send a message to my wife that I’ll be back with her as soon as I can.” He broke the connection and returned to the operations room, hoping he had sounded more confident than he felt.
Lindstrom Centre was austere compared to its equivalent on Earth, but it was the largest and most palatial building on Orbitsville. It was octagonal in plan and had been built on a slight eminence some twenty kilometres east from Beachhead City, to which it was joined by power and communication cables stretched on low pylons. No attempt had yet been made to sculpt the hill according to the President’s ideas of what it ought to be, so the glass-and-acrylic edifice was incongruously lapped by a sea of grass. Its first three floors housed those elements of the Starflight administration which the supreme executive had transported from the Two Worlds, and the top floor was her private residence.
On this evening, the guards who patrolled the perimeter fence were distinctly uneasy. They had heard that a maniac of a flickerwing captain was going to try to crash his vessel through the aperture at interplanetary speed, and the rumour had even quoted an exact minute for the event to occur — 20.06 Compatible Local Time. As the moment grew nearer each man felt a powerful urge to fix his gaze on the distant scattering of buildings, just below the upcurved horizon, which was Beachhead City. They had been told that most of the city had been hastily evacuated to escape the promised pyrotechnics, and nobody wanted to miss the spectacle.
At the same time, however, their eyes were frequently drawn upwards to the transparent west wall of the Presidential suite. Elizabeth Lindstrom herself could be glimpsed up there, screened only by sky reflections, her silk-sheathed abdomen glowing like a pearl — and it was well known that she sometimes kept watch on her guards through a magnifying screen. None of the men relished the idea of being dismissed from Starflight service and sent back to the crowded towerblocks of Earth, and yet the compulsion to stare into the west grew greater with each passing minute.
The suspense was also making itself felt on the top floor of the Octagon, but in the case of Elizabeth Lindstrom it was a pleasurable sensation, heady and stimulating, akin to pre-orgasmic tension.
“My dear,” she said warmly to Aileen Garamond, “do you think you are wise to watch this?”
“Quite sure, My Lady.”
“But the boy…” “I’m positive my husband knows what he is doing.” Aileen’s voice was firm and unemotional as she laid her hands on her son’s shoulders, forcing him to face the west. “Nothing will go wrong.”
“I admire your courage, especially when the chances are so…” Elizabeth checked herself just in time. The common, characterless woman beside her appeared genuinely to believe that a ship could run into a solid wall of air at a speed of a hundred kilometres a second and not be destroyed on the instant. Elizabeth was girded with the mathematics which showed how incredible the idea was, but she knew the equations would mean nothing to her guest. In any case, she had no desire to break the news in advance — she wanted to watch Mrs Garamond’s face as she saw her husband’s funeral pyre blossom on the horizon. Only then would she receive the first payment against the incalculable debt which the Garamond family owed her.
The concept of grief cancelling grief, of pain atoning for pain, was one which few people could properly understand, Elizabeth had often told herself. Even she had not appreciated the logic of it until days after Harald’s small body had been cast in sun-coloured resin and stood in its place in the Lindstrom chapel. But it was so true!