“Anyone would think we were building a spaceship,” Morgan commented. “Incidentally, what's the latest estimate of survival time?”
“As long as power's available, at least a week, even for a full load of fifty passengers. Which is really absurd, since a rescue team could always reach them in three hours, either from Earth or Midway.”
“Barring a major catastrophe, like damage to the tower or tracks.”
"If that ever happens, I don't think there will be anyone to rescue. But if a capsule gets stuck for some reason, and the passengers don't go mad and gobble up all our delicious emergency compressed food tablets at once, their biggest the old joke said. But one day its identical brethren would be hurtling up through the clouds and climbing, in only five hours, to Midway Station, twenty-five thousand kilometres from Earth. And all for about one dollar's worth of electricity per passenger.
THE FOUNTAINS OF PARADISE
Even now, it was impossible to realise the full meaning of the coming revolution. For the first time Space itself would become as accessible as any point on the surface of the familiar Earth. In a few more decades, if the average man wanted to spend a weekend on the moon, he could afford to do so. Even Mars would not be out of the question; there were no limitations to what might now be possible.
Morgan came back to earth with a bump, as he almost tripped over a piece of badly-laid carpet.
“Sorry,” said his guide, “another of Design's ideas – that green is supposed to remind people of Earth. The ceilings are going to be blue, getting deeper and deeper on the upper floors. And they want to use indirect lighting everywhere, so that the stars will be visible.”
Morgan shook his head. “That's a nice idea, but it won't work. If the lighting's good enough for comfortable reading, the glare will wipe out the stars. You'll need a section of the lounge that can be completely blacked-out.”
“That's already planned for part of the bar – you can order your drink, and retire behind the curtains.”
They were now standing in the lowest floor of the capsule, a circular room eight metres in diameter, three metres high. All around were miscellaneous boxes, cylinders and control panels bearing such labels as OXYGEN RESERVE, BATTERY, CO, CRACKER, MEDICAL, TEMPERATURE CONTROL. Everything was clearly of a provisional, temporary nature, liable to be rearranged at a moment's notice.
“Anyone would think we were building a spaceship,” Morgan commented. “Incidentally, what's the latest estimate of survival time?”
“As long as power's available, at least a week, even for a full load of fifty passengers. Which is really absurd, since a rescue team could always reach them in three hours, either from Earth or Midway.”
“Barring a major catastrophe, like damage to the tower or tracks.”
“If that ever happens, I don't think there will be anyone to rescue. But if a capsule gets stuck for some reason, and the passengers don't go mad and gobble up all our delicious emergency compressed food tablets at once, their biggest problem will be boredom.”
The second floor was completely empty, devoid even of temporary fittings. Someone had chalked a large rectangle on the curved plastic panel of the wall and printed inside it: AIRLOCK HERE?
“This will be the baggage room – though we're not sure if we'll need so much space. If not, it can be used for extra passengers. Now, this floor's much more interesting -”
The third level contained a dozen aircraft-type chairs, all of different designs; two of them were occupied by realistic dummies, male and female, who looked very bored with the whole proceedings.
“We've practically decided on this model,” said Kingsley, pointing to a luxurious tilting swivel-chair with attached small table, “but we'll run the usual survey first.”
Morgan punched his fist into the seat cushion.
“Has anyone actually sat in it for five hours?” he asked.
“Yes – a hundred-kilo volunteer. No bed-sores. If people complain, we'll remind them of the pioneering days of aviation, when it took five hours merely to cross the Pacific. And, of course, we're offering low-gee comfort almost all the way.”
The floor above was identical in concept, though empty of chairs. They passed through it quickly and reached the next level, to which the designers had obviously devoted most attention.
The bar looked almost functional, and indeed the coffee dispenser was actually working. Above it, in an elaborately gilded frame, was an old engraving of such uncanny relevance that it took Morgan's breath away. A huge full moon dominated the upper left quadrant, and racing towards it was – a bullet-shaped train towing four carriages. From the windows of the compartment labelled “First Class” top-hatted Victorian personages could be seen admiring the view.
“Where did you get hold of that?” Morgan asked in astonished admiration.
“Looks as if the caption's fallen off again,” Kingsley apologised, hunting round behind the bar. “Ah, here it is.”
He handed Morgan a piece of card upon which was printed, in old-fashioned typeface,
PROJECTILE TRAINS FOR THE MOON
Engraving from 1881 Edition of
FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON
Direct
In 97 Hours and 20 Minutes
AND A TRIP AROUND FF
By Jules Verne
"I'm sorry to say I've never read it," said Morgan, when he had absorbed this information. "It might have saved me a lot of trouble. But I'd like to know how he managed without any rails…''
“We shouldn't give Jules too much credit – or blame. This picture was never meant to be taken seriously – it was a joke of the artist.”
“Well – give Design my compliments; it's one of their better ideas.”
Turning away from the dreams of the past, Morgan and Kingsley walked towards the reality of the future. Through the wide observation window a back-projection system gave a stunning view of Earth – and not just any view, Morgan was pleased to note, but the correct one. Taprobane itself was hidden, of course, being directly below; but there was the whole subcontinent of Hindustan, right out to the dazzling snows of the Himalayas.
“You know,” Morgan said suddenly, “it will be exactly like the Bridge, all over again. People will take the trip just for the view. Midway Station could be the biggest tourist attraction ever.” He glanced up at the azure-blue ceiling. “Anything worth looking at on the last floor?”
“Not really – the upper air-lock is finalised, but we haven't decided where to put the life-support backup gear and the electronics for the track-centring controls.”
“Any problems there?”
“Not with the new magnets. Powered or coasting, we can guarantee safe clearance up to eight thousand kilometres an hour – fifty percent above maximum design speed.”
Morgan permitted himself a mental sigh of relief. This was one area in which he was quite unable to make any judgements, and had to rely completely on the advice of others. From the beginning, it had been obvious that only some form of magnetic propulsion could operate at such speeds; the slightest physical contact – at more than a kilometre a second! – would result in disaster. And yet the four pairs of guidance slots running up the faces of the tower had only centimetres of clearance around the magnets; they had to be designed so that enormous restoring forces came instantly into play, correcting any movement of the capsule away from the centre line.
As Morgan followed Kingsley down the spiral stairway which extended the full height of the mockup, he was suddenly struck by a sombre thought. I'm getting old, he said to himself. Oh, I could have climbed to the sixth level without any trouble; but I'm glad we decided not to.