Rama II r-2 Read online

  In the following year, 2144, the last significant manned space mission of the time period took place. The mission was a rescue sortie piloted by an amazing Mexican woman named Benita Garcia. Using a jerryrigged space­craft thrown together from old parts, Ms. Garcia and her three-man crew somehow managed to reach the geosynchronous orbit of the lame cruiser James Martin, the final interplanetary transport vehicle in service, and save twenty-four members from the crew of a hundred women and children being repatriated from Mars. In every space historian’s mind, the rescue of the passengers on the James Martin marked the end of an era. Within six more months the two remaining space stations were abandoned and no human lifted off the Earth, bound for orbit, until almost forty years later.

  By 2145 the struggling world had managed to see the importance of some of the international organizations neglected and maligned at the beginning of The Great Chaos. The most talented members of mankind, after having eschewed personal political involvement during the benign early decades of the century, began to understand that it would only be through the collective skills of the brightest and most capable humans that any semblance of civilized life could ever be restored. At first the monumental cooperative efforts that resulted were only modestly successful; but they rekindled the fundamental optimism of the human spirit and started the renewal process-Slowly, ever so slowly, the elements of human civilization were put back into place.

  It was still another two years before the general recovery finally showed up in economic statistics. By 2147 the Gross World Product had dwindled to 7 percent of its level six years earlier. Unemployment in the developed nations averaged 3 5 percent; in some of the undeveloped nations the combination of unemployed and underemployed amounted to 90 percent of the population-It is estimated that as many as one hundred million people starved to death during the awful summer of 2142 alone, when a great drought and concomi­tant famine girdled the world in the tropical regions. The combination of an astronomical death rate from many causes and a minuscule birthrate (for who wanted to bring a child into such a hopeless world?) caused the world’s population to drop by almost a billion in the decade ending in 2150.

  The experience of The Great Chaos left a permanent scar on an entire generation. As the years passed, and the children born after its conclusion reached adolescence, they were confronted by parents who were cautious to the point of phobia. Life as a teenager in the 2160s and even the 2170s was very strict. The memories of the terrible traumas of their youth during The Chaos haunted the adult generation and made them extremely rigid in their application of parental discipline. To them life was not a joyride at an amusement park. It was a deadly serious affair and only through a combination of solid values, self-control, and a steady commitment to a worthwhile goal was there a chance to achieve happiness.

  The society that emerged in the 2170s was therefore dramatically differ­ent from the freewheeling laissez-faireism of fifty years earlier. Many very old, established institutions, among them the nation-state, the Roman Cath­olic church, and the English monarchy, had enjoyed a renaissance during the half century interim. These institutions had prospered because they had adapted quickly and taken leadership positions in the restructuring that fol­lowed The Chaos.

  By the late 2170s, when a semblance of stability had returned to the planet, interest in space began to build again. A new generation of observa­tion and communication satellites was launched by the reconstituted Inter­national Space Agency, one of the administrative arms of the COG. At first the space activity was cautious and the budgets were very small. Only the developed nations participated actively. When piloted flights recommenced and were successful, a modest schedule of missions was planned for the decade of the 2190s. A new Space Academy to train cosmonauts for those missions opened in 2188 and had its first graduates four years later.

  On Earth growth was achingly slow but regular and predictable for most of the twenty years preceding the discovery of the second Raman spaceship in 2196. In a technological sense, mankind was at approximately the same overall level of development in 2196 as it had been, sixty-six years earlier, when the first extraterrestrial craft had appeared. Recent spaceBight experi­ence was much less, to be certain, at the time of the second encounter; however, in certain critical technical areas like medicine and information management, the human society of the last decade of the twenty-second century was considerably more advanced than it had been in 2130. In one other component the civilizations encountered by the two Raman spacecraft were markedly different: Many of the human beings alive in 2196, especially those who were older and held the policy-making positions in the governing structure, had lived through some of the very painful years of The Great Chaos. They knew the meaning of the word “fear.” And that powerful word shaped their deliberations as they debated the priorities that would guide a human mission to rendezvous with Rama II.

  6

  LA SIGNORA SABATINI

  So you were working on your doctor­ate in physics at SMU when your husband made his famous prediction about supernova 2191a?”

  Elaine Brown was sitting in a large soft chair in her living room. She was dressed in a stark brown suit, sexless, with a high-collar blouse. She looked stiff and anxious, as if she were ready for the interview to be completed.

  “I was in my second year and David was my dissertation adviser,” she said carefully, her eyes glancing furtively at her husband. He was across the room, watching the proceedings from behind the cameras. “David worked very closely with his graduate students. Everybody knew that. It was one of the reasons why I choose SMU for my graduate work.”

  Francesca Sabatini looked beautiful. Her long blond hair was flowing freely over her shoulders. She was wearing an expensive white silk blouse, trimmed by a royal blue scarf neatly folded around her neck. Her lounging pants were the same color as the scarf. She was sitting in a second chair next to Elaine. Two coffee cups were on the small table between them.

  “Dr. Brown was married at the time, wasn’t he? I mean during the period when he was your adviser.”

  Elaine reddened perceptibly as Francesca finished her question. The Ital­ian journalist continued to smile at her, a disarmingly ingenuous smile, as if the question she had just asked was as simple and straightforward as two plus two. Mrs. Brown hesitated, drew a breath, and then stammered slightly in giving her response. “In the beginning, yes, I believe that he still was,” she answered. “But his divorce was final before I finished my degree.” She stopped again and then her face brightened. “He gave me an engagement ring for a graduation present,” she said awkwardly.

  Francesca Sabatini studied her subject. ! could easily tear you apart on that reply, she thought rapidly. With just a couple more questions. But that would not serve my purpose.

  “Okay, cut” Francesca blurted out suddenly. “That’s a wrap. Let’s take a look and then you can put all the equipment back in the truck.” The lead cameraman walked over to the side of robot camera number one, which had been programmed to in stay a close-up on Francesca, and entered three commands into the miniature keyboard on the side of the camera housing. Meanwhile, because Elaine had risen from her seat, robot camera number two was automatically backing away on its tripod legs and retracting its zoom lens. Another cameraman motioned to Elaine to stand still until he was able to disconnect the second camera.

  Within seconds the director had programmed the automatic monitoring equipment to replay the last five minutes of the interview. The output of all three cameras was shown simultaneously, split screen, the composite picture of both Francesca and Elaine occupying the center of the monitor with the tapes from the two close-up cameras on either side. Francesca was a consum­mate professional. She could tell quickly that she had the material she needed for this portion of the show. Dr. David Brown’s wife, Elaine, was young, intelligent, earnest, plain, and not comfortable with the attention being focused on her. And it was all clearly there in the camera memory.

  While Francesca
was wrapping up the details with her crew and arranging to have the annotated interview composite delivered to her hotel at the Dallas Transportation Complex before her flight in the morning, Elaine Brown came back into the living room with a standard robot server, two different kinds of cheese, a bottle of wine, and plenty of glasses for everyone. Francesca glimpsed a frown on David Brown’s face as Elaine announced that there would now be “a small party” to celebrate the end of the interview.

  The crew and Elaine gathered around the robot and the wine. David ex­cused himself and walked out of the living room into the long hall that connected the back of the house, where all the bedrooms were, with the living quarters in the front. Francesca followed him.

  “Excuse me, David,” she said. He turned around, his impatience clear. “Don’t forget that we still have some unfinished business. I promised an answer to Schmidt and Hagenest upon my return to Europe. They are anx­ious to proceed with the project.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” he replied. “I just want to make certain first that your friend Reggie is finished interviewing my children.” He heaved a sigh. “There are times when I wish I was a total unknown in the world.”

  Francesca walked up close to him. “I don’t believe that for a minute,” she said, her eyes fixed on his. “You’re just nervous today because you can’t control what your wife and children are saying to Reggie and me. And nothing is more important to you than control.”

  Dr. Brown started to reply but was interrupted by a shriek of “Mommeee” reverberating down the hall from its origin in a distant bedroom. Within seconds a small boy, six or seven years old, swept past David and Francesca and raced pell-mell into the arms of his mother, who was now standing in the doorway connecting the hall and the living room. Some of Elaine’s wine sloshed out of her glass from the force of the collision with her son; she unconsciously licked it off her hand as she sought to comfort the little boy.

  “What is it, Justin?” she asked.

  “That black man broke my dog,” Justin whined between sobs. “He kicked it in the butt and now I can’t make it work.”

  The little boy pointed back down the hall. Reggie Wilson and a teenage girl — tall, thin, very serious — were walking toward the rest of the group. “Dad,” said the girl, her eyes imploring David for help, “Mr. Wilson was talking to me about my pin collection when that damned robot dog came in and bit him on the leg. After peeing on him first. Justin had programmed him to make mischief—”

  “She’s lying,” the crying little boy interrupted her with a shout. “She doesn’t like Wally. She’s never liked Wally.”

  Elaine had one hand on the back of her nearly hysterical son and the other firmly around the stem of her wineglass. She would have been unsettled by the scene even if she hadn’t noticed the disapproval she was receiving from her husband. She quaffed the wine and put the glass on a nearby bookshelf. “There, there, Justin,” she said, looking embarrassed, “calm down and tell Mom what happened.”

  “That black man doesn’t like me. And I don’t like him. Wally knew it, so he bit him. Wally always protects me.”

  The girl, Angela, became more agitated. “I knew something like this would happen. When Mr. Wilson was talking to me, Justin kept coming into my room and interrupting us, showing Mr. Wilson his games, his pets, his trophies, and even his clothes, Eventually Mr. Wilson had to speak sharply to him. Next thing we know Wally is running wild and Mr. Wilson has to defend himself.”

  “She’s a liar, Mom. A big liar. Tell her to stop—”

  Dr. David Brown had had enough of this commotion. “Elaine,” he shouted angrily above the din, “get… him… out of here.” He turned to his daughter as his wife pulled the weeping little boy through the door into the living room. “Angela!7 he said, his anger now raw and unconcealed, “I thought I told you not to fight with Justin today under any circum­stances.”

  The girl recoiled from her father’s attack. Tears welled up in her eyes. She started to say something but Reggie Wilson walked between her and her father. “Excuse me7 Dr. Brown,” he interceded, “Angela really didn’t do anything. Her story is basically correct. She—”

  “Look, Wilson,” David Brown said sharply, “if you don’t mind, I can handle my own family.” He paused a moment to calm his anger. “I’m terribly sorry for all this confusion,” he continued in a subdued tone, “but it will all be finished in another minute or so.” The look he gave his daughter was cold and unkind. “Go back to your room, Angela. I’ll talk to you later. Call your mother and tell her that I want her to pick you up before dinner.”

  Francesca Sabatini watched with great interest as the entire scene un­folded. She saw David Brown’s frustration, Elaine’s lack of self-confidence. This is perfect, Francesca thought, even better than I might have hoped. He will be very easy.

  The sleek silver train cruised the North Texas countryside at two hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. Within minutes the lights from the Dallas Transportation Complex appeared on the horizon. The DTC covered a mammoth area, almost twenty-five square kilometers. It was part airport, part train station, part small city. Originally constructed in 2185 both to handle the burgeoning long-distance air traffic and to provide an easy nexus for transferring passengers to the high-speed train system, it had grown, like other similar transportation centers around the world, into an entire commu­nity. More than a thousand people, most of whom worked at the DTC and found life easier when there was no commute, lived in the apartments that formed a semicircle around the shopping center south of the main terminal. The terminal itself housed four major hotels, seventeen restaurants, and over a hundred different shops, including a branch of the chic Donatelli fashion chain.

  “I was nineteen at the time,” the young man was saying to Francesca as the train approached the station, “and had had a very sheltered upbringing. I learned more about love and sex in that ten weeks, watching your series on television, than I had learned in my whole life before. I just wanted to thank you for that program.”

  Francesca accepted the compliments gracefully. She was accustomed to being recognized when she was in public. Wlien the train stopped and she descended onto the platform, Francesca smiled again at the young man and his date. Reggie Wilson offered to carry her camera equipment as they walked toward the people mover that would take them to the hotel. “Does it ever bother you?” he asked. She looked at him quizzically. “All the atten­tion, being a public figure?” he added in explanation.

  “No,” she answered, “of course not.” She smiled to herself. Even after six months this man does not understand me. Maybe he’s too engrossed with himself to figure out that some women are as ambitious as men.

  “I knew that your two television series had been popular,” Reggie was saying, “before I met you during the personnel screening exercises. But I had no idea that it would be impossible to go out to a restaurant or to be seen in a public place without running into one of your fans.”

  Reggie continued to chat as the people mover eased out of the train station and into the shopping center. Near the track at one end of the enclosed mall a large group of people were milling around outside a theater. The marquee proclaimed that the production inside was In Any Weather, by the American playwright Linzey Olsen.

  “Did you ever see that play?” Reggie idly asked Francesca. “I saw the movie when it first came out,” he continued without waiting for her to answer, “about five years ago. Helen Caudill and Jeremy Temple. Before she was really big. It was a strange story, about two people who had to share a hotel room during a snowstorm in Chicago. They’re both married. They fall in love while talking about their failed expectations. As I said, it was a weird play.”

  Francesca was not listening. A boy who reminded her of her cousin Roberto had climbed into the car just in front of them at the first stop in the shopping center. His skin and hair were dark, his facial features handsomely chiseled. How long has it been since I have seen Roberto? she wondered. Must be
three years now. It was down in Positano with his wife, Maria. Francesca sighed and remembered earlier days, from long ago. She could see herself laughing and running on the streets of Orvieto. She was nine or ten, still innocent and unspoiled. Roberto was fourteen. They were playing with a soccer ball in the piazza in front of II Duomo. She had loved to tease her cousin, He was so gentle, so unaffected. Roberto was the only good thing from her childhood.

  The people mover stopped outside the hotel. Reggie was looking at her with a fixed stare. Francesca realized that he had just asked her a question. “Well?” he said, as they descended from their car.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” she answered. “I was daydreaming again. What did you ask?”

  “I didn’t know I was that boring,” Reggie said without humor. He turned dramatically to ensure that she was paying attention. “What choice did you make for dinner tonight? I had narrowed it down to Chinese or Cajun,”

  At that particular moment the thought of having dinner with Reggie did not appeal to Francesca. “I’m very tired tonight,” she said. “I think I’ll just eat by myself in the room and do a little work afterward.” She could have predicted the hurt look on his face. She reached up and kissed him lightly on the lips. “You can come by my room for a nightcap about ten.”

  Once inside her hotel suite, Francesca’s first action was to activate her computer terminal and check for messages. She had four altogether. The printed menu told her the originator of each message, the time of its trans­mission, the duration of the message, and its urgency priority. The Urgency Priority Network (UPN) was a new innovation of International Communica­tions, Inc., one of the three surviving communications companies that were finally flourishing again after massive consolidation during the middle years of the century. A UPN user entered his daily schedule early in the morning and identified what priority messages could interrupt which activities. Fran­cesca had chosen to accept forwarding of only Priority One (Acute Emer­gency) messages to the terminal at David Brown’s house; the taping of David and his family had to be accomplished in one day and she had wanted to minimize the chances of an interruption and delay, The rest of her mes­sages had been retained at the hotel.