Between the Strokes of Night Read online

  He turned and was heading for the doorway before Judith could frame a reply. The interview with Salter Wherry was over.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Earth has been regarded for centuries as a giant self-regulating machine, absorbing all changes, great and small, and diluting their effects until they become invisible on a global scale. Mankind has taken that stability for granted. Careless of consequences, we have watched as forests were cleared, lakes poisoned, rivers damned and diverted, mountains leveled, whole plains dug out for their mineral and fuel content. And nothing disastrous happened. Earth tolerated the insults, and always she restored the status quo.

  Always — until now. Until finally some hidden critical point has been passed. The move away from a steady state is signalled in many ways: by increasing ocean temperatures, by drought and flood, by widespread loss of topsoil, by massive crop failure, and by the collapse of worldwide fishing industries. Many solutions have been proposed. But none of them can even be attempted now. All of them call for some practice of conservation, for the reversing of certain changes. That is impossible. With a world population approaching eight billion, all margin for experiment has long disappeared. As resources grow scarcer, pressure to produce grows and grows. The richest nations practice an increased level of isolationism and caution, the poor ones are at the point of absolute desperation. The materials produced in space are no more than a trickle, where a flood is called for.

  I offer naught for your comfort. The world is ready to explode, and I see no way to avoid that explosion. What I offer you is only a chance for some of your children…

  * * *

  “Still at it?” said Jan de Vries. He had activated the videophone connection between the offices. At the sound of his voice Judith Niles put down the slim transcript.

  “I’m ready to quit. I don’t think I want to read any more. Did you take a look at this?”

  De Vries nodded. “It is not difficult to see why Salter Wherry lacks popularity in the esteemed halls of the United Nations. His recruiting campaign for the space colonies is certainly effective, but he doesn’t paint an encouraging picture of the world’s future. Let us hope that he is wrong.” He moved his index finger along the line of his neat moustache. “The suit is all set. They are ready when you are.”

  “Who’ll do it? I left the final screening with Charlene.”

  “Wolfgang Gibbs. He’s young, and he’s fit, and we’re agreed that it is not dangerous.”

  Judith Niles looked thoughtful. “I’m not so sure of that. Vacuum is vacuum — you don’t play games with it. Tell them to prep him. I’m on my way over.” When she arrived the final lab preparation was complete. Emergency resuscitation equipment stood in banks along the walls. In the middle, seated on a long table in a sealed chamber, Wolfgang Gibbs was adjusting the gloves of the space suit. Charlene Bloom was by his side, obsessively checking the helmet. She straightened up as Judith Niles entered the room.

  “Are you sure this is the same design as they’re using now on Salter Station?” she said. “I think I see small differences in the seals.”

  Niles nodded. “The schematics we had were not quite right. We checked. According to Hans Gibbs this is the one in use now. All hooked up?”

  Wolfgang turned and stared at her. His face was pale through the faceplate. “Ready when you are,” he said over the suit radio.

  Charlene placed her head close to the helmet. “Scared?” she said, in a low voice.

  “Give you one guess.” He smiled at her through the narrow faceplate. “Jelly in my guts. Now I know what the test animals must feel like. Let’s get on with it. You get out of here and let’s take the pressure down.”

  As he spoke the overhead lights flickered, faded, then slowly came back up to full power.

  “Jesus!” said Charlene. “That’s three brownouts in two hours.” She looked at the other woman. “Should we go ahead, JN? It looks as though there’s something horribly wrong with the grid.”

  “Blow-outs in the China link,” said Judith Niles. “Cameron checked this afternoon, and he says it will get worse. They expect China may drop out completely in a week or so — they’re above capacity, and their equipment is old. So there’s no point in delaying. We have our own standby system, and that’s in good shape.”

  “So let’s get on with it,” said Gibbs. To Charlene Bloom’s horror he reached and gave a sly rub along her thigh with one gloved hand, on the side hidden from Judith Niles.

  She jerked away from him and shook her head fiercely. She had told Wolfgang over and over — private life must never get tangled up with their work.

  “So you’re telling me you want to stop?” he had said.

  She had paused, turning her head to look at his bare, tanned shoulder. “You know I don’t. But don’t you be horrible, either. I know you have a reputation at the Institute, and I’m not asking about that. But remember this is the first time for me for… well, for anything like this.”

  He had turned to look down at her face, with an expression in his eyes that made her shiver all over. “For me, too.”

  Liar, she had been about to say. Then she looked at him again. He appeared completely serious. She had very much wanted to believe him — still wanted to believe him; but not now, for Heaven’s sake, not when JN was watching, even if he was staring at her so intently through the suit’s faceplate.… Charlene turned away briskly and stepped out of the chamber. “Sealed, and reducing,” she said. She tried to keep her eyes on the gauges and away from Wolfgang.

  The pressure was calibrated in kilos per square centimeter, and also as barometric altitude. The two women watched in silence as the green readouts flickered down through their first reduction.

  “Three kilometers equivalent height,” said Charlene. “Are you feeling all right, Wolfgang?”

  He grunted. “No problem.” His voice sounded much more relaxed than she felt. “According to my readings we have a balance of internal and external pressure. Correct?”

  “Right. You’re on pure oxygen now. Any tightness at the suit’s joints, or any dizziness? Move your arms, legs, and neck, and see how it feels.” He lifted his left arm and waggled the fingers in the suit. “Morituri te salutamus. I’m feeling fine.”

  “Very good. Who’s been teaching you Latin?” As soon as she said it, Charlene felt a blush starting to rise from the back of her neck. What would JN think? — Charlene was the only one at the Institute who liked to spice up her reports with Latin tags. “Five kilometers,” she said hurriedly. “We’re getting a change of scale.”

  The readouts automatically adjusted to a finer gradation, moving from kilograms to grams per square centimeter. The pressure was reducing very slowly now, at a rate controlled by Charlene. It was another twenty minutes before the chamber value was quivering down at zero. The barometric altitude, after rising steadily to a hundred kilometers, now refused to go any higher.

  “Anything new?” Judith Niles had moved to stand with her face close to the chamber window.

  “Nothing bad.” Gibbs moved his head slowly from side to side. “You were right about the neck seals — I can feel a bit of pressure now, as though the suit bulges in a little bit there.”

  “That’s the new design, they introduced it about a year ago. It’s a better seal, but not so comfortable. The bulge is caused by the outside pressure drop, making an inward wrinkle in the seal. You’ll get used to it. Any feelings of drowsiness?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Right. Start moving the blocks, and talk while you do it. Set your own pace.” Wolfgang, clumsy because of the unfamiliar gloves, began to move a heap of colored plastic blocks from one chest-high stand to another. “Haven’t done anything like this since I was eighteen months old. Used to seem harder then. Get them all moved correctly, and I get a handful of raisins, right?” Neither woman spoke as he carefully moved blocks. He was finished in less than a minute.

  “Still feeling all right?” said Judith Niles when the task was done.
“Perfectly fine. No aches and pains, no sleepiness. Still have that bit of pressure in my neck, but all the other joints are very comfortable. Shall I switch to the cameras?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Gibbs nodded. The faceplate of the suit slowly darkened. His face became a dark gray and slowly faded from view as the plate achieved total opacity. The watchers heard a grumble through the suit radio. “Lousy color in here. If my TV didn’t perform better than this I’d turn it in for service.”

  The suited figure turned slowly to point its forward viewing camera to look through the chamber window. “Charlene, you’ve turned green.”

  “I feel it. We’ll worry about camera color balance later. Can you move the blocks again? And keep talking as you do it, just the way you did last time.” “Piece of cake.” The bulky figure began to move the blocks slowly back to their original stand. “Reminds me of the work that they used to give you in the army when you were doing basic training. Supposed to tire us out and keep us out of trouble. First you move the pile of dirt over here, then when you were finished somebody else would move it back. Then you would move — “

  It happened with startling suddenness. There was no drowsy trailing-off of speech. At one moment the suited figure was working efficiently, his matter-of-fact tones clear over the suit radio. Then they were looking in at a silent, motionless statue, frozen with a red block stretched out in one gloved hand.

  Charlene Bloom gave a cry of alarm, while Judith Niles took a long, shivering breath. “That’s it. No cause for panic, Charlene, it’s what we were expecting. Start bringing the pressure up — slowly. We don’t want a problem there. I’ll make sure the bed is ready. My guess is that he’ll be out for at least half an hour.” She moved over to the phone. Behind her, Charlene stared wide-eyed at Wolfgang Gibbs’ unconscious figure. She had to fight the temptation to bring the pressure instantly to sea level, and rush into the chamber herself.

  * * *

  Jan de Vries was waiting in her office, calmly reading a file marked Confidential — Director Only. He looked up as she came in.

  “How is he?”

  “Recovered. He was out several minutes, and he remembers nothing of the whole episode. So far as Wolfgang is concerned, he didn’t even begin the tests with the suit on video.” Judith Niles did not sit down, but instead paced back and forth in front of the chair where Jan de Vries was sitting. “No aftereffects now, and full alertness.”

  “So your hypothesis is correct. You predicted what would happen, and the subject performed exactly as required.” De Vries slapped the file closed. “Everything can now proceed precisely as you planned. We will move the Institute to orbit, spend a month or two in supposed problem analysis, and then hand Salter Wherry the solution to his major problem; after which we will be in a position to pursue our own researches, as the Institute’s new contract explicitly permits. Wonderful. The manipulation is complete, exactly as designed.” His mouth twisted in a grimace. “So, my dear, where is the jubilation? You do not have the air of one whose plans approach fruition.”

  “I’m not satisfied — not at all.” Judith Niles paused, looking quizzically down at the diminutive figure of de Vries in the depths of the big armchair. “Listen to this sequence, then tell me what you think. Item one: a year ago there was a slight change in the type of space suit worn in Salter Station for outside construction work. The new one uses a slightly different set of rings and seals in the neck portion.

  “Item two.” She checked off on the fingers of her right hand. “For some positions of the head, the new suit causes increased pressure on the wearer’s carotid arteries.”

  “Slight pressure?”

  “Not that slight — big enough for the wearer to notice. Item three: increased pressure within the carotid arteries can cause momentary blackouts. “Item four: when a suit is on normal visual operation, the blackout is momentary, too brief to be noticed. But when the suit is on remote and using TV cameras instead of faceplate viewing, the scanning rates on the TV give a feedback to the brain that reinforces the blackout. Result: narcolepsy. The wearer will not break out of the cycle unless there is some external interruption. How does that sound to you?”

  De Vries sat silent for a few moments, then nodded. “Plausible — more than plausible, almost certainly correct.”

  “All right. I agree. So here’s item five.” She closed her fist. “All of this has been known for forty years. The increased pressure in the carotids is a classical cause of narcolepsy. The brain wave reinforcement is a standard positive feedback mechanism. What does all that say to you?”

  De Vries leaned far back, gazing up at the ceiling. He shook his head. “Judith, put in those terms I see where you are heading — but I must admit that it would not have occurred to me if you had not waved it in front of my nose.” Judith Niles regarded him grimly. “Be specific, Jan. What’s wrong with it?” “It’s too simple. When you set the explanation out on a plate, as you just did, it’s clear that we should not be needed to solve the problem. Remember, you told me you thought you knew the answer when you first looked at the suits and the case histories. All the medics on Salter Station had to do was a minimal amount of background reading, and a few well-designed experiments. At the very least they would have noticed the correlation between the new suits and the onset of the problem.”

  “Exactly. So why didn’t they?” Judith Niles stopped her pacing and stood in front of de Vries. “Even if they didn’t catch on as fast as we would here at the Institute, they should have deduced it after a while. Jan, I’m very worried. We have to go up to Salter Station. Our own experiments require it, and anyway I’ve burned too many bridges here in the past few days to stop now. But I feel that things are out of control.”

  She suddenly lifted her left hand and began to rub gently at her eye, her forehead wrinkled.

  Jan de Vries looked concerned. “What’s wrong, Judith? Headache?”

  She shook her head. “Not any sort I’ve ever had before. But I’m getting blurring from this eye — very off-putting. Not quite seeing double, but not far from that. Odd feeling.”

  De Vries frowned. “Don’t take chances. Even if it is no more than the strain of too much work, let a specialist take a look at it.” De Vries did not say it, but he was astonished. Never since he had known her had Judith Niles shown any sign of strain and fatigue, no matter what pressures she had worked under, no matter how she forced herself along.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said. “Sorry, Jan, what were you saying?” “I agree with you that things may be out of control.” The little man wriggled forward in the armchair so that he could stand up. “And let me give you, as Salter Wherry quoted in his speech on the space colonies, ‘naught for your comfort.’ I’ve been doing the follow-up work you asked for on Salter Wherry. Did you know that most of his expenditures are not on development of the arcologies at all? They go into two other areas: efficient, spaceborne fusion drives, and robots. He is rumored to be many years ahead of anyone else in those areas. I believe it. But what do our projects have to do with either of those research endeavors? If you can see the connection, I beg enlightenment. And then there is the question of the breadth of Wherry’s influence, and his sources of wealth. Do you remember my telling you that insurance rates for Station personnel have gone up greatly in the past year?”

  “Yes. Because of the increased accident rate.”

  “So we had assumed. But this afternoon I obtained and examined the financial statements of Global Insurance — the organization which issues the policies for Salter Station personnel. It turns out that a single individual owns more than eighty percent of the stock of Global, and exercises complete control over corporate actions.” De Vries smiled grimly. “You are permitted one guess as to the identity of that individual. Then, my dear Judith, we should perhaps discuss who is manipulating whom.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The fish were nervous. Moving in regular array, they darted to and fro through t
he fronds of weed that curled across Workwheel’s great tanks. As the schools of fish turned in the cloudy water their silvery scales caught the green-tinged sunlight, filling the interior with flashes of brilliance.

  The two human figures, naked except for light breathing masks, swam slowly around the perimeter of the tank, driving the fish along before them. The outer edge of the wheel was a filled lattice of transparent plastic, admitting perpetual day to the four hundred meter cylinder. Far above, near the hollow central axle, oxygenation pumps sent a faint thrumming through the sluggishly moving liquid.

  The female figure swooped without warning down to the clear honeycombed plastic of the outer wall, kicked off hard from it, and surged upward toward Workwheel center. The other, taken by surprise, followed her a second later. He overtook her halfway to the axle and reached out to grasp her calf, but she wriggled away and headed off in a new direction, still slanting toward the surface. Again he pursued, and this time as he neared her he reached out to grasp both her ankles. His fingers closed, and at that instant the tableau suddenly froze. Two nude sculptures, their muscles tensed, hung in the water among the motionless fishes. Salter Wherry looked closely at the video display for a few seconds, then carefully moved it along several frames. It was difficult to see the expressions clearly in the recording, and he zoomed in on Judith Niles’ face for a high-mag close-up. Even with the mask on, her face contrasted with her taut muscles. She looked totally relaxed, though Hans Gibbs was gripping her firmly around the ankles. After a few moments of study Wherry skipped forward, a few frames at a time, watching the changing expressions as the nude bodies moved together, embraced, then slowly rose. Entwined, they moved to meet the broad concave meniscus of the water surface near the axle of the wheel.

  Salter Wherry watched their actions calmly in the darkness of the control room. Always, regardless of the couple’s embraces, his attention rested on Judith Niles’ face. At last he leaned forward and pressed another key on the console in front of him. The scene changed to a brilliantly lit interior. Now it was Judith Niles standing alone in Wherry’s office on Spindletop, just next door from the hidden studio, waiting for her first meeting with him. Again his attention was on her face. One minute more, another press of a key, and Wherry was seeing her as she stood after their first meeting. He grunted in dissatisfaction. The hidden cameras were carefully placed, but they could not offer views from all angles, and this time a full-face view was denied him.