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Authors: Arthur C. Clarke
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age of sixty, and three times a grandfather, Sir Robert appeared to be a rather
well-preserved forty-five. Like his historic double, he attributed this to a careful
neglect of all the elementary rules of health and a steady intake of nicotine. A brilliant
reporter had once aptly called him “A scientific Francis Drake—one of the astronomical
explorers of the Second Elizabethan Age.”
There was nothing very Elizabethan about the Director-General as he sat reading the
day’s mail beneath a faint nimbus of tobacco smoke. He dealt with his correspondence
at an astonishing rate, stacking the letters in small piles as he finished them. From
time to time he filed a communication directly into the wastepaper basket, from which
his staff would carefully retrieve it for inclusion in a voluminous folder with the
elegant title “NUTS.” About one per cent of Interplanetary’s incoming mail came under
this category.
He had just finished when the office door opened and Dr. Groves, Interplanetary’s
psychological adviser, came in with a file of reports. Sir Robert looked at him morosely.
“Well, you bird of ill-omen—what’s all this fuss about young Hassell? I thought that
everything was under control.”
Groves looked worried as he laid down the folder.
“So did I, until a few weeks ago. Until then all five of the boys were shaping well
and showing no signs of strain. Then we noticed that Vic was being worried by something,
and I finally had it out with him yesterday.”
“It’s his wife, I suppose?”
“Yes. The whole thing’s very unfortunate. Vic’s just the sort of father who gives
trouble at the best of times, and Maude Hassell doesn’t know that he’ll probably be
on his way to the Moon when the boy arrives.”
The D.-G. raised his eyebrows.
“You know it’s a boy?”
“The Weismann-Mathers treatment is ninety-five per cent certain. Vic wanted a son—just
in case he didn’t get back.”
“I see. How do you think Mrs. Hassell will react when she knows? Of course, it still
isn’t certain that Vic
is
going to be in the crew.”
“I think she’ll be all right. But Vic’s the one who’s worrying. How did you feel when
your
first kid arrived?”
Sir Robert grinned.
“That’s digging into the past. As it happens, I was away myself—on an eclipse expedition.
I very nearly smashed a coronograph, so I understand Vic’s point of view. But it’s
a damned nuisance; you’ll just have to reason with him. Tell him to have it out with
his wife, but ask her not to say anything. Are there any other complications likely
to arise?”
“Not that I can foresee. But you never can tell.”
“No, you can’t, can you?”
The Director-General’s eyes strayed to the little motto in its frame at the back of
his desk. Dr. Groves could not see them from where he sat, but he knew the lines by
heart and they had often intrigued him:
“There is always a thing forgotten
Whenever the world goes well.”
One day, he’d have to ask where that came from.
Part Two
Two hundred and seventy miles above the Earth, “Beta” was making her third circuit
of the globe. Skirting the atmosphere like a tiny satellite, she was completing one
revolution every ninety minutes. Unless the pilot turned on her motors again, she
would remain here forever, on the frontiers of space
.
Yet, “Beta” was a creature of the upper atmosphere rather than the deeps of space.
Like those fish which sometimes clamber on to the land, she was venturing outside
her true element, and her great wings were now useless sheets of metal burning beneath
the savage sun. Not until she returned to the air far beneath would they be of any
service again
.
Fixed upon “Beta’s” back was a streamlined torpedo that might, at first glance, have
been taken for another rocket. But there were no observation ports, no motor nozzles,
no signs of landing gear. The sleek metal shape was
well-preserved forty-five. Like his historic double, he attributed this to a careful
neglect of all the elementary rules of health and a steady intake of nicotine. A brilliant
reporter had once aptly called him “A scientific Francis Drake—one of the astronomical
explorers of the Second Elizabethan Age.”
There was nothing very Elizabethan about the Director-General as he sat reading the
day’s mail beneath a faint nimbus of tobacco smoke. He dealt with his correspondence
at an astonishing rate, stacking the letters in small piles as he finished them. From
time to time he filed a communication directly into the wastepaper basket, from which
his staff would carefully retrieve it for inclusion in a voluminous folder with the
elegant title “NUTS.” About one per cent of Interplanetary’s incoming mail came under
this category.
He had just finished when the office door opened and Dr. Groves, Interplanetary’s
psychological adviser, came in with a file of reports. Sir Robert looked at him morosely.
“Well, you bird of ill-omen—what’s all this fuss about young Hassell? I thought that
everything was under control.”
Groves looked worried as he laid down the folder.
“So did I, until a few weeks ago. Until then all five of the boys were shaping well
and showing no signs of strain. Then we noticed that Vic was being worried by something,
and I finally had it out with him yesterday.”
“It’s his wife, I suppose?”
“Yes. The whole thing’s very unfortunate. Vic’s just the sort of father who gives
trouble at the best of times, and Maude Hassell doesn’t know that he’ll probably be
on his way to the Moon when the boy arrives.”
The D.-G. raised his eyebrows.
“You know it’s a boy?”
“The Weismann-Mathers treatment is ninety-five per cent certain. Vic wanted a son—just
in case he didn’t get back.”
“I see. How do you think Mrs. Hassell will react when she knows? Of course, it still
isn’t certain that Vic
is
going to be in the crew.”
“I think she’ll be all right. But Vic’s the one who’s worrying. How did you feel when
your
first kid arrived?”
Sir Robert grinned.
“That’s digging into the past. As it happens, I was away myself—on an eclipse expedition.
I very nearly smashed a coronograph, so I understand Vic’s point of view. But it’s
a damned nuisance; you’ll just have to reason with him. Tell him to have it out with
his wife, but ask her not to say anything. Are there any other complications likely
to arise?”
“Not that I can foresee. But you never can tell.”
“No, you can’t, can you?”
The Director-General’s eyes strayed to the little motto in its frame at the back of
his desk. Dr. Groves could not see them from where he sat, but he knew the lines by
heart and they had often intrigued him:
“There is always a thing forgotten
Whenever the world goes well.”
One day, he’d have to ask where that came from.
Part Two
Two hundred and seventy miles above the Earth, “Beta” was making her third circuit
of the globe. Skirting the atmosphere like a tiny satellite, she was completing one
revolution every ninety minutes. Unless the pilot turned on her motors again, she
would remain here forever, on the frontiers of space
.
Yet, “Beta” was a creature of the upper atmosphere rather than the deeps of space.
Like those fish which sometimes clamber on to the land, she was venturing outside
her true element, and her great wings were now useless sheets of metal burning beneath
the savage sun. Not until she returned to the air far beneath would they be of any
service again
.
Fixed upon “Beta’s” back was a streamlined torpedo that might, at first glance, have
been taken for another rocket. But there were no observation ports, no motor nozzles,
no signs of landing gear. The sleek metal shape was
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