Arthur Clarke - The Songs of Distant Earth

He started to read, and fifty light-years from the ruins of Earth, the fog rolled once more down Baker Street.

“The cross-checking has confirmed that only the four Sabras were involved,” Captain Bey said. “We can be thankful that there’s no need to interrogate anyone else.”

“I still don’t understand how they hoped to get away with it,” Deputy Captain Malina said unhappily.

“I don’t believe they would, but it’s lucky it was never put to the test. Anyway, they were still undecided.

“Plan A involved damaging the shield. As you know, Fletcher was on the assembly crew and was working out a scheme to reprogram the last stage of the lifting procedure. If a block of ice could be allowed to impact at just a few metres a second — you see what I mean?

“It could be made to look like an accident, but there was risk that the subsequent inquiry would soon prove it was nothing of the sort. And even if the shield was damaged, it could be repaired.

Fletcher hoped that the delay would give time to acquire more recruits. He might have been right; another year on Thalassa…

“Plan B involved sabotaging the life-support system, so that the ship had to be evacuated. Again, the same objections.

“Plan C was the most disturbing one because it would have terminated the mission. Luckily, none of the Sabras was in propulsion; it would have been very hard for them to get at the drive…”

Everyone looked shocked — though none more so than Commander Rocklyn.

“It would not have been at all difficult, Sir, if they were sufficiently determined. The big problem would have been to arrange something that would put the drive out of action — permanently — without damaging the ship. I very much doubt if they’d have the technical knowledge necessary.”

“They were working on it,” the captain grimly said. “We have to review our security proceedings, I’m afraid. There will be a conference on that tomorrow for all senior officers — here, at noon.”

And then Surgeon-Commander Newton put the question that everyone hesitated to ask.

“Will there be a court martial, Captain?”

“It’s not necessary; guilt has been established. According to Ship’s Orders, the only problem is the sentence.”

Everyone waited. And waited.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” the captain said, and his officers left in silence.

Alone in his quarters, he felt angry and betrayed. But at least it was over; Magellan had ridden out the man-made storm.

The other three Sabras were — perhaps — harmless; but what about Owen Fletcher?

His mind strayed to the deadly plaything in his safe. He was captain: it would be easy to arrange an accident…

He put the fantasy aside; he could never do it, of course. In any event, he had already made up his mind and was certain that there would be universal agreement.

Someone had once said that for every problem there is a solution that is simple, attractive — and wrong. But this solution, he was certain, was simple, attractive — and absolutely right.

The Sabras wanted to remain on Thalassa; they could do so. He did not doubt that they would become valuable citizens — perhaps exactly the aggressive, forceful type that this society needed.

How strange that History was repeating itself; like Magellan, he would be marooning some of his men.

But whether he had punished them or rewarded them, he would not know for three hundred years.

The North Island Marine Lab had been less than enthusiastic.

“We still need a week to repair Calypso,” the director said, “and we were lucky to find the sledge. It’s the only one on Thalassa, and we don’t want to risk it again.”

I know the symptoms, thought Science Officer Varley; even during the last days on Earth, there were still some lab directors who wanted to keep their beautiful equipment unsullied by actual use.

“Unless Krakan Junior — or Senior — misbehaves again, I don’t see that there’s any risk. And haven’t the geologists promised that they’ll be quiet again for at least fifty years?”

“I’ve a small bet with them on that. But frankly — why do you think this is so important?”

What tunnel vision! Varley thought. Even if the man is a physical oceanographer, one would have expected him to have some interest in marine life. But perhaps I’ve misjudged him; he may be sounding me out…

“We have a certain emotional interest in the subject since Dr. Lorenson was killed — luckily not permanently. But quite apart from that, we find the scorps fascinating. Anything we can discover about alien intelligence could be of vital importance someday. And to you even more than to us since they’re on your doorstep.”

“I can appreciate that. Perhaps it’s lucky we occupy such different ecological niches.”

For how long? the Science Officer thought. If Moses Kaldor is right…

“Tell me just what a spyball does. The name’s certainly intriguing.”

“They were developed a couple of thousand years ago for security and espionage but had many other applications. Some weren’t much bigger than pinheads — the one we’ll use is the size of a football.”

Varley spread the drawings on the director’s table.

“This one was designed especially for underwater use — I’m surprised you’re not familiar with it — the reference date is as early as 2045. We found complete specifications in Tech Memory, and fed them into the replicator. The first copy wouldn’t work — we still don’t know why — but No. 2 tests out fine.

“Here are the acoustic generators — ten megahertz — so we’ve got millimetre resolution. Hardly video quality, of course, but good enough.

“The signal-processor is quite intelligent. When the spyball’s switched on, it sends out a single pulse which builds up an acoustical hologram of everything within twenty or thirty metres. It transmits this information on a two-hundred-kilohertz narrow-band to the buoy floating topside, which radios it back to base. The first image takes ten seconds to build up; then the spyball pulses again.

“If there’s no change in the picture, it sends a null signal. But if something happens, it transmits the new information so that an updated image can be generated.

“What we get, then, is a snapshot every ten seconds, which is good enough for most purposes. Of course, if things happen quickly, there will be bad image smearing. But you can’t have everything; the system will work anywhere, in total darkness — it isn’t easy to spot — and it’s economical.”

The director was obviously interested and was doing his best to keep his enthusiasm from showing.

“It’s a clever toy — may be useful for our work. Can you give us the specs — and a few more models?”

“The specs — certainly and we’ll check that they interface with your replicator so you can make as many copies as you like. The first working model — and maybe the next two or three — we want to dump on Scorpville.

“And then well just wait and see what happens.”

The image was grainy, and sometimes hard to interpret despite the false-colour coding which revealed details the eye could not otherwise detect. It was a flattened-out 360-degree panorama of seabed, with a distant view of kelp on the left, a few rock outcroppings at centre, and kelp again on the right. Though it looked like a still photograph, the changing numbers at the lower left-hand corner revealed the passage of time; and occasionally the scene changed with a sudden jerk when some movement altered the information pattern being transmitted.