2001_ A Space Odyssey - Arthur C. Clarke [45]
Then Mr. Poole, Senior, said gruffly: “Well, Frank, can’t think of anything else to say at the moment, except that our thoughts are with you, and we’re wishing you the happiest of birthdays.”
“Take care, darling,” Mrs. Poole interjected tearfully. “God bless you.”
There was a chorus of “good-byes,” and the vision screen went blank. How strange to think, Poole told himself, that all this had happened more than an hour ago; by now his family would have dispersed again and its members would be miles from home. But in a way that time lag, though it could be frustrating, was also a blessing in disguise. Like every man of his age, Poole took it for granted that he could talk instantly, to anyone on Earth, whenever he pleased. Now that this was no longer true, the psychological impact was profound. He had moved into a new dimension of remoteness, and almost all emotional links had been stretched beyond the yield point.
“Sorry to interrupt the festivities,” said Hal, “but we have a problem.”
“What is it?” Bowman and Poole asked simultaneously.
“I am having difficulty in maintaining contact with Earth. The trouble is in the AE-35 unit. My Fault Prediction Center reports that it may fail within seventy-two hours.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Bowman replied. “Let’s see the optical alignment.”
“Here it is, Dave. It’s still O.K. at the moment.”
On the display screen appeared a perfect half-moon, very brilliant against a background almost free of stars. It was covered with clouds, and showed not one geographical feature that could be recognized. Indeed, at first glance it could be easily mistaken for Venus.
But not at a second one, for there beside it was the real Moon which Venus did not possess — a quarter the size of Earth, and in exactly the same phase. It was easy to imagine that the two bodies were mother and child, as many astronomers had believed, before the evidence of the lunar rocks had proved beyond doubt that the Moon had never been part of Earth.
Poole and Bowman studied the screen in silence for half a minute. This image was coming to them from the long-focus TV camera mounted on the rim of the big radio dish; the cross-wires at its center showed the exact orientation of the antenna. Unless the narrow pencil beam was pointed precisely at Earth, they could neither receive nor transmit. Messages in both directions would miss their target and would shoot, unheard and unseen, out through the Solar System and into the emptiness beyond. If they were ever received, it would not be for centuries — and not by men.
“Do you know where the trouble is?” asked Bowman.
“It’s intermittent and I can’t localize it. But it appears to be in the AE-35 unit.”
“What procedure do you suggest?”
“The best thing would be to replace the unit with a spare, so that we can check it over.”
“O.K. — let us have the hard copy.”
The information flashed on the display screen; simultaneously, a sheet of paper slid out of the slot immediately beneath it. Despite all the electronic read-outs, there were times when good old-fashioned printed material was the most convenient form of record.
Bowman studied the diagrams for a moment, then whistled.
“You might have told us,” he said. “This means going outside the ship.”
“I’m sorry,” Hal replied. “I assumed you knew that the AE-35 unit was on the antenna mounting.”
“I probably did, a year ago. But there are eight thousand subsystems aboard. Anyway, it looks a straightforward job. We only have to unlock a panel and put in a new unit.”
“That suits me fine,” said Poole, who was the crew member designated for routine extravehicular activity. “I could do with a change of scenery. Nothing personal, of course.”
“Let’s see if Mission Control agrees,” said Bowman. He sat still for a few seconds, marshaling his thoughts, then started to dictate a message.
“Mission Control, this is X-ray-Delta-One. At two-zero-four-five, on-board fault prediction center in our niner-triple-zero computer showed Alpha Echo three five unit as probable failure within