The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [52]
There was scarcely a trace of nostalgia or self-pity in Morgan’s reverie—only a kind of wistful amusement. He had never for an instant regretted the fact that he and Ingrid had separated amicably, without even considering the usual one-year trial contract. She had gone on to make three men moderately miserable before finding herself a job with the Lunar Commission, and Morgan had lost track of her. Perhaps, even now, she was up there on that shining crescent, whose color almost matched her golden hair. . . .
So much for the past. Morgan turned his thoughts to the future. Where was Mars? He was ashamed to admit that he did not even know if it was visible tonight. As he ran his eye along the path of the ecliptic, from the moon to the dazzling beacon of Venus and beyond, he saw nothing in all that jeweled profusion that he could certainly identify as the red planet. It was exciting to think that in the not-too-distant future he—who had never even traveled beyond lunar orbit!—might be looking with his own eyes at those magnificent crimson landscapes, and watching the tiny moons pass swiftly through their phases. . . .
In that instant, the dream collapsed. Morgan stood for a moment paralyzed, before dashing back into the hotel, forgetting the splendor of the night.
There was no general-purpose console in his room, so he had to go down to the lobby to get the information he required. As luck would have it, the cubicle was occupied by an old lady, who took so long to find what she wanted that Morgan almost pounded on the door. But at last the sluggard left, with a mumbled apology, and Morgan was face to face with the accumulated art and knowledge of all mankind.
In his student days, he had won several retrieval championships, racing against the clock while digging out obscure items of information on lists prepared by ingeniously sadistic judges. (“What was the rainfall in the capital of the world’s smallest national state on the day when the second-largest number of home runs was scored in college baseball?” was one that he recalled with particular affection.) His skill had improved with the years, and this was a perfectly straightforward question. The display came up in thirty seconds, in far more detail than he really needed.
Morgan studied the screen for a minute, then shook his head in baffled amazement.
“They couldn’t possibly have overlooked that!” he muttered. “But what can they do about it?”
He pressed the HARD COPY button, and carried the thin sheet of paper back to his room for more detailed study. The problem was so stunningly, appallingly obvious that he wondered if he had overlooked some equally obvious solution and would be making a fool of himself if he raised the matter. Yet there was no possible escape. . . .
He looked at his watch: already after midnight. But this was something he had to settle at once.
To Morgan’s relief, the banker had not pressed his DO NOT DISTURB button. He replied immediately, sounding a little surprised.
“I hope I didn’t wake you up,” said Morgan, not very sincerely.
“No—we’re just about to land at Gagarin. What’s the problem?”
“About ten teratons, moving at two kilometers a second. The inner moon, Phobos. It’s a cosmic bulldozer, going past the elevator every eleven hours. I’ve not worked out the exact probabilities, but a collision is inevitable every few days.”
There was silence for a long time from the other end of the circuit. Then the banker said: “I could have thought of that. So obviously someone has the answer. Perhaps we’ll have to move Phobos.”
“Impossible: the mass is far too great.”
“I’ll have to call Mars. The time delay’s twelve minutes right now. I should have some sort of answer within the hour.”
I hope so, Morgan said to himself. And it had better be good. . . . That is, if I really want this