The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [60]
“There is also a most interesting, but fortunately rare, event in which the individual concerned is in a position of such eminence, or has such unique powers, that no one realizes what he is doing until it is too late. The devastation created by such mad geniuses (there seems no other good term for them) can be world-wide, as in the case of A. Hitler (1889–1945). In a surprising number of instances, nothing is heard of their activities, thanks to a conspiracy of silence among their embarrassed peers.
“A classic example has recently come to light with the publication of Dame Maxine Duval’s eagerly awaited and much postponed memoirs. Even now, some aspects of the matter are not entirely clear. . . .”
J. K. Golitsyn
Civilization and Its Malcontents
Prague, 2175
“Altitude one five zero. Probe velocity nine five. Repeat, nine five. Heatshield jettisoned.”
So the probe had safely entered the atmosphere, and got rid of its excess speed. But it was far too soon to start cheering. Not only were there a hundred and fifty vertical kilometers to go, but three hundred horizontal ones—with a howling gale to complicate matters. Though the probe still carried a small amount of propellant, its freedom to maneuver was very limited. If the operator missed the mountain on the first approach, he could not go around and try again.
“Altitude one two zero. No atmospheric effects yet.”
The little probe was spinning itself down from the sky like a spider descending its silken ladder. I hope, Duval thought, that they have enough wire. How infuriating if they run out only a few kilometers from the target! Just such tragedies had occurred with some of the first submarine cables.
“Altitude eight zero. Approach nominal. Tension one zero five percent. Some air drag.”
So, the upper atmosphere was beginning to make itself felt, though as yet only to the sensitive instruments aboard the tiny vehicle.
A small, remotely controlled telescope had been set up beside the control truck and was now automatically tracking the still-invisible probe. Morgan walked toward it, and Duval’s Rem followed him like a shadow.
“Anything in sight?” Duval whispered quietly, after a few seconds. Morgan shook his head impatiently, and kept on peering through the eyepiece.
“Altitude six zero. Moving off to the left. Tension one zero five percent—correction, one one zero percent.”
Well within limits, thought Duval. But things were starting to happen up there on the other side of the stratosphere. Surely, Morgan had the probe in sight now.
“Altitude five five. Giving two-second impulse correction.”
“Got it!” exclaimed Morgan. “I can see the jet.”
“Altitude five zero. Tension one two five percent. Hard to keep on course. Some buffeting.”
It was inconceivable that, with a mere fifty kilometers to go, the little probe would not complete its thirty-six-thousand-kilometer journey. But how many aircraft, and spacecraft, had come to grief in the last few meters?
“Altitude four five. Strong shear wind. Going off course again. Three-second impulse.”
“Lost it,” said Morgan in disgust. “Cloud in the way.”
“Altitude four zero. Buffeting bad. Tension peaking at one five zero percent. I repeat, one five zero percent.”
That was bad. Duval knew that the breaking strain was two hundred percent. One bad jerk, and the experiment would be over.
“Altitude three five. Wind getting worse. One-second impulse. Propellent reserve almost gone. Tension still peaking. Up to one seven zero percent.”
Another thirty percent, thought Duval, and even that incredible fiber would snap, like any other material when its tensile strength had been exceeded.
“Range three zero. Turbulence getting worse. Drifting badly to the left. Impossible to calculate correction. Movements too erratic.”
“I’ve got it!” Morgan cried. “It’s through the clouds!”
“Range two five. Not enough