The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [65]
“We’ve practically decided on this model,” said Kingsley, pointing to a luxurious tilting swivel chair with attached small table. “But we’ll run the usual survey first.”
Morgan punched his fist into the seat cushion.
“Has anyone actually sat in it for five hours?” he asked.
“Yes—a hundred-kilo volunteer. No bedsores. If people complain, we’ll remind them of the pioneering days of aviation, when it took five hours merely to cross the Pacific. And of course we’re offering low-gee comfort almost all the way. . . .”
The floor above was identical, though empty of chairs. They passed through it quickly, and reached the next level, to which the designers had obviously devoted most attention.
The bar looked almost functional, and the coffee dispenser was actually working. Above it, in an elaborate gilded frame, was an old engraving of such uncanny relevance that it took Morgan’s breath away.
A huge full moon dominated the upper left quadrant, and racing toward it was a bullet-shaped train towing four carriages. In the windows of the compartment labeled “First Class,” top-hatted Victorian personages could be seen admiring the view.
“Where did you get hold of that?” Morgan asked in astonished admiration.
“Looks as if the caption’s fallen off again,” Kingsley said apologetically, hunting around behind the bar. “Ah, here it is. . . .”
He handed Morgan a piece of card, upon which was printed, in an old-fashioned type face:
* * *
PROJECTILE TRAINS FOR THE MOON
Engraving from 1881 Edition of
From the Earth to the Moon
Direct
In 97 Hours and 20 Minutes
And a Trip Around It
By Jules Verne
* * *
“I’m sorry to say I’ve never read it,” Morgan commented when he had absorbed this information. “It might have saved me a lot of trouble. But I’d like to know how he managed without any rails.”
“We shouldn’t give Jules too much credit—or blame. This picture was never meant to be taken seriously. It was a joke of the artist.”
“Well—give Design my compliments. It’s one of their better ideas.”
Turning away from the dreams of the past, Morgan and Kingsley walked toward the reality of the future. Through the wide observation window, a back-projection system gave a stunning view of Earth. And not just any view, Morgan was pleased to note, but the correct one. Taprobane itself was hidden, of course, being directly below; but there was the whole subcontinent of Hindustan, right out to the dazzling snows of the Himalayas.
“You know,” Morgan said, “it will be exactly like the Bridge, all over again. People will take the trip just for the view. Midway Station could be the biggest tourist attraction ever.” He glanced up at the azure-blue ceiling. “Anything worth looking at on the last floor?”
“Not really—the upper air lock is planned, but we haven’t decided where to put the life-support backup gear and the electronics for the track-centering controls.”
“Any problems there?”
“Not with the new magnets. Powered or coasting, we can guarantee safe clearance up to eight thousand kilometers an hour—fifty percent above maximum design speed.”
Morgan permitted himself a mental sigh of relief. This was one area in which he was quite unable to make any judgments, and had to rely completely on the advice of others. From the beginning, it had been obvious that only some form of magnetic propulsion could operate at such speeds; the slightest physical contact—at more than a kilometer a second—would result in disaster. And yet the four pairs of guidance slots running up the faces of the Tower had only centimeters of clearance around the magnets. They had to be designed so that enormous restoring forces came instantly into play to correct any movement of the capsule away from the center line.
As Morgan followed Kingsley down the spiral stairway that extended the full height of the mock-up, he was struck by a somber thought. I’m getting old, he said to himself. Oh,