The Last Theorem - Arthur Charles Clarke [148]
But even that discommoded only the handful of people whose favorite game show was squeezed off the air. Far more serious was the interference with communications, particularly the behind-the-scenes negotiations among many of the world’s military forces.
A quick call to Gamini Bandara confirmed what Ranjit was already sure of. No, it hadn’t been a voluntary decision of the Egyptian government that had produced the saber-rattling remarks of the American ambassador. The old Egyptian friend of Dhatusena Bandara, now Egyptian ambassador to Sri Lanka, Hameed Al-Zasr, had explained it all by phone to Gamini’s father. “He managed to get a personal call through to Dad. It was American pressure and they couldn’t fight it. There was some American cloak-and-dagger guy, Dad said—”
“Of course there was. Your old pal Colonel Bledsoe, I bet.”
Gamini sounded startled when he said, “You’re probably right. Anyway, Al-Zasr says Egypt wasn’t forgetting its Pax per Fidem obligations, but it’s still in the middle of implementing them. The changeover isn’t complete, and Egypt’s too poor to antagonize the U.S. Billions of dollars in American aid are involved.”
“Hell,” said Ranjit. And when he reported the conversation to Myra, she said much the same.
“We should have guessed,” she said. “Let’s hope it doesn’t get any worse.”
43
LANDED IMMIGRANTS
In the Subramanian family it might have been young Robert who was the least affected by the scary developments in the world they lived in. He cried a bit more these days, true. It didn’t seem to be the state of the outside world that was saddening him, though. Rather, it was the obvious distress of his parents. Robert’s way of dealing with the problem was to be especially good—patting them, cuddling with them, even eating all his vegetables without argument and going to bed without protest when told it was time. And trying to cheer them up by repeating words and phrases from his Sunday school. “’Olden ’Ule,” he would say reassuringly, and, “’Oo unto others.”
Of course, hearing Robert’s recollections of Sunday school lessons about the Golden Rule didn’t really make things better for Ranjit and Myra. They were not displeased when he began to take an interest in things that were showing on the world’s news screens—when he could find a channel that was not overrun with the quaint denizens of the galaxy.
What was showing there was what these One Point Five invaders were doing in the Qattara Depression. Every human spy satellite not hijacked by reruns of the galactic bestiary was brought to bear on that almost forgotten part of the world.
As soon as the One Point Five armada had landed, it became clear why they had used rockets to decelerate instead of simple air friction. Air friction would have shredded their spacecraft. They weren’t streamlined. They weren’t even simple tube shapes, like the pygmy vessels of the Nine-Limbeds. The One Point Fives’ ships looked more like Christmas trees than any aerodynamic design, with cubes and balls and polygons hanging off the main bodies at all sorts of angles.
That explained their willingness to expend fuel on a slow-down. A shuttle-type reentry would have turned them into the brightest shooting star display ever, quickly followed by glowing fields of debris covering thousands of hectares.
Once they were landed in orderly ranks, the One Point Fives showed what all those grotesque add-ons were for. Some of them were tentacle-like in appearance; these detached themselves, waved indecisively for a moment, and then squirmed away to explore their new surroundings. Others linked together and headed for the brackish waters of the oasis, to do what, Ranjit could not guess. “That’s not potable water,” he said. “I hope they’re aware of that.”
Myra studied his face. “You know,