THE BICENTENNIAL MAN Read online

  “Down there,” said Javan, without pointing. He was busy now, slowing the drop and edging the ‘scaphe sideways.

  Demerest could hear the distant sighing of the water jets, steam-driven, with the steam formed by the heat of momentary bursts of fusion power.

  Demerest thought dimly: Deuterium is their fuel and it’s all around them. Water is their exhaust and it’s all around them.

  Javan was dropping some of his ballast, too, and began a kind of distant chatter. “The ballast used to be steel pellets and they were dropped by electromagnetic controls. Anywhere up to fifty tons of it were used in each trip. Conservationists worried about spreading rusting steel over the ocean floor, so we switched to metal nodules that are dredged up from the continental shelf. We put a thin layer of iron over them so they can still be electromagnetically handled and the ocean bottom gets nothing that wasn’t sub-ocean to begin with. Cheaper, too. ...But when we get out real nuclear ‘scaphes, we won’t need ballast at all.”

  Demerest scarcely heard him. Ocean-Deep could be seen now. Javan had turned on the floodlights and far below was the muddy floor of the Puerto Rican Trench. Resting on that floor like a cluster of equally muddy pearls was the spherical conglomerate of Ocean-Deep.

  Each unit was a sphere such as the one in which Demerest was now sinking toward contact, but much larger, and as Ocean-Deep expanded--expanded--expanded, new spheres were added.

  Demerest thought: They’re only five and a half miles from home, not a quarter of a million.

  “How are we going to get through?” asked Demerest.

  The ‘scaphe had made contact. Demerest heard the dull sound of metal against metal but then for minutes there had been nothing more than a kind of occasional scrape as Javan bent over his instruments in rapt concentration.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Javan said at last, in belated answer. “There’s no problem. The delay now is only because I have to make sure we fit tightly. There’s an electromagnet joint that holds at every point of a perfect circle. When the instruments read correctly, that means we fit over the entrance door.”

  “Which then opens?”

  “It would if there were air on the other side, but there isn’t. There’s sea water, and that has to be driven out. Then we enter.”

  Demerest did not miss this point. He had come here on this, the last day of his life, to give that same life meaning and he intended to miss nothing.

  He said, “Why the added step? Why not keep the air lock, if that’s what it is, a real air lock, and have air in it at an times?”

  “They tell me it’s a matter of safety,” said Javan. “Your specialty. The interface has equal pressure on both sides at all times, except when men are moving across. This door is the weakest point of the whole system, because it opens and closes; it has joints; it has seams. You know what I mean?”

  “I do,” murmured Demerest. There was a logical flaw here and that meant there was a possible chink through which--but later.

  He said, “Why are we waiting now?”

  “The lock is being emptied. The water is being forced out.”

  “By air.”

  “Hell, no. They can’t afford to waste air like that. It would take a thousand atmospheres to empty the chamber of its water, and filling the chamber with air at that density, even temporarily, is more air than they can afford to expend. Steam is what does it.”

  “Of course. Yes.”

  Javan said cheerfully, “You heat the water. No pressure in the world can stop water from turning to steam at a temperature of more than 374° C. And the steam forces the sea water out through a one-way valve.”

  “Another weak point,” said Demerest. “I suppose so. It’s never failed yet. The water in the lock is being pushed out now. When hot steam starts bubbling out the valve, the process automatically stops and the lock is fun of overheated steam.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we have a whole ocean to cool it with. The temperature drops and the steam condenses. Once that happens, ordinary air can be let in at a pressure of one atmosphere and then the door opens.”

  “How long must we wait?”

  “Not long. If there were anything wrong, there’d be sirens sounding. At least, so they say. I never heard one in action.”

  There was silence for a few minutes, and then there was a sudden sharp clap and a simultaneous jerk.

  Javan said, “Sorry, I should have warned you. I’m so used to it I forgot. When the door opens, a thousand atmospheres of pressure on the other side forces us hard against the metal of Ocean-Deep. No electromagnetic force can hold us hard enough to prevent that last hundredth-of-an-inch slam.”

  Demerest unclenched his fist and released his breath. He said, “Is everything all right?”

  “The walls didn’t crack, if that’s what you mean. It sounds like doom, though, doesn’t it? It sounds even worse when I’ve got to leave and the air lock fills up again. Be prepared for that.”

  But Demerest was suddenly weary. Let’s get on with it, he thought. I don’t want to drag it out. He said, “Do we go through now?”

  “We go through.”

  The opening in the ‘scaphe wall was round and small; even smaller than the one through which they had originally entered. Javan went through it sinuously, muttering that it always made him feel like a cork in a bottle.

  Demerest had not smiled since he entered the ‘scaphe. Nor did he really smile now, but a comer of his mouth quirked as he thought that a skinny Moon-man would have no trouble.

  He went through also, feeling Javan’s hands firmly at his waist, helping him through.

  Javan said, “It’s dark in here. No point in introducing an additional weakness by wiring for lighting. But that’s why flashlights were invented.”

  Demerest found himself on a perforated walk, its stainless metallic surface gleaming dully. And through the perforations he could make out the wavering surface of water.

  He said, “The chamber hasn’t been emptied.”

  “You can’t do any better, Mr. Demerest. If you’re going to use steam to empty it, you’re left with that steam, and to get the pressures necessary to do the emptying that steam must be compressed to a~ut one-third the density of liquid water. When it condenses, the chamber remains one-third full of water--but it’s water at just one-atmosphere pressure. ... Come on, Mr. Demerest.”

  John Bergen’s face wasn’t entirely unknown to Demerest. Recognition was immediate. Bergen, as head of Ocean-Deep for nearly a decade now, was a familiar face on the TV screens of Earth-just as the leaders of Luna City had become familiar.

  Demerest had seen the head of Ocean-Deep both flat and in three dimensions, in black-and-white and in color. Seeing him in life added little.

  Like Javan, Bergen was short and thickset; opposite in structure to the traditional ( already traditional?) Lunar pattern of physiology. He was fairer than Javan by a good deal and his face was noticeably asymmetrical, with his somewhat thick nose leaning just a little to the right.

  He was not handsome. No Moon-man would think he was, but then Bergen smiled and there was a sunniness about it as he held out his large hand.

  Demerest placed his own thin one within, steeling himself for a hard grip, but it did not come. Bergen took the hand and let it go, then said, “I’m glad you’re here. We don’t have much in the way of luxury, nothing that will make our hospitality stand out, we can’t even declare a holiday in your honor--but the spirit is there. Welcome!”

  “Thank you,” said Demerest softly. He remained unsmiling now, too. He was facing the enemy and he knew it. Surely Bergen must know it also and, since he did, that smile of his was hypocrisy.

  And at that moment a clang like metal against metal sounded deafeningly and the chamber shuddered. Demerest leaped back and staggered against the wall.

  Bergen did not budge. He said quietly, “That was the bathyscaphe unhitching and the waterclap of the air lock filling. Javan ought to have warned you.”
r />   Demerest panted and tried to make his racing heart slow. He said, “Javan did warn me. I was caught by surprise anyway.”

  Bergen said, “Well, it won’t happen again for a while. We don’t often have visitors, you know. We’re not equipped for it and so we fight off all kinds of big wheels who think a trip down here would be good for their careers. Politicians of all kinds, chiefly. Your own case is different of course.”

  Is it? thought Demerest. It had been hard enough to get permission to make the trip down. His superiors back at Luna City had not approved in the first place and had scouted the idea that a diplomatic interchange would be of any use. ( “Diplomatic interchange” was what they had called it. ) And when he had overborne them, there had been Ocean-Deep’s own reluctance to receive him.

  It had been sheer persistence alone that had made his present visit possible. In what way then was Demerest’s case different?

  Bergen said, “I suppose you have your junketing problems on Luna City, too?”

  “Very little,” said Demerest. “Your average politician isn’t as anxious to travel a half-million-mile round trip as he is to travel a ten-mile one.”

  “I can see that,” agreed Bergen, “and it’s more expensive out to the Moon, of course. ...In a way, this is the first meeting of inner and outer space. No Ocean-man has ever gone to the Moon as far as I know and you’re the first Moonman to visit a sub-sea station of any kind. No Moon-man has ever been to one of the settlements on the continental shelf.”

  “It’s a historic meeting, then,” said Demerest, and tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  If any leaked through, Bergen showed no sign. He rolled up his sleeves as though to emphasize his attitude of informality (or the fact that they were very busy, so that there would be little time for visitors?) and said, “Do you want coffee? I assume you’ve eaten. Would you like to rest before I show you around? Do you want to wash up, for that matter, as they say euphemistically?”

  For a moment, curiosity stirred in Demerest; yet not entirely aimless curiosity. Everything involving the interface of Ocean-Deep with the outside world could be of importance. He said, “How are sanitary facilities handled here?”

  “It’s cycled mostly; as it is on the Moon, I imagine. We can eject if we want to or have to. Man has a bad record of fouling the environment, but as the only deep-sea station, what we eject does no perceptible damage. Adds organic matter.” He laughed.

  Demerest filed that away, too. Matter was ejected; there was therefore ejection tubes. Their workings might be of interest and he, as a safety engineer, had a right to be interested.

  “No, he said, “I don’t need anything at the moment. If you’re busy--”

  “That’s all right. We’re always busy, but I’m the least busy, if you see what I mean. Suppose I show you around. We’ve got over fifty units here, each as big as this one, some bigger--”

  Demerest looked about. Again, as in the ‘scaphe, there were angles everywhere, but beyond the furnishings and equipment there were signs of the inevitable spherical outer wall. Fifty of them!

  “Built up,” went on Bergen, “over a generation of effort. The unit we’re standing in is actually the oldest and there’s been some talk of demolishing and replacing it. Some of the men say we’re ready for second-generation units, but I’m not sure. It would be expensive--everything’s expensive down here--and getting money out of the Planetary Project Council is always a depressing experience.”

  Demerest felt his nostrils flare involuntarily and a spasm of anger shot through him. It was a thrust; surely. Luna City’s miserable record with the PPC must be well known to Bergen.

  But Bergen went on, unnoticing. “I’m a traditionalist, too--just a little bit. This is the first deep-sea unit ever constructed. The first two people to remain overnight on the floor of an ocean trench slept here with nothing else beyond this bare sphere except for a miserable portable fusion unit to work the escape hatch. I mean the air lock, but we called it the escape hatch to begin with--and just enough controls for the purpose. Reguera and Tremont, those were the men. They never made a second trip to the bottom, either; stayed Topside forever after. Well, well, they served their purpose and both are dead now. And here we are with fifty people and with six months as the usual tour of duty. I’ve spent only two weeks Topside in the last year and a half.”

  He motioned vigorously to Demerest to follow him, slid open a door which moved evenly into a recess, and took him into the next unit. Demerest paused to examine the opening. There were no seams that he could notice between the adjacent units.

  Bergen noted the other’s pause and said, “When we add on our units, they’re welded under pressure into the equivalent of a single piece of metal and then reinforced. We can’t take chances, as I’m sure you understand, since I have been given to understand that you’re the head safe--”

  Demerest cut him off. “Yes,” he said. “We on the Moon admire your safety record.”

  Bergen shrugged. “We’ve been lucky. Our sympathy, by the way, on the rotten break you fellows had. I mean that fatal--”

  Demerest cut him off again. “Yes.”

  Bergen, the Moon-man decided, was either a naturally voluble man or else was eager to drown him in words and get rid of him.

  “The units,” said Bergen, “are arranged in a highly branched chain-three-dimensional actually. We have a map we can show you, if you’re interested. Most of the end units represent living-sleeping quarters. For privacy, you know. The working units tend to be corridors as well, which is one of the embarrassments of having to live down here.

  “This is our library; part of it, anyway. Not big, but it’s got our records, too, on carefully indexed and computed microfilm, so that for its kind it’s not only the biggest in the world, but the best and the only. And we have a special computer to handle the references to meet our needs exactly. It collects, selects, coordinates, weighs, then gives us the gist.

  “We have another library, too, book films and even some printed volumes. But that’s for amusement.”

  A voice broke in on Bergen’s cheerful flow. “John? May I interrupt?”

  Demerest started; the voice had come from behind him. Bergen said, “Annette! I was going to get you. This is Stephen Demerest of Luna City. Mr. Demerest, may I introduce my wife, Annette?”

  Demerest had turned. He said stiffly, a little mechanically, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Bergen.” But he was staring at her waistline.

  Annette Bergen seemed in her early thirties. Her brown hair was combed simply and she wore no makeup. Attractive, not beautiful, Demerest ‘noted vaguely. But his eyes kept returning to that waistline.

  She shrugged a little. “Yes, I’m pregnant, Mr. Demerest. I’m due in about two months.”

  “Pardon me,” Demerest muttered. “So rude of me. ...I didn’t--” He faded off and felt as though the blow had been a physical one. He hadn’t expected women, though he didn’t know why. He knew there would have to be women in Ocean-Deep. And the ferry pilot had said Bergen’s wife was with him.

  He stammered as he spoke. “How many women are there in Ocean-Deep, Mr. Bergen?”

  “Nine at the moment,” said Bergen. “All wives. We look forward to a time when we can have the normal ratio of one to one, but we still need workers and researchers primarily, and unless women have important qualifications of some sort--”

  “They all have important qualifications of some sort, dear,” said Mrs. Bergen. “You could keep the men for longer duty if--”

  “My wife,” said Bergen, laughing, “is a convinced feminist but is not above using sex as an excuse to enforce equality. I keep telling her that that is the feminine way of doing it and not the feminist way, and she keeps saying-Well, that’s why she’s pregnant. You think it’s love, sex mania, yearning for motherhood? Nothing of the sort. She’s going to have a baby down here to make a philosophical point.”

  Annette said coolly, “Why not? Either this is going to be home
for humanity or it isn’t going to be. If it is, then we’re going to have babies here, that’s all. I want a baby born in Ocean-Deep. There are babies born in Luna City, aren’t there, Mr. Demerest?”

  Demerest took a deep breath. “I was born in Luna City, Mrs. Bergen.”

  “And well she knew it, “ muttered Bergen.

  “And you are in your late twenties, I think?” she said.

  “I am twenty-nine,” said Demerest.

  “And well she knew that, too,” said Bergen with a short laugh. “You can bet she looked up all possible data on you when she heard you were coming.”

  “That is quite beside the point,” said Annette. “The point is that for twenty-nine years at least children have been born in Luna City and no children have been born in Ocean-Deep.”

  “Luna City, my dear,” said Bergen, “is longer-established. It is over half a century old; we are not yet twenty.”

  “Twenty years is quite enough. It takes a baby nine months.”

  Demerest interposed, “Are there any children in Ocean-Deep?”

  “No,” said Bergen. “No. Someday, though.”

  “In two months, anyway,” said Annette Bergen positively.

  The tension grew inside Demerest and when they returned to the unit in which he had first met Bergen, he was glad to sit down and accept a cup of coffee.

  “We’ll eat soon,” said Bergen matter-of-factly. “I hope you don’t mind sitting here meanwhile. As the prime unit, it isn’t used for much except, of course, for the reception of vessels, an item I don’t expect will interrupt us for a while. We can talk, if you wish.”

  “I do wish,” said Demerest.

  “I hope I’m welcome to join in,” said Annette.

  Demerest looked at her doubtfully, but Bergen said to him, “You’ll have to agree. She’s fascinated by you and by Moon-men generally. She thinks they’re--uh--you’re a new breed, and I think that when she’s quite through being a Deep-woman she wants to be a Moon-woman:’

  “I just want to get a word in edgewise, John, and when I get that in, I’d like to hear what Mr. Demerest has to say. What do you think of us, Mr. Demerest?”