The Ghost From the Grand Banks
by
Arthur C Clarke

ISBN: 1 85723 070 1

Publisher: Orbit Books.


1. SUMMER OF 74.

There must be better ways, Jason Bradley kept telling himself, of
celebrating one's twenty-first birthday than attending a mass funeral:
but at least he had no emotional involvement.

He wondered if Operation JENNIFER's Director, or his CIA side-kicks,
even knew the names of the sixty-three Russian sailors they were now
consigning to the deep.

The whole ceremony seemed utterly unreal, and the presence of the
camera crew added yet another dimension of fantasy.  Jason felt that he
was an extra in a Hollywood movie, and that someone would shout
"Action?  as the shrouded corpses slid into the sea.  After all, it was
quite possible even likely -- that Howard Hughes himself had been in
the plane that had circled overhead a few hours before.  If it was not
the Old Man, it must have been some other top brass of the Summa
Corporation; no one else knew what was happening in this lonely stretch
of the Pacific, a thousand kilometres northwest of Hawaii.

For that matter, not even Glomar Explorers Operations Team-carefully
insulated from the rest of the ship's crew knew anything about the
mission until they were already at sea.  That they were attempting an
unprecedented salvage job was obvious, and the smart money favoured a
lost reconnaissance satellite.  No one dreamed that they were going to
lift an entire Russian submarine from water two thousand fathoms The
Ghost from the Grand Banks SUMMER OF '74 deep -with its nuclear
warheads, its codebooks and crypt,graphic equipment.

And, of course, its crew...

Until that morning -- yes, it had been quite a birthday!  Jason had
never seen death.  Perhaps it was morbid curiosity that had prompted
him to volunteer, when the medics had asked for help to bring the
bodies up from the morgue.  (The planners in Langley had thought of
everything; they had provided refrigeration for exactly one hundred
cadavers.) He had been astonished and relieved - to find how well
preserved most of the corpses were, after six years on the bed of the
Padtic.  The sailors who had been trapped in sealed compartments, where
no predators could reach them, looked as if they were sleeping.  Jason
felt that if he had known the Russian for "Wake up!"  he would have had
an irresistible urge to shout it.

There was certainly someone aboard who knew Russian, and spoke it
beautifully, for the entire funeral service had been in that language;
only now, at the very end, was English used as Explorer's chaplain came
on line with the dosing words for burial at sea.

There was a long silence after the last "Amen", followed by a brief
command to the Honour Guard.  And then, as one by one the lost sailors
slid gently over the side, came the music that would haunt Jason
Bradley for the rest of his life.

It was sad, yet not like any funeral music that he had ever heard; in
its slow, relentless beat was all the power and mystery of the sea.

Jason was not a very imaginative young man, but he felt that he was
listening to the sound of waves marching for ever against some rocky
shore.  It would be many years before he learned how well this music
had been chosen.

The bodies were heavily weighted, so that they entered the water feet
first, with only the briefest of splashes.  Then they vanished
instantly; they would reach their final resting place intact, before
the circling sharks could mutilate them.

Jason wondered if the rumour was true, and that in due course the film
of this ceremony would be sent to Moscow.  It would have been a
civilised gesture -- but a somewhat ambiguous one.  And he doubted that
Security would approve, however skilfully the editing was done.

As the last of the sailors returned to the sea, the haunting music
ebbed into silence.  The sense of doom that had hung over Explorer for
so many days seemed to disperse, like a fog bank blown away by the
wind.  There was a long moment of complete silence; then the single
word "Dismiss" came from the PA system - not in the usual brusque
manner, but so quietly that it was some time before the files of men
standing at attention broke up and began to drift away.

And now, thought Jason, I can have a proper birthday party.  He never
dreamed that one day he would walk this deck again - in another sea,
and another century.

2. THE COLOURS OF INFINITY.

Donald Craig hated these visits, but he knew that they would continue
as long as they both lived; if not through love (had it ever really
been there?) but at least through compassion and a shared grief.

Because it is so hard to see the obvious, it had been months before he
realised the true cause of his discomfort.  The Torrington Clinic was
more like a luxury hotel than a world-famous centre for the treatment
of psychological disorders.  Nobody died here; trolleys never rolled
from wards to operating theatres; there were no white-robed doctors
making Pavlovian responses to their beepers, and even the attendants
never wore uniforms.  But it was still, essentially, a hospital; and a
hospital was where the fifteen-year-old Donald had watched his father
gasping for breath, as he slowly died from the first of the two great
plagues that had ravaged the twentieth century.

"How is she this morning, Dolores?"  he asked the nurse after he had
checked in at Reception.

"Quite cheerful, Mr Craig.  She asked me to take her shopping -she
wants to buy a new hat."

"Shopping!  That's the first time she's even asked to go out!"

Craig should have been pleased, yet he felt a twinge of resentment.

Edith would never speak to him: indeed, she seemed unaware of his
presence, looking through him as if he did not even exist.

 THE COLOURS OF INFINITY "What did Dr
Jafferjee say?  Is it OK for her to leave the Clinic?"

"I'm afraid not.  But it's a good sign: she's starting to show interest
in the world around her again."

A new hat?  thought Craig That was a typically feminine reaction -- but
it was not at all typical of Edith.  She had always dressed-well,
sensibly rather than fashionably, and had been quite content to order
her clothes in the usual fashion, by teleshopping.

Somehow, he could not imagine her in some exclusive Mayfair shop,
surrounded by hat-boxes, tissue paper and fawning assistants, but if
she felt that way, so be it; anything to help her escape from the
mathematical labyrinth which was, quite literally, infinite in
extent.

And where was she now, in her endless explorations?  As usual, she was
sitting crouched in a swivel-chair, while an image built up on the
metre-wide screen that dominated one wall of her room.  Craig could see
that it was in hi-res mode all two thousand lines -- so even the
supercomputer was going flat out to paint a pixel every few seconds.

To a casual observer, it would have seemed that the image was frozen in
a partly completed state; only close inspection would have shown that
the end of the bottom line was creeping slowly across the screen.

"She started this run," whispered Nurse Dolores, "early yesterday
morning.  Of course, she hasn't been sitting here all the time.  She's
sleeping well now, even without sedation."

The image flickered briefly, as one scan line was completed and a new
one started creeping from left to right across the screen.  More than 9
percent of the picture was now displayed; the lower portion still
being generated would show little more of interest.

Despite the dozens, no, hundreds -- of times that Donald Craig had
watched these images being created, they had never lost their
fascination.  Part of it came from the knowledge that he was looking at
something that no human eye had ever seen before -- or ever would see
again, if its coordinates were not saved in the computer.  Any random
search for a lost image would be far more futile than seeking a single
grain of sand in all the deserts of the world And where was Edith now,
in her endless exploring?  He glanced at the small display screen below
the main monitor, and checked the magnitude of the enormous numbers
that marched across it, digit after implacable digit.  They were
grouped in fives to make it easier for human eyes to grasp, though
there was no way that the human mind could do so.

. . Six, seven, eight dusters -- forty digits all told.  That meant -He
did a quick mental calculation - a neglected skill in this day and age,
of which he was inordinately proud.  The result impressed, but did not
surprise him.  On this scale, the original basic image would be much
bigger than the Galaxy.  And the computer could continue expanding it
until it was larger than the Cosmos, though at that magnification,
computing even one particular image might take years.

Donald Craig could well understand why Georg Cantor, the discoverer (or
was it inventor?) of the numbers beyond infinity had spent his last
years in a mental home.  Edith had taken the first steps on that same
endless road, aided by machinery beyond the dreams of any
nineteenth-century mathematician.  The computer generating these images
was performing trillions of operations a second; in a few hours, it
would manipulate more numbers than the entire human race had ever
handled, since the first Cro-Magnon started counting pebbles on the
floor of his cave.

Though the unfolding patterns never exactly repeated themselves, they
fell into a small number of easily recognised categories.  There were
multi-pointed stars of six-, eight-fold and even higher degrees of
symmetry; spirals that sometimes resembled the trunks of elephants, and
at other times the tentacles of octopods; black amoebae linked by
networks of contorted tendrils; faceted, compound insect eyes...

Because there was absolutely no sense of scale, some of the figures
being created on the screen could have been equally well interpreted as
bizarre galaxies -- or the microfauna in a drop of ditchwater.

And ever and again, as the computer increased the degree of
magnification and dived deeper into the geometric depths it was
exploring, the original strange shape t looking like a fuzzy figure "8"
lying on its side -- that contained all this controlled chaos would
reappear.  Then the endless cyde 2O 
would begin again, though with variations so subtle that they eluded
the eye.

Surely, thought Donald Craig, Edith must realise, in some part of her
mind, that she is trapped in an endless loop.  What had happened to the
wonderful brain that had conceived and designed the '99 Phage which, in
the early hours of 1 January 2000, had briefly made her one of the most
famous women in the world?

Edith," he said softly, "this is Donald.  Is there anything I can
do?"

Nurse Dolores was looking at him with an unfathomable expression.

She had never been actually unfriendly, but her greetings always lacked
warmth.  Sometimes he wondered if she blamed him for Edith's
condition.

That was a question he hdd asked himself every day, in the months since
the tragedy.

. A BETTER MOUSETRAP

Roy Emerson considered himself, accurately enough, to be reasonably
good-natured, but there was one thing that could make him really
angry.

It had happened on what he swore would be his last TV appearance, when
the interviewer on a late, late show had asked, with malice
afore-thought: "Surely, the principle of the Wave Wiper is very
straightforward.  Why didn't someone invent it earlier?"  The host's
tone of voice made his real meaning perfectly dear: "Of course I could
have thought of it myself, if I hadn't more important things to do."

Emerson resisted the temptation of replying: "If you had the chance,
I'm sure you'd ask Einstein, or Edison, or Newton, the same sort of
question."  Instead, he answered mildly enough: "Well, someone had to
be the first.  I guess I was the lucky one."

"What gave you the idea?  Did you suddenly jump out of the bathtub
shouting 'Eureka'?"

Had it not been for the host's cynical attitude, the question would
have been fairly innocuous.  Of course, Emerson had heard it a hundred
times before.  He switched to automatic mode and mentally pressed the
Play button.

"What gave me the idea -- though I didn't realise it at the time-was a
ride in a high-speed Coastguard patrol boat off Key West, back in '03 "
Though it had led him to fame and fortune, even now
It was while testing the latest model of his invention that
Roy Emerson made his next breakthrough -- and, once again, he was very
lucky that no one else had thought of it first.

His '04 Mercedes Hydra was cruising in benign silence down Park Avenue,
living up to its celebrated slogan "You can drink your exhaust!"

Midtown seemed to have been hit by a monsoon: conditions were perfect
for testing the Mark V Wave Wiper.  Emerson was sitting beside his
chauffeur-- he no longer drove himself, of course -- quietly dictating
notes as he adjusted the electronics.

The car seemed to be sliding between the rain-washed walls of a glass
canyon.  Emerson had driven this way a hundred times before, but only
now did the blindingly obvious hit him with paralysing force.

Then he recovered his breath, and said to the carcom: "Get me Joe
Wickram."

His lawyer, sunning himself on a yacht off the Great Barrier Reef, was
a little surprised by the call.

"This is going to cost you, Roy.  I was just about to gaff a marlin."

Emerson was in no mood for such trivialities.

"Tell me, Joe -- does the patent cover all applications--not just car
windshields?"

Joe was hurt at the implied criticism.

"Of course.  That's why I put in the clause about adaptive circuits, so
it could automatically adjust to any shape and size.

Thinking of a new line in sunglasses?"

"Why not?  But I've got something slightly bigger in mind.

Remember that the Wiper doesn't merely keep off water - it shakes off
any dirt that's .already there.  Do you remember when you last saw a
car with a really dirty windshield?"

"Not now you mention it."

"Thanks: that's all I wanted to know.  Good luck with the fishing."

Roy Emerson leaned back in his seat and did some mental calculation.

He wondered if all the windshields of all the cars in the City of New
York could match the area of glass in the single building he was now
driving past.

A BETTER MOUSETRAP25 He was about to destroy an entire profession:
armies of window-cleaners would soon be looking for other jobs.

Until now, Roy Emerson had been merely a millionaire.  Soon he would be
rich.  And bored...

4. THE CENTURY SYNDROME When the docks struck midnight on Friday, 31

December 1999, there could have been few educated people who did not
realise that the twenty-first century would not begin for another
year.

For weeks, all the media had been explaining that because the western
calendar started with Year 1, not Year 0, the twentieth century still
had twelve months to go.

It made no difference; the psychological effect of those three zeros
was too powerful, the fin-de-sicle ambience too overwhelming.

This was the weekend that counted; 1 January 2001 would be an
anticlimax, except to a few movie buffs.

There was also a very practical reason why January 2o0o was the date
that really mattered, and it was a reason that would never have
occurred to anyone a mere forty years earlier.  Since the 1960s has, more
and more of the world's accounting had been taken over by computers,
and the process was now essentially complete.  Millions of optical and
electronic memories held in their stores trillions of transactions
-virtually all the business of the planet.

And, of course, most of these entries bore a date.  As the last decade
of the century opened, something like a shock wave passed through the
financial world.  It was suddenly, and belatedly, realised that most of
those dates lacked a vital component.

The human bank clerks and accountants who did what was still called
"book-keeping" had very seldom bothered to write
in the "19" before the two digits they
had entered.  These were taken for granted; it was a matter of common
sense.  And common sense, unfortunately, was what computers so
conspicuously lacked.  Come the first dawn of '00, myriads of
electronic morons would say to themselves "00 is smaller than 99.

Therefore today is earlier than yesterday -- by exactly ninety-nine
years.  Recalculate all mortgages, overdrafts, interest-bearing
accounts on this basis... "The result would be international chaos on a
scale never witnessed before; it would eclipse all earlier achievements
of Artificial Stupidity even Black Monday, 5

June x995, when a faulty chip in Zurich had set the Bank Rate at 50
percent instead of 15 percent.

There vere not enough programmers in the world to check all the
billions of financial statements that existed, and to add the magic "9"
prefix wherever necessary.  The only solution was to design special
software that could perform the task, by being injected -- like a
benign virus t into all.the programs involved.

During the closing years of the century, most of the world's star-class
programmers were engaged in the race to develop a "Vaccine '99"; it had
become a kind of Holy Grail.  Several faulty versions were issued as
early as x997 and wiped out any purchasers who hastened to test them
before making adequate backups.  The lawyers did very well out of the
ensuing suits and countersuits.

Edith Craig belonged to the small pantheon of famous woman programmers
that began with Byron's tragic daughter Ada, Lady Lovelace, continued
through Rear-Admiral Grace Hopper, and culminated with Dr Susan
Calvin.

With the help of only a dozen assistants and one SuperCray, she had
designed the quarter million lines of code of the DOUBLEZERO program
that would prepare any organised financial system to face the
twenty-first century.  It could even deal with badly-organised ones,
inserting the computer equivalent of red flags at danger points where
human intervention might still be necessary.

It was just as well that January 2000 was a Saturday; mo of the world
had a full weekend to recover from its hangover and to prepare for the
moment of truth on Monday morning.

The following week saw a record number of bankruptcies among firms
whose Accounts Receivable had been turned into instant garbage.  Those
who had been wise enough to invest in DOUBLEZERO survived, and Edith
Craig was rich, famous and happy.

Only the wealth and the fame would last.

. EMPIRE OF GLASS Roy Emerson had never expected to be rich, so he was
not adequately prepared for the ordeal.  At first he had naively
imagined that he could hire experts to look after his rapidly
accumulating wealth, leaving him to do exactly what he pleased with his
time.  He had soon discovered that this was only partly true: money
could provide freedom, but it also brought responsibility.  There were
countless decisions that he alone could make, and a depressing number
of hours had to be spent with lawyers and accountants.

Half-way to his first billion, he found himself Chairman of the
Board.

The Company had only five directors -- his mother, his older brother,
his younger sister, Joe Wickram, and himself.

"Why not Diana?"  he had asked Joe.

His attorney looked at him over the spectacles which, he fondly
believed, gave him an air of distinction in this age of ten-minute
corrective eye surgery.

"Parents and siblings are forever," he said.  "Wives come and go -- you
should know that.  Not, of course, that I'm suggesting..."

Joe was right; Diana had indeed gone, like Gladys before her.  It had
been a fairly amicable, though expensive, departure, and when the last
documents had been signed, Emerson disappeared into his workshop for
several months.  When he emerged (without any new inventions, because
he
yachtsman, "reminds me of those Japanese fishing floats
that get washed up all over the Pacific.  Make splendid ornaments."

"I can think of only one use for the smallest size," said George
portentously.  "Fusion power."

"Nonsense, uncle," interjected Gloria Windsor-Parkinson (loo Metres
Silver, 2004 Olympics).  "Laser-zapping was given up years ago-and the
microspheres for that were tiny.  Even a millimetre would be far too
big-- unless you wanted a housebroken H-bomb."

"Besides, look at the quantities required," said Arnold Parkinson
(world authority on Pre-Raphaelite art.) "Enough to fill the Albert
Hall."

"Wasn't ,that the title of a Beatles song?"  asked William.  There was
a thoughtful silence, then a quick scrabbling at keyboards.

Gloria, as usual, got there first.

"Nice try, Uncle Bill.  It's from Sergeant Pepper-- 'A Day in the
Life'.  I had no idea you were fond of classical music."

Sir Roger let the free-association process go its way unchecked.

He could bring the board to an instant full stop by lifting an eyebrow,
but he was too wise to do so-- yet.  He knew how often these
brain-storming sessions led to vital conclusions- even decisions in that
mere logic would never have discovered.  And even when they fizzled
out, they helped the members of his world-wide family to know each
other better.

But it was Roy Emerson (token Yank) who was to amaze the massed
Parkinsons with his inspired guess.  For the last few minutes, an idea
had been forming in the back of his mind.  Rupert's reference to the
Japanese fishing floats had provided the first vague hint, but it would
never have come to anything without one of those extraordinary
coinddences that no self-respecting novelist would allow in a work of
fiction.

Emerson was sitting almost faring the portrait of Basil Parkinson,
874-192.  And everyone knew wherehe had died, though the exact
circumstances were still the stuff of legend J and at least one libel
action.

There were some who said that he had tried to disguise himself as a
woman, so that he could get into one of the last boats to leave.

Others had seen him in animated conversation with Chief Designer
Andrews, completely ignoring the icy water rising round his ankles.

This version was considered at least by the family to be far more
probable.  The two brilliant engineers would have enjoyed each other's
company, during the last minutes of their lives.

Emerson cleared his throat, a little nervously.  He might be making a
fool of himself...

"Sir Roger," he said.  "I've just had a crazy idea.  You've all seen
the publicity and speculations about the centennial, now that it's only
five years to 2012.  A few million bubbles of toughened glass would be
just right for the job everyone's talking about.

"I think our mystery customer is after the Titanic."

Although most of the human race had seen his handiwork, Donald Craig
would never be as famous as his wife.  Yet his programming skills had
made him equally rich, and their meeting was inevitable, for they had
both used supercomputers to solve a problem unique to the last decade
of the twentieth century.

In the mid-'90s, the movie and TV studios had suddenly realised that
they were facing a crisis that no one had ever anticipated, although it
should have been obvious years in advance.  Many of the classics of the
cinema -- the capital assets of the enormous entertainment industry
-were becoming worthless, because fewer and fewer people could bear to
watch them.  Millions of viewers would switch off in disgust at a
Western, a James Bond thriller, a Neil Simon comedy, a court-room
drama, for a reason which would have been inconceivable only a
generation before.  They showed people smoking.

The AIDS epidemic of the '9as had been partly responsible for this
revolution in human behaviour.  The twentieth century's second plague
was appalling enough, but it killed only a ew percent of those who
died, equally horribly, from the innumerable diseases triggered by
tobacco.  Donald's father had been amongst them, and there was poetic
justice in the fact that his son had made several fortunes by
"sanitising" classic movies so that they could be presented to the new
public.

 "A NIGHT TO REMEMBER" Though some were
so wreathed in smoke that they were beyond redemption, in a surprising
number of cases skilful computer processing could remove offending
cylinders from actors' hands or mouths, and banish ashtrays from
table-tops.  The techniques that had seamlessly welded real and
imaginary worlds in such landmark movies as Who Framed Roger Rabbit?

had countless other applications -- not all of them legal.

However, unlike the video blackmailers, Donald Craig could claim to be
performing a useful social function.

He had met Edith at a screening of his sanitised Casablanca, and she
had at once pointed out how it could have been improved.  Although the
trade joked that he had married Edith for her algorithms, the match had
been a success on both the personal and professional levels.  For the
first few years at least...

"This will be a very simple job," said Edith Craig when the last
credits rolled off the monitor.  "There are only four scenes in the
whole movie that present problems.  And what a joy to work in good old
black and white!"

Donald was still silent.  The film had shaken him more than he cared to
admit, and his cheeks were still moist with tears.  What is it, he
asked himself, that moves me so much?  The fact that this had really
happened, and that the names of all the hundreds of people he had seen
die -- even if in a studio re-enactment -- were still on record?  No,
it had to be something more than that, because he was not the sort of
man who cried easily...

Edith hadn't noticed.  She had called up the first logged sequence on
the monitor screen, and was looking thoughtfully at the frozen image.

"Starting with Frame 3751," she said.  "Here we go- man lighting cigar
-- man on right screen ditto end on Frame 4432 whole sequence
forty-five seconds -- what's the client's policy on cigars?"

"OK in case of historical necessity; remember the Churchill
retrospective?  No way we could pretend he didn't smoke."

Edith gave that short laugh, rather like a bark, that Donald now found
more and more annoying.

"I've never been able to imagine Winston without a cigar and I must say
he seemed to thrive on them.  After all, he lived to ninety."

"He was lucky; look at poor Freud years of agony before he asked his
doctor to kill him.  And towards the end, the wound stank so much that
even his dog wouldn't go near him."

"Then you don't think a group of 1912 millionaires qualifies under
'historical necessity'?"

"Not unless it affects the story line and it doesn't.  So I vote clean
it up."

"Very well -- algorithm 6 will do it, with a few subroutines."

Edith's fingers danced briefly over the keyboard as she entered the
command.  She had learned never to challenge her partner's decisions in
these matters; he was still too emotionally involved, though it was now
almost twenty years since he had watched his father struggling for one
more breath.

"Frame 1993," said Edith.  "Card-sharp fleecing his wealthy victims.

Some on the left have cigars, but I don't think many people would
notice."

"Agreed," Donald answered, somewhat reluctantly.  "If we can cut out
that cloud of smoke on the right.  Try one pass with the haze
algorithm."

It was strange, he thought, how one thing could lead to another, and
another, and another t and finally to a goal which seemed to have no
possible connection with the starting point.  The apparenfiy
intractable problem of eliminating smoke, and restoring hidden pixels
in partially obliterated images, had led Edith into the world of Chaos
Theory, of discontinuous functions and trans-Euclidean
meta-geometries.

From that she had swiftly moved into fractals, which had dominated the
mathematics of the twentieth century's last decade.  Donald had begun
to worry about the time she now spent exploring weird and wonderful
imaginary landscapes, of no practical value in his opinion to anyone.

"Right," Edith continued, "We'll see how Sub-routine 55 handles it.

Now Frame 9873-- just after they've hit the berg,
but don't realise the ship's
doomed.

This man's playing with the pieces of ice on deck -- but note those
spectators at the left."

"Not worth bothering about.  Next."

"Frame 21,397.  No way we can save this sequence!  Not only cigarettes,
but those pageboys smoking them can't be more than sixteen or
seventeen.  Luckily, the scene isn't important."

"Well, that's easy; we'll just cut it out.  Anything else?"

"No-except for the sound track at Frame 52,763 -- in the lifeboat.

Irate lady exclaims: 'That man over there -- he's smoking a
cigarette!

I think it's disgraceful, at a time like this!"  We don't actually see
him, though."

Donald laughed.

"Nice touch-- especially in the circumstances.  Leave it in."

"Agreed.  But you realise what this means?  The whole job will only
take a couple of days -- we've already made the analog-digital
transfer."

"Yes we musn't make it seem too easy!  When does the client want it?"

"For once, not last week.  After all, it's still only 2o07.  Five years
to go before the centennial."

"That's what puzzles me," said Donald thoughtfully.  "Why so early?"

"Haven't you been watching the news, Donald?  No one's come out into
the open yet, but people are making long-range plans and trying to
raise money.  And they've got to do a lot of that -- before they can
bring up the Titanic."

"I've never taken those reports seriously.  After all, she's badly
smashed up -- and in two pieces."

"They say that will make it easier.  And you can solve any engineering
problem -- if you throw enough cash at it."

Donald was silent.  He had scarcely heard Edith's words, for one of the
scenes he had just watched had suddenly replayed itself in his
memory.

It was as if he was watching it again on the screen: and now he knew
why he had wept in the darkness.

"Goodbye, my dear son," the aristocratic young Englishman had said, as
the sleeping boy who would never see his father again was passed into
the lifeboat.

And yet, before he had died in the icy Atlantic waters, that man had
known and loved a son -- and Donald Craig envied him.  Even before they
had started to drift apart, Edith had been implacable.  She had given
him a daughter; but Ada Craig would never have a brother.

7' THIRD LEADER

From the London Times (Hardcopy and NewsSat) 2007 April 15 A NIGHT TO
FORGET Some artefacts have the power to drive men mad.

Perhaps the most famous examples are Stonehenge, the Pyramids, and the
hideous statues of Easter Island.  Crackpot theories --even
quasi-religious cults-- have flourished around all three.

Now we have another example of this curious obsession with some relic
of the past.  In five years time, it will be exactly a century since
the most famous of all maritime disasters, the sinking of the luxury
liner Titanic on her maiden voyage in 1912.  The tragedy inspired
dozens of books and at least five films -- as well as Thomas Hardy's
embarrassingly feeble poem, "The Convergence of the Twain".

For seventy-three years the great ship lay on the bed of the Atlantic,
a monument to the 1,500 souls who were lost with her; she seemed for
ever beyond human ken.  But in 2985, thanks to revolutionary advances
in submarine technology, she was discovered, and hundreds of her
pitiful relics brought back to the light of day.  Even at the time,
many considered this a kind of desecration.

Now, according to rumour, much more ambitious plans are afoot; various
consortia -- as yet unidentified -- have been formed to raise the ship,
despite her badly damaged condition.

 Frankly, such a project seems completely
absurd, and we trust that none of our readers will be induced to invest
in it.  Even if all the engineering problems can be overcome, just what
would the salvors do with forty or fifty thousand tons of scrap iron?

Marine archaeologists have known for years that metal objects-- except,
of course, gold-disintegrate rapidly when brought into contact with air
after long submergence.

Protecting the Titanic might be even more expensive than salvaging
her.

It is not as if-- like the Vasa or the Mary Rose--she is a "time
capsule" giving us a glimpse of a lost era.  The twentieth century is
adequately-sometimes all too adequately -- documented.  We can learn
nothing that we do not already know from the debris four kilometres
down off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland.

There is no need to revisit her to be reminded of the most important
lesson the Titanic can teach the dangers of overconfidence, of
technological hubris.  Chernobyl, Challenger, Lagrange 3 and
Experimental Fusor One have shown us where that can lead.

Of course we should not forget the Titanic.  But we should let her rest
in peace.

8. PRIVATE VENTURE

Roy Emerson was bored, as usual -- though this was a fact that he hated
to admit, even to himself.  There were times when he would wander
through his superbly equipped workshop, with its gleaming machine tools
and tangles of electronic gear, quite unable to decide which of his
expensive toys he wished to play with next.  Sometimes he would start
on a project suggested by one of the countless network "Magazines", and
join a group of similarly inclined hobbyists scattered all over the
world.  He seldom knew their names only their often facetious
call-signs-- and he was careful not to give his.  Since he had been
listed as one of the hundred richest men in the United States, he had
learned the value of anonymity.

After a few weeks, however, the latest project would lose its novelty,
and he would pull the plug on his unseen playmates, changing his Ident
Code so that they could no !anger contact him.  For a few days, he
would drink too much, and waste time exploring the Personal
Noticeboards whose contents would have appalled the first pioneers of
electronic communication.

Occasionally after the long-suffering Joe Wickram had checked it out
-he would answer some advertisement for "Personal Services" that
intrigued him.  The results were seldom very satisfying, and did
nothing to improve his self-respect.  The news that Diana had just
remarried hardly
was almost sacred; they branded those who
tampered with it as grave-robbers.

But he knew that men often concealed, even failed to recognise -their
true motives.  Since he had joined the board, he had grown to know and
like Rupert, though he would hardly call him a close friend; it was not
easy for an outsider to get close to the Parkinsons.

Rupert had his own account to settle with the sea.  Five years ago, it
had taken his beautiful twenty-five metre yacht Aurora, when she had
been dismasted by a freak squall off the Scillies, and smashed to
pieces on the cruel rocks that had claimed so many victims through the
centuries.  By pure chance, he had not been aboard; it had been a
routine trip-- a "bus run"-- from Cowes to Bristol for a refit.  All
the crew had been lost -- including the skipper.  Rupert Parkinson had
never quite recovered; at the same time he had lost both his ship and,
as was well known, his lover.  The playboy image he now wore in
self-defence was only skin-deep.

"All very interesting, Rupert.  But exactly what do you have in mind?

Surely you don't expect me to get involved!"

"Yes and no.  At the moment, it's a -- what do they call it?

thought experiment.  I'd like to get a feasibility study done, and I'm
prepared to finance that myself.  Then, if the project makes any sense
at all, I'll present it to the board."

"But a hundred million!  There's no way the company would risk that
much.  The shareholders would have us behind bars in no time.

Whether in a gaol or a lunatic asylum, I'm not sure."

"It might cost more -- but I'm not expecting Parkinson's to put up all
the capital.  Maybe twenty or thirty M. I have some friends who'll be
able to match that."

"Still not enough."

"Exactly."

There was a long silence, broken only by faintly querulous bleeps from
the real-time decoding system as it searched in vain for something to
unscramble.

"Very well," said Emerson at last.  "I'll go fifty-fifty with you -- on
the feasibility report, at any rate.  Who's your expert?  Will I know
him?"

"I think so.  Jason Bradley."

"Oh -- the giant octopus man."

"That was just a sideshow.  But look what it did to hid/s public
image."

"And his fee, I'm sure.  Have you sounded him out?  Is he
interested?"

"Very-- but then, so is every ocean engineering firm in the business.

I'm sure some of them will be prepared to put up their own money -- or
at least work on a no-profit basis, just for the PR" "OK -go ahead.

But frankly, I think it's a waste of money; we'll just end up with some
very expensive reading matter, when Mr Bradley delivers his report.

Anyway, I don't see what you'll do with fifty thousand tons, or
whatever it is, of rusty scrap iron."

"Leave that to me-- I've a few more ideas, but I don't want to talk
about them yet.  If some of them work out, the project would pay for
itself -- eventually.  You might even make a profit."

Emerson doubted if that "you" was a slip of the tongue.  Rupert was a
very smooth operator, and knew exactly what he was doing.  And he
certainly knew that his listener could easily underwrite the whole
operation-- if he wished.

"Just one other thing," Parkinson continued.  "Until I give the
OK-which won't be until I get Bradley's report-- not a word to
anyone.

Especially Sir Roger-he'll think we're crazy."

"You mean to say," Emerson retorted, "that there could be the slightest
possible doubt?"

To:The Editor, The Times From: Lord Aldiss of Brightfount, old President
Emeritus, Science Fiction World Association Dear Sir, Your Third Leader
(07 Apr. 15) concerning plans to raise the Titanic again demonstrates
what an impact this disaster-- by no means the worst in maritime
history-has had upon the imagination of mankind.

One extraordinary aspect of the tragedy is that it had been described
with uncanny precision, fourteen years in advance.  According to Walter
Lord's classic account of the disaster, A Night to Remember, in 1898 a
"struggling author named Morgan Robertson concocted a novel about a
fabulous Atlantic liner, far larger than any that had ever been
built.

Robertson loaded it with rich and complacent people, and then wrecked
it one cold April night on an iceberg."

The fictional liner had almost exactly the Titanic's size, speed and
displacement.  It also carried 3,000 people, and lijust for the PR" "OK
-go ahead.  But frankly, I think it's a waste of money; we'll just end
up with some very expensive reading matter, when Mr Bradley delivers
his report.  Anyway, I don't see what you'll do with fifty thousand
tons, or whatever it is, of rusty scrap iron."

"Leave that to me-- I've a few more ideas, but I don't want to talk
about them yet.  If some of them work out, the project would pay for
itself -- eventually.  You might even make a profit."

Emerson doubted if that "you" was a slip of the tongue.  Rupert was a
very smooth operator, and knew exactly what he was doing.  And he
certainly knew that his listener could easily underwrite the whole
operation-- if he wished.

"Just one other thing," Parkinson continued.  "Until I give the
OK-which won't be until I get Bradley's report-- not a word to
anyone.

Especially Sir Roger-he'll think we're crazy."

"You mean to say," Emerson retorted, "that there could be the slightest
possible doubt?"

To:The Editor, The Times From: Lord Aldiss of Brightfount, old President
Emeritus, Science Fiction World Association Dear Sir, Your Third Leader
(07 Apr. 15) concerning plans to raise the Titanic again demonstrates
what an impact this disaster-- by no means the worst in maritime
history-has had upon the imagination of mankind.

One extraordinary aspect of the tragedy is that it had been described
with uncanny precision, fourteen years in advance.  According to Walter
Lord's classic account of the disaster, A Night to Remember, in 1898 a
"struggling author named Morgan Robertson concocted a novel about a
fabulous Atlantic liner, far larger than any that had ever been
built.

Robertson loaded it with rich and complacent people, and then wrecked
it one cold April night on an iceberg."

The fictional liner had almost exactly the Titanic's size, speed and
displacement.  It also carried 3,000 people, and lifeboats for only a
fraction of them...

Coincidence, of course.  But there is one little detail that chills my
blood.  Robertson called his ship the Titan.  I would also like to draw
attention to the fact that two  members
of the profession I am honoured to represent-- that of writers of
science fiction -- went down with the Titanic.  One, Jacques Futrelle,
is now almost forgotten, and even his nationality is uncertain.  But he
had attained sufficient success at the age of thirty-seven with The
Diamond Master and The Thinking Machine to travel first class with his
wife (who, like 97 percent of first-class ladies, and only 55 percent
of third-class ones, survived the sinking).

Far more famous was a man who wrote only one book, A Journey in Other
Worlds: A Romance of the Future, which was published in 1894.

???  This somewhat mystical tour around the Solar System, in the year
2000, described anti-gravity and other marvels.  Arkham House reprinted
the book on its centennial.

I described the author as "famous", but that is a gross
understatement.

His name is the only one that appears above the huge headline of the
New York American for 16 April 1912: "1,500 TO 1,800 DEAD".

He was the multi-millionaire John Jacob Astor, sometimes labelled as
"the richest man in the world".  He was certainly the richest writer of
science fiction who ever lived -- a fact which may well mortify
admirers of the late L. Ron Hubbard, should any still exist.

I have the honour to be, Sir, Yours sincerely, Aldiss of Brightfount,
old President Emeritus, SFWA
Every trade has its acknowledged leaders, whose fame seldom extends
beyond the boundaries of their profession.  At any given time, few
could name the world's top accountant, dentist, sanitary engineer,
insurance broker, mortician.  to mention only a handful of unglamorous
but essential occupations.

There are some ways of making a living, however, which have such high
visibility that their practitioners become household names.

First, of course, are the performing arts, in which anyone who becomes
a star may be instantly recognis-able to a large fraction of the human
race.  Sports and politics are close behind; and so, a cynic might
argue, is crime.

Jason Bradley fitted into none of these categories, and had never
expected to be famous.  The Glomar Explorer episode was more than three
decades in the past, and even if it had not been shrouded in secrecy,
his role had been far too obscure to be noteworthy.  Although he had
been approached several times by writers hoping to get a new angle on
Operation JENNIFER, nothing had ever come of their efforts.

It seemed likely that, even at this date, the CIA felt that the single
book on the subject was one too many, and had taken steps to discourage
other authors.  For several years after 1974, Bradley had been visited
by anonymous but polite gentlemen who had reminded him of the documents
he signed when he
was discharged.  They always came in pairs, and sometimes they offered
him employment of an unspecified nature.  Though they assured him that
it would be "interesting and well-paid", he was then earning very good
money on North Sea oil rigs and was not tempted, It was now more than a
decade since the last visitation, but he did not doubt that the Company
still had him carefully stockpiled in its vast data banks at Langley
-or wherever they were these days.

He was in his office on the forty-sixth floor of the Teague Tower -now
dwarfed by Houston's later skyscrapers when he received the assignment
that was to make him famous.  2:he date happened to be April 2nd, and
at first Bradley thought that his occasional client Jeff Rawlings had
got it a day late.  Despite his awesome responsibilities as Operations
Manager on the Hibernia Platform, Jeff was noted for his sense of
humour.  This time, he wasn't joking; yet it was quite a while before
Jason could take his problem seriously.

"Do you expect me to believe," he said, "that your million-ton rig has
been shut down -- by an octopus!"

"Not the whole operation, of course-but Manifold our best producer.

Forty thou barrels a day.  Five flowlines running into it, all going
full blast.  Until yesterday."

The Hibernia project, it suddenly occurred to Jason, had the same
general design as an octopus.  Tentacles -- or pipelines ran out along
the sea-bed from the central body to the dozen wells that had been
drilled three thousand metres through the oil-rich sandstone.

Before they reached the main platform, the flowlines from several
individual wells were combined at a Production Manifold -- also on the
sea-bed, nearly a hundred metres down.

Each manifold was an automated industrial complex the size of a large
apartment building, containing all the special-ised equipment needed to
handle the high-pressure mixture of gas, oil and water erupting from
the reservoirs far below.  Tens of millions of years ago, Nature had
created and stored this hidden treasure; it was no simple matter to
wrest it from her grasp.

"Tell me exactly what happened."

"This circuit secure?"

"Of course."

"Three days ago we started getting erratic instrument readings.

The flow was perfectly normal, so we weren't too worried.  But then
there was a sudden data cut-off; we lost all monitoring facilities.  It
was obvious that the main fibre-optic trunk had been broken, and of
course the automatics shut everything down."

"No surge problems?"

"No; slug-catcher worked perfectly for once."

"And then?"

"SOP -- we sent down a camera Eyeball Mark 5-Guess what."

"The batteries died."

"Nope.  The umbilical got snagged in the external scaffolding, before
we could even go inside to look around."

"What happened to the driver?"

"Well, the kitchen isn't completely mechanised, and Chef Dubois can
always use some unskilled labour."

"So you lost the camera.  What happened next?"

"We haven't lost it we know exactly where it is but all it shows are
lots of fish.  So we sent down a diver to untangle things and to see
what he could find."

"Why not a ROV?"

There were always several underwater robots Remotely Operated Vehicles
on any offshore oilfield.  The old days when human divers did all the
work were long since past.

There was an embarrassed silence at the other end of the line.

"Afraid you'd ask me that.  We've had a couple of accidents -- two ROVs
are being rebuilt and the rest can't be spared from an emergency job on
the Avalon platform."

"Not your lucky day, is it?  So that's why you've called the Bradley
Corporation 'No job too deep'.  Tell me more."

"Spare me that beat-up slogan.  Since the depth's only ninety metres,
we sent down a diver, in standard, heliox gear.  Well ever heard a man
screaming in helium?  Not a very nice noise...

"When we got him up and he was able to talk again, he said the entire
rig was covered by an octopus.  He swore it was a hundred metres
across.

That's ridiculous, of course w but there's no doubt it's a monster.

"However big it is, a small charge of dynamite should encourage it to
move."

"Much too risky.  You know the layout down there after all, you helped
install it!"

"If the camera's still working, doesn't-it show the beast?"

"We did get a glimpse of a tentacle t but no way of judging its size.

We think it's gone back inside we're worried that it might rip out more
cables."

"You dffn't suppose it's fallen in love with the plumbing?"

"Very funny.  My guess is that it's found a free lunch.  You know the
bloody Oasis Effect that Publicity's always boasting about.

Bradley did indeed.  Far from being damaging to the environment,
virtually all underwater artefacts were irresistibly attractive to
marine life, and often became a target for fishing boats and a paradise
for anglers.  He sometimes wondered how fish had managed to survive,
before mankind generously provided them with condominiums by scattering
wrecks across the sea-beds of the world.

Perhaps a cattle prod would do the trick or a heavy dose of
subsonics."

"We don't care how it's done -- as long as there's no damage to the
equipment.  Anyway, it looked like a job 'for you and Jim, of course.

Is he ready?"

"He's always ready."

"How soon can you get to St Johnis?  There's a Chevron jet at Dallas it
can pick you up in an hour.  What does Jim weigh?"

"One point five tons."

"No problem.  When can you be at the airport?"

"Give me three hours.  This isn't my normal line of business I'!1 have
to do some research."

"Usual terms?"

"Yes hundred K plus expenses."

"And no cure, no pay?"

Bradley smiled: the centuries-old salvage formula had probably never
been invoked in a case like this, but it seemed applicable.  And it
would be an easy job.  A hundred metres, indeed!  What nonsense...

"Of course.  Call you back in one hour to confirm.  Meanwhile please
fax the manifold plans, so I can refresh my memory."

"Right -- and I'll see what else I can find out, while I'm waiting for
your call."

There was no need to waste time packing; Bradley always had two bags
ready -- one for the tropics, one for the Arctic.  The first was very
little used; most of his jobs, it seemed, were in unpleasant parts of
the world, and this one would be no exception.  The North Atlantic at
this time of year would be cold, and probably rough; not that it would
matter much, a hundred metres down.

Those who thought of Jason Bradley as a-tough, no-nonsense roughneck
would have been surprised at his next action.  He pressed a button on
his desk console, lay back in his partially reclining chair, and closed
his eyes.  To all outward appearances, he was asleep.

It had been years before he discovered the identity of the haunting
music that had ebbed and flowed across Glomar Explorer's deck, almost
half a lifetime ago.  Even then, he had known it must have been
inspired by the sea; the slow rhythm of the waves was unmistakable.

And how appropriate that the composer was Russian the most underrated
of his country's three titans, seldom mentioned in the same breath as
Tchaikovsky and Stravinsky...

As Sergei Rachmaninoff himself had done long ago, Jason Bradley had
stood transfixed before Arnold Backlin's "Isle of the Dead", and now he
was seeing it again in his mind's eye.  Sometimes he identified himself
with the mysterious, shrouded figure standing in the boat; sometimes he
was the oarsman (Charon?); and sometimes he was the sinister cargo,
being carried to its last resting place beneath the cypresses.

It was a secret ritual that had somehow evolved over the years, and
which he believed had saved his life more than once.  For while he was
engrossed in the music, his subconscious mind which apparently had no
interest in such trivialities was very busy indeed, analysing the job
that lay ahead, and
foreseeing problems that might arise.  At least that was Bradley's
more-than-half-seriously-held theory, which he never intended to
disprove by too close an examination.

Presently he sat up, switched off the music module, and swung his seat
round to one of his half-dozen keyboards.  The NeXT Mark 4 which stored
most of his files and information was hardly the last word in
computers, but Bradley's business had grown up with it and he had
resisted all updates, on the sound principle "If it works, don't fix
it."

"I thought so," he muttered, as he scanned the encyclopaedia entry
"OCTOPUS".  "Maximum size when fully extended may be as much as ten
metres.  Weight 50-100 kilograms.  ' Jason had never seen an octopus
even approaching this size, and like most divers he considered them
charming and inoffensive creatures.  That they could be aggressive,
still less dangerous, was an idea he had never taken seriously.

"See also entry on Sports, Underwater."

He blinked twice at this last reference, instantly accessed it, and
read it with a mixture of amusement and surprise.  Although he had
often tried his hand at sports diving, he had the typical
professional's disdain for amateur SCUBAnauts.  Too many of them had
approached him looking for jobs, blissfully unaware of the fact that
most of his work was in water too deep for unprotected humans, often
with zero light and even zero visibility.

But he had to admire the intrepid divers of Puget Sound, who wrestled
with opponents heavier than themselves and with four times as many arms
-- and brought them back to the surface without injuring them.  (That,
it seemed, was one of the rules of the game; if you hurt your octopus
before you put it back in the sea, you were disqualified.) The
encydopaedia's brief video sequence was the stuff of-nightmares:
Bradley wondered how well the Puget Sounders slept.  But it gave him
one vital piece of information.

How d/d these crazy sportsmen-- and sportswomen, there were plenty of
them as well -- persuade a peaceable mollusc to emerge from its lair
and indulge in hand-to-tentacle combat?  He could hardly believe that
the answer was so simple.

Pausing only to place a couple of unusual orders with his regular
supplier, he grabbed his travel kit and headed for the airport.

"Easiest hundred K I ever earned," Jason Bradley told himself.

11.  ADA A child with two brilliant parents has a double handicap, and
the Craigs had made life even more difficult for their daughter by
naming her Ada.  This well-advertised tribute to the world's first
computer theorist perfectly summed up their ambitions for the child's
future; it would, they devoutly hoped, be happier than that of Lord
Byron's tragic daughter, Ada, Lady Lovelace.

It was a great disappointment, therefore, when Ada showed no particular
talent for mathematics.  By the age of six, the Craigs' friends had
joked, she should at least have discovered the Binomial Theorem.  As it
was, she used her computer without showing any real interest in its
operation; it was just another of the household gadgets, like
vialphones, remote controllers, voice-operated systems, wall TV,
colorfax...

Ada even seemed to have difficulty with simple logic, finding AND, NOR
and NAND gates quite baffling.  She took an instant dislike to Boolean
operators, and had been known to burst into tears at the sign of an
IF/THEN statement.

"Give her time," Donald pleaded to the often impatient Edith.

"There's nothing wrong with her intelligence.  I was at least ten
before I understood recursive loops.  Maybe she's going to be an
artist.  Her last report gave her straight As in painting,
clay-modelling t"And D in arithmetic.  What's worse she doesn't seem to
care: That's what I find so disturbing."

Donald did not agree, but he knew
that it would only start another fight if he said so.  He loved Ada too
much to see any faults in her; as long as she was happy, and did
reasonably well at school, that was all that mattered to him now.

Sometimes he wished that they had not saddled her with that evocative
name, but Edith still seemed determined to have a genius-type
daughter.

That was now the least of their disagreements.  Indeed, if it had not
been for Ada, they would have separated long ago.

"What are we going to do about the puppy?"  he asked, eager to change
the subject.  "It's only three weeks to her birthday---- nd we
promised."

"Well," said Edith, softening for a moment, "she still hasn't made up
her mind.  I only hope she doesn't choose something enormous-- like a
great Dane.  Anyway, it wasn't a promise.  We told her it would depend
on her next school test."

You told her, said Donald silently.  Whatever the result, Ada's going
to get that puppy.  Even if she wants an Irish wolfhound -which, after
all, would be the appropriate dog for this huge estate.

Donald was still not sure if it was a good idea, but they could easily
afford it, and he had long since given up arguing with Edith once she
had made up her mind.  She had been born and reared in Ireland, and she
was determined that Ada should have the same advantage.

Conray Castle had been neglected for over half a century, and some
portions were now almost in ruins.  But what was left was more than
ample for a modern family, and the stables were in particularly good
shape, having been maintained by a local riding school.  After vigorous
scrubbing and extensive chemical warfare, they provided excellent
accommodation for computers and communications equipment.  Thelocal
residents thought it was a very poor exchange.

On the whole, however, they were friendly enough: after all, Edith was
an Irish girl who had made good, even if she had married an
Englishman.

And they heartily approved of the Craigs' efforts to restore the famous
gardens to at least some vestige of their nineteenth-century glory.

One of Donald's first moves, after they had made the west-wing ground
floor habitable, was to repair the camera obscura whose dome was a
late-Victorian afterthought (some said excrescence) on the castle
battlements.  It had been installed by Lord Francis Conray, a keen
amateur astronomer and telescope maker, during the last decade of his
life; when he was paralysed but too proud to be pushed round the estate
in a wheelchair, he had spent hours surveying his empire from this
vantage point -- and issuing instructions to his army of gardeners by
semaphore.

The century-old optics were still in surprisingly good condition, and
threw a brilliant image of the outside world on to the horizontal
viewing table.  Ada was fascinated by the instrument and the sense of
power it gave her as she scanned the castle grounds.  It was, she
declared, much better than TV -- or the boring old movies her parents
were always screening.

And up here on the battlements, she could not hear the sound of their
angry voices.

The first bad news came soon after Bradley had settled down to his
belated lunch.  Chevron Canada fed its VIPs well, and Jason knew that
as soon as he hit St John's he'd have little time for leisurely,
regular meals.

"Sorry to bother you, Mr Bradley," said the steward, "but there's an
urgent call from head office."

"Can't I take it from here?"

"I'm afraid not -- there's video as well.  You'll have to go back."

"Damn," said Bradley, taking one quick mouthful of a splendid piece of
Texas steak.  He reluctantly pushed his plate aside, and walked to the
communications booth at the rear of the jet.  The video was only
one-way, so he had no compunction about continuing to chew as Rawlings
gave his report.

"We've been doing some research, Jason, about octopus sizes -- the
people out on the platform weren't very happy when you laughed at their
estimate."

"Too bad.  I've checked with my encyclopaedia.  The very largest
octopus is under ten metres across."

"Then you'd better look at this."

Though the image that flashed on the screen was obviously a very old
photograph, it was of excellent quality.  It showed a group of men on a
beach, surrounding a shapeless mass about the size of an elephant.

Several other photos followed  A MOLLUSC
OF UNUSUAL SIZE in quick succession; they were all equally clear, but
ible to say.

"If I had to put any money on it," said Brad by semaphore.

The century-old optics were still in surprisingly good condition, and
threw a brilliant image of the outside world on to the horizontal
viewing table.  Ada was fascinated by the instrument and the sense of
power it gave her as she scanned the castle grounds.  It was, she
declared, much better than TV -- or the boring old movies her parents
were always screening.

And up here on the battlements, she could not hear the sound of their
angry voices.

The first bad news came soon after Bradley had settled down to his
belated lunch.  Chevron Canada fed its VIPs well, and Jason knew that
as soon as he hit St John's he'd have little time for leisurely,
regular meals.

"Sorry to bother you, Mr Bradley," said the steward, "but there's an
urgent call from head office."

"Can't I take it from here?"

"I'm afraid not -- there's video as well.  You'll have to go back."

"Damn," said Bradley, taking one quick mouthful of a splendid piece of
Texas steak.  He reluctantly pushed his plate aside, and walked to the
communications booth at the rear of the jet.  The video was only
one-way, so he had no compunction about continuing to chew as Rawlings
gave his report.

"We've been doing some research, Jason, about octopus sizes -- the
people out on the platform weren't very happy when you laughed at their
estimate."

"Too bad.  I've checked with my encyclopaedia.  The very largest
octopus is under ten metres across."

"Then you'd better look at this."

Though the image that flashed on the screen was obviously a very old
photograph, it was of excellent quality.  It showed a group of men on a
beach, surrounding a shapeless mass about the size of an elephant.

Several other photos followed  A MOLLUSC
OF UNUSUAL SIZE in quick succession; they were all equally clear, but
ible to say.

"If I had to put any money on it," said Bradley, "my guess would be a
badly decomposed whale.  I've seen -- and smelled -- several.

They look just like that; unless you're a marine biologist, you could
never identify it.  That's how sea-serpents get born."

"Nice try, Jason.  That's exactly what most of the experts said at the
time -- which, by the way, was 2896.  And the place was Florida-St
Augustine Beach, to be precise."

"My steak is getting cold, and this isn't exactly helping my
appetite."

"I won't take much longer.  That little morsel weighed about five tons;
luckily, a piece was preserved in the Smithsonian, so that fifty years
later scientists were able to re-examine it.  There's no doubt that it
was an octopus; and it must have had a span of almost seventy metres.

So our diver's guess of a hundred may not have been all that far
out."

Bradley was silent for a few moments, processing this very unexpected
-and unwelcome-piece of information.

"I'll believe it when I see it," he said, "though I'm not sure that I
want to."

"By the way," said Rawlings "you haven't mentioned this to anyone?"

"Of course not," snapped Jason, annoyed at the very suggestion.

"Well, the media have got hold of it somehow; the news-fax headlines
are already calling it Oscar."

"Good publicity: what are you worried about?"

"We'd hoped you could get rid of the beast without everyone looking
over your shoulder.  Now we've got to be careful; mustn't hurt dear
little Oscar.  The World Wildlife people are watching.  Not to mention
Bluepeace."

"Those crazies!"

"Maybe.  But WW has to be taken seriously: remember who they have as
President.  We don't want to upset the Palace."

""ll do my best to be gentle.  Definitely no nukes not even a small
one."

The first bite of his now tepid steak triggered a wry memory.

Several times, Bradley recalled, he had eaten octopus and quite enjoyed
it.

He hoped he could avoid the reverse scenario.

13.  PYRAMID POWR When the sobbing Ada had been sent to her room, Edith
and Donald Craig'stared at each other in mutual disbelief.

"I don't understand it," said Edith at last.  "She's never been
disobedient before; in fact, she always got on very well with Miss
Ives."

"And this is just the sort of test she's usually very good at -no
equations, only multiple choices and pretty pictures.  Let me read that
note again..."

Edith handed it over, while continuing to study the examination paper
that had caused all the trouble.

Dear Mr Craig, I am very sorry to say that I have had to suspend Ada
for insubordination.

This morning her class was given the attached Standard Visual
Perception Test.  She did extremely well (95 percent) with all the
problems except Number 15.  To my surprise, she was the only member of
the doss to give an incorrect answer to this very simple question.

When this was pointed out to her, she flatly denied that she was
wrong.

Even when I showed her the printed answer, she refused to admit her
mistake and stubbornly maintained that everyone else was in error!

At this point it became necessary, for the sake of class disdpline, to
send her home.

I am truly sorry, as
she is usually such a good girl.  Perhaps you will talk to her and make
her see reason.

Sincerely, Elizabeth Ives (Head Mistress) "It almost looks," said
Donald, "as if she was deliberately trying to fail."

Edith shook her head.

"1 don't think so.  Even with this mistake, she'd have got a good
pass."

Donald stared at the little set of brightly coloured geometrical
figures that had caused all the trouble.

"There' only one thing to do," he said.  "You go and talk to her and
calm her down.  Give me ten minutes with a scissors and some stiff
paper-- then I'll settle it once and for all, so there can't be any
further argument."

"I'm afraid that will only be tackling the symptoms, not the disease.

We want to know why she kept insisting she was right.  That's -- almost
pathological.  We may have to send her to a psychiatrist."

The thought had already occurred to Donald, but he had instantly
rejected it.  In later years, he would often remember the irony of this
moment.

While Edith was consoling Ada, he quickly measured out the necessary
triangles with pencil and ruler, cut them from the paper, and joined up
the edges until he had made three examples of the two simplest possible
solid figures -- two tetrahedrons, one pyramid, all with equal sides.

It seemed a childish exercise, but it was the least he could do for his
beloved and troubled daughter.

"l5 (a)," he read.  "Here are two identical tetrahedrons.  Each has 4
equilateral triangles for sides, making a total of 8.

"If any of the two faces are placed together, how many sides does the
new solid have?"

It was such a simple thought-experiment that any child should be able
to do it.  Since two of the eight sides were swallowed up in the
resulting diamond-shaped solid, the answer was obviously six.  At least
Ada had got that right...

Holding it between thumb and first finger, Donald spun the little
cardboard diamond a few times, then dropped it on his desk with a
sigh.

It split apart at once into the two components.

"is(b) Here are a tetrahedron and a pyramid, each with' edges of the
same length.  The pyramid, however, has a square base as well as 4
triangular sides.  Altogether, therefore, the two figures have 9
sides.

"If any two of the triangular faces are placed in contact, how many
sides does the resulting figure have?"

Seven, of course, Donald muttered, since two of the original nine will
be lost inside the new solid...

Idly, he tilted the little cardboard shapes until a pair of triangles
merged.

Then he blinked.

Then his jaw dropped.

He sat in silence for a moment, checking the evidence of his own
eyes.

A slow smile spread across his face, and he said quietly into the
housecom: "Edith -- Ada -- I've got something to show you."

The moment Ada entered, red-eyed and still sniffling, he reached out
and took her in his arms.

"Ada," he whispered, stroking her hair gently, "I'm very proud of
you."

The astonishment on Edith's face delighted him more than it should have
done.

"I wouldn't have believed it," he said.  "The answer was so obvious
that the people who set the paper never bothered to check it.

Look..."

He took the five-sided pyramid and stuck the four-sided tetrahedron on
one face.

The new shape still had only five sides not the "obvious" ."l)eyl .

.

.

"Even though I've found the answer," Donald continued and there was
something like awe in his voice as he looked at his now smiling
daughter -- "I can't visualise it mentally.  How did you know that the
other sides lined up like this?"

Ada looked puzzled.

"What else could they do?"  she answered.

There was a long silence while Donald and Edith absorbed this reply,
and almost simultaneously came to the same conclusion.

 Ada might have little comprehension of
logic or analysis but her feeling for space -- her geometrical
intuition was altogether extraordinary.  At the age of nine, it was
certainly far superior to that of her parents.  Not to mention those
who had set the examination paper...

The tension in the room slowly drained away.  Edith began to laugh, and
presently all three of them embraced with almost childlike joy.

"Poor Miss Ives!"  chortled Donald.  "Wait until we tell her that she's
got the Ramanujan of geometry in her class!

It was one of the last happy moments of their married life; they would
often cling to its memory in the bitter years to come.

14.  CALLING ON OSCAR

"Why are these things always called Jim?"  said the reporter who had
intercepted Bradley at St John's Airport.  He was surprised there was
only one, considering the excitement his mission seemed to be
generating.  One, of course, was often more than enough: but at least
there was no Bluepeace demonstration to contend with.

"After the first diver who wore an armoured suit, when they salvaged
the Lusitania's gold back in the '3as.  Of course, they've been
enormously improved since then..."

"How?"

"Well, they're self-propelled, and I could live in Jim for fifty hours,
two kilometres down -- though it wouldn't be much fun.  Even with
servo-assisted limbs, four hours is maximum efficient working time."

"You wouldn't get me into one of those things," said the reporter, as
the fifteen hundred kilos of titanium and plastic that had accompanied
Bradley from Houston was being carefully hoisted into a Chevron
helicopter.  "Just looking at it gives me claustrophobia.

Especially when you remember--" Bradley knew what was coming, and
escaped by waving goodbye and walking towards the chopper.  The
question had been put to him, in one form or another, by at least a
dozen interviewers hoping to get some reaction.  They had all been
disappointed, and had been forced to concoct such imaginative headlines
as "The iron man in the titanium suit".

what a feeble echo he gives -Oscar
was certainly moving fast towards deep water.  But suppose he comes
back when he gets hungry again?  There's nowhere else in the North
Atlantic where the fishing's so good."

'TII make a deal with you," Jason answered, pointing to his battered
cylinder.  "If he does, I'll rush you my magic bullet and you can send
down your own man to deal with him.  It won't cost you a cent."

"There's a catch somewhere," said Rawlings.  "It can't be that easy."

Jason smiled, but did not answer.  Though he was playing strictly by
the rules, he felt a slight-- very slight-- twinge of conscience.

The "No Cure, No Pay" slogan also implied that you got paid when you
effected a cure, no questions asked.  He had earned his money, and if
anyone ever asked him how it was done, he would answer: "Didn't you
know?  An octopus is easy to hypnotise."

There was only one mild cause for dissatisfaction.  He wished he'd had
a chance of checking the household hint in the old Jacques Cousteau
book that his encyclopaedia had providentially quoted.  It would be
interesting to know if Octopus giganteus had the same aversion to
concentrated copper sulphate as his midget ten-metre cousin, Octopus
vulgaris.

1. CONROY CASTLE

The Mandelbrot Set -- hereinafter referred to as the M-set -- is one of
the most extraordinary discoveries in the entire history of
mathematics.  That is a rash claim, but we hope to justify it.

The stunning beauty of the images it generates means that its appeal is
both emotional and universal.  Invariably they bring gasps of
astonishment from those who have never encountered them before; we have
seen people almost hypnotised by the computer-produced films that
explore its -- quite literally -- infinite ramifications.

Thus it is hardly surprising that within a decade of Benoit
Mandelbrot's 98o discovery it began to have an impact on the visual
arts and crafts, such as the designs of fabrics, carpets, wallpaper,
and even jewellery.  And, of course, the Hollywood Dream Factories were
soon using it (and its relatives) twenty-four hours a day...

The psychological reasons for this appeal are still a mystery, and may
always remain so; perhaps there is some structure, if one can use that
term, in the human mind that resonates to the patterns in the M-set.

Carl Jung would have been surprised-- and delighted--- to know that
thirty years after his death, the computer revolution whose beginnings
he just lived to see would give new impetus to his theory of
archetypes, and his belief in the existence of a "collective
unconscious".  Many patterns in the M-set are
strongly reminiscent of Islamic art; perhaps the
best example is the familiar comma-shaped "Paisley" design.  But there
are other shapes that remind one of organic structures -- tentacles,
compound insect eyes, armies of seahorses, elephant trunks -- then,
abruptly, they become transformed into the crystals and snowflakes of
the world before any life began.

Yet perhaps the most astonishing feature of the M-set is its basic
simplicity.  Unlike almost everything else in modern mathematics, any
schoolchild can understand how it is produced.  Its generation involves
nothing more advanced than addition and multiplication; it does not
even require subtraction or division, much less any higher
functions...

In prindple -- though not in practice!  -- it could have been
discovered as soon as men learned to count.  But even if they never
grew tired, and never made a mistake, all the human beings who have
ever existed would not have sufficed to do the elementary arithmetic
required to produce an M-set of quite modest magnification...

(From "The Psychodynamics of the M-set", by Edith and Donald Craig, in
Essays Presented to Professor Benoft Mandel-brat on his Both Birthday:
MIT Press, 2004.) "Are we paying for the dog, or the pedigree?"  Donald
Craig had asked in mock indignation, when the impressive sheet of
parchment had arrived.  "She's even got a coat of arms, for heaven's
sake!"

It had been love at first sight between Lady Fiona MacDonald of Glen
Abercrombie -- a fluffy half-kilogram of Cairn terrier-- and the
nine-year-old girl.  To the surprise and disappointment of the
neighbours, Ada had shown no interest in ponies.  "Nasty, smelly
things," she told Patrick O'Brian, the head gardener, "with a bite at
one end and a kick at the other."  The old man had been shocked at so
unnatural a reaction from a young lady, especially one who was
half-Irish at that.

Nor was he altogether happy with some of the new owners' projects for
the estate on which his family had worked for five generations.  Of
course, it was wonderful to have real money flowing into Conray Castle
again, after decades of poverty -- but converting the stables into
computer rooms!  It was enough to drive a man to drink, if he wasn't
there already.

Patrick had managed to derail some of the Craigs' more eccentric ideas
by a policy of constructive sabotage, but they -- or rather Miz Edith
had been adamant about the remodelling of the lake.  After it had been
dredged and some hundreds of tons of water hyacinth removed, she had
presented Patrick with an extraordinary map.

"This is what I want the lake to look like," she said, in a tone that
Patrick had now come to recognise all too well.

"What's it supposed to be?"  he answered, with obvious distaste.

"Some kind of bug?"

"You could call it that," Donald had answered, in his
Don't-blame-me-it's-all-Edith's-idea voice.  "The Mandel-bug.  Get Ada
to explain it to you some day."

A few months earlier, O'Brian would have resented that remark as
patronising, but now he knew better.  Ada was a strange child, but she
was some kind of genius: Patrick sensed that both her brilliant parents
regarded her as much with awe as with admiration.  And he liked Donald
considerably more than Edith; for an Englishman, he wasn't too bad.

"The lake's no problem.  But moving all those grown cypress trees I was
only a boy when they were planted!  It may kill them.  I'll have to
talk it over with the Forestry Department in Dublin."

"How long will it take?"  asked Edith, totally ignoring his
objections.

"Do you want it quick, cheap or good?  I can give you any two."

This was now an old joke between Patrick and Donald, and the answer was
the one they both expected.

"Fairly quick -- and very good.  The mathematician who discovered this
is in his eighties and we'd like him to see it as soon as possible."

"Nothing I'd be proud of discovering."

Donald laughed.

"This is only a crude first approximation.  Wait until Ada
shows you the real thing on the computer; you'll
be surprised."

I very much doubt it, thought Patrick.

The shrewd old Irishman was not often wrong.  This was one of the rare
occasions.

6. THE KIPLING SUITe Jason Bradley and Roy Emerson had a good deal in
common, thought Rupert Parkinson.  They were both members of an
endangered, if not dying, species-the self-made American entrepreneur
who had created a new industry or become the leader of an old one.  He
admired, but did not envy, them: he was quite content, as he often put
it, to have been "born in the business".

His choice of the Kipling Suite at Brown's for this meeting had been
quite deliberate, though he had no idea how much, or how little, his
guests knew about the writer.  In any event, both Emerson and Bradley
seemed impressed by the ambience of the room, with the historic
photographs around the wall, and the very desk on which the great man
had once worked.

"I never cared much for T. S. Eliot," began Parkinson, "until I came
across his Choice of Kipling's Verse.  I remember telling my Eng.

Lit.  tutor that a poet who liked Kipling couldn't be all bad.  He
wasn't amused."

"I'm afraid," said Bradley, "I've never read much poetry.  Only thing
of Kipling's I know is 'If'" "Pity: he's just the man for you -the poet
of the sea, and of engineering.  You really must read 'McAndrew's
Hymn'; even though its technology's a hundred years obsolete, no one's
ever matched its tribute to machines.  And he wrote a poem about the
deep-sea cables that you'll appreciate.  It goes:
'The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from afar 'Down to
the dark, to the utter dark, where the blind white sea-snakes are.

'There is no sound, no echo of sound, in the deserts of the deep, 'Or
the great grey level plains of ooze where the shellburred cables
creep."" "I like it," said Jason.  "But he was wrong about 'no echo of
sound'.  The sea's a very noisy place -- if you have the right
listening gear."

"Well, he could hardly have known that, back in the nineteenth
century.

He'd have been absolutely fascinated by our project-especially as he
wrote a novel about the Grand Banks."

"He did?"  both Emerson and Bradley exclaimed simultaneously.

"Not a very good one -- nowhere near Kim but what is?  Captains
Courageous is about the Newfoundland fishermen and their hard lives;
Hemingway did a much better job, half a century later and twenty
degrees further south..."

"I've read that," said Emerson proudly.  "The Old Man and the Sea."

"Top of the class, Roy.  I've always thought it a tragedy that Kipling
never wrote an epic poem about Titanic.  Maybe he intended to, but
Hardy beat him to it."

"Hardy?"

"Never mind.  Please excuse us, Rudyard, while we get down to
business..."

Three flat display panels (and how they would have fascinated Kipling!)
flipped up simultaneously.  Glancing at his, Rupert Parkinson began:
"We have your report dated 30 April.  I assume that you've had no
further inputs since then?"

"Nothing important.  My staff has rechecked all the figures.  We think
we could improve on them but we prefer to be conservative.

I've never known a major underwater operation that didn't have some
surprises."

"Even your famous encounter with Oscar?"

"Biggest surprise of all.  Went even better than I'd expected."

"What about the status of Explorer?"

"No change, Rupe.  She's still mothballed in Suisun Bay."

Parkinson flinched slightly at the "Rupe".  At least it was better
ttheir dust drops down from afar 'Down to the dark, to the utter dark,
where the blind white sea-snakes are.

'There is no sound, no echo of sound, in the deserts of the deep, 'Or
the great grey level plains of ooze where the shellburred cables
creep."" "I like it," said Jason.  "But he was wrong about 'no echo of
sound'.  The sea's a very noisy place -- if you have the right
listening gear."

"Well, he could hardly have known that, back in the nineteenth
century.

He'd have been absolutely fascinated by our project-especially as he
wrote a novel about the Grand Banks."

"He did?"  both Emerson and Bradley exclaimed simultaneously.

"Not a very good one -- nowhere near Kim but what is?  Captains
Courageous is about the Newfoundland fishermen and their hard lives;
Hemingway did a much better job, half a century later and twenty
degrees further south..."

"I've read that," said Emerson proudly.  "The Old Man and the Sea."

"Top of the class, Roy.  I've always thought it a tragedy that Kipling
never wrote an epic poem about Titanic.  Maybe he intended to, but
Hardy beat him to it."

"Hardy?"

"Never mind.  Please excuse us, Rudyard, while we get down to
business..."

Three flat display panels (and how they would have fascinated Kipling!)
flipped up simultaneously.  Glancing at his, Rupert Parkinson began:
"We have your report dated 30 April.  I assume that you've had no
further inputs since then?"

"Nothing important.  My staff has rechecked all the figures.  We think
we could improve on them but we prefer to be conservative.

I've never known a major underwater operation that didn't have some
surprises."

"Even your famous encounter with Oscar?"

"Biggest surprise of all.  Went even better than I'd expected."

"What about the status of Explorer?"

"No change, Rupe.  She's still mothballed in Suisun Bay."

Parkinson flinched slightly at the "Rupe".  At least it was better than
"Porky" permitted only to intimate friends.

"It's hard to believe," said Emerson, "that such a valuable such a
unique ship has only been used once."

"She's too big to run economically, for any normal commercial
project.

Only the CIA could afford her and it got its wrist slapped by
Congress."

"I believe they once tried to hire her to the Russians."  Bradley
looked at Parkinson, and grinned.  "So you know about that?"

"Of course.  We did a lot of research before we came to you."

"I'm lost," said Emerson.  "Fill me in, please."

"Well, back in 2989 one of their newest Russian submarines--" "Only
Mike class they ever built."

" sank in the North Sea, and some bright chappie in the Pentagon said:
'Hey -- perhaps we can get some of our money back!"  But nothing ever
came of it.  Or did it, Jason?"

"Well, it wasn't the Pentagon's idea; no one there with that much
imagination.  But I can tell you that I spent a pleasant week in Geneva
with the Deputy Director of the CLA and three admirals one of ours, two
of theirs.  That was ah, in the spring of x99o.  Just when the
Reformation was starting, so everyone lost interest.  Igor and Alexei
resigned to go into the export-import business; I still get Xmas cards
every year from their office in Lenin-- I mean St Pete.  As you said,
nothing ever came of the idea; but we all put on about ten kilos and
took weeks to get back into shape."

"I know those Gend'va restaurants.  If you had to get Explorer
shipshape, how long would it take?"

"If I can pick the men -- three to four months.  That's the only time
estimate I can be sure of.  Getting down to the wreck, checking its
integrity, building any additional structural supports, getting your
billions of glass balloons down to it frankly, even those maximum
figures I've put in brackets are only guesstimates.  But I'll be able
to refine them after the initial survey."

7. DEEPv FREEZE

"I hope you don't mind meeting us at the airport, Mrs
Craig Donald -- but the traffic into Tokyo is getting worse every
day.

Also-- the fewer people who see us, the better.  I'm sure you'll
understand."

Dr Koto Mitsumasa, the young president of Nippon-Turner, was as usual
immaculately dressed in a Savile Row suit that would remain in style
for the next twenty years.  Also as usual, he was accompanied by two
Samurai clones who remained in the background and would not say a word
during the entire proceedings.  Donald had sometimes wondered if
Japanese robotics had made even more advances than was generally
realised.

"We have a few minutes before our other guest arrives, so I'd like to
go over some details that only concern us...

"First of all, we've secured the world cable and satellite rights for
your smokeless version of A Night to Remember, for the first six months
of '12, with an option of another six months' extension."

"Splendid.  I didn't believe even you could manage it, Koto but I
should have known better."

"Thank you; it wasn't easy, as the porcupine said to his girlfriend."

During the years of his western education -- London School of
Economics, then Harvard and Annenberg -- Koto had developed a sense of
humour that often seemed quite out
centimetre in front of the eye, a clever system of lenses made the
postage-stamp-sized image appear as large as desired.

This was splendid for entertainment purposes-- but it was even more
useful for businessmen, lawyers, politicians, and anyone who wanted to
access confidential information in total privacy.  There was no way of
spying on another person's electronic monocle-- short of tapping the
same data stream.  Its chief disadvantage was that excessive use led to
new types of schizophrenia, quite fascinating to investigators of the
"split-brain" phenomenon.

When Koto had finished his litany of megawatt-hours, calorie-tons, and
degrees-per-month coefficients, Bradley sat for a moment silently
processing the information that had been dumped into his brain.  Many
of the details were too technical to be absorbed at first contact, but
that was unimportant; he could study them later.  He did not doubt that
the calculations would be accurate but there might still be essential
points that had been overlooked.  He had seen that happen so many
times...

His instincts told him, however, that the plan was sound.  He had
learned to take first impressions seriously-- especially when they were
negative, even if he could not pinpoint the exact cause of his
premonition.  This time, there were no bad vibes.  The project was
fantastic but it could work.

Koto was watching him covertly, obviously trying to gauge his
reactions.  I can be pretty inscrutable when I want to, thought Bradley
... besides, I have my reputation to consider.

Then Koto, with the ghost of a smile, handed him a small slip of paper,
folded in two.  Bradley took his time opening it.  When he saw the
figures, he realised that even if the project was a total disaster, he
need give no further thought to his professional career.  In the
natural course of events, it could not last many more years-- and he
had not saved this much in his entire lifetime.

"I'm flattered," he said quietly.  "You're more than generous.

But I still have some other business to settle, before I can give you a
definite answer."

Koto looked surprised.

"How long?"  he asked, rather brusquely.

He thinks I'm still negotiating with someone else, thought Bradley.

Which is perfectly true...

"Give me a week.  But I can tell you right away -- I'm quite sure no
one will match your offer."

"1 know," said Koto, dosing his briefcase.  "Any points you want to
make Edith, Donald?"

"No," said Edith, "you seem to have covered everything."  Donald said
nothing, but merely nodded in agreement.  This is a strange parmership,
Bradley told himself, and not a very happy one.  He had taken an
immediate liking to Donald, who seemed a warm, gentle sort of person.

But Edith was tough and domineering almost aggressive; she was
obviously the boss.

"And how is that delightful child prodigy who happens to be your
daughter?"  Koto asked the Craigs as they were about to leave.  "Please
give her my love."

"We will," Donald replied.  "Ada's fine, and enjoyed her trip to
Kyoto.

It made a change from exploring the Mandel-brat Set."

"And just what," asked Bradley, "is the Mandelbrot Set?"

"Much easier shown than described," answered Donald.  "Why don't you
visit us?  We'd like to take you round our studio wouldn't we, Edith?

Especially if we'll be working together as I hope we will."

Only Koto noticed Bradley's momentary hesitation.  Then he smiled and
answered: "I'd enjoy that -- I'm going to Scotland next week, and think
I could fit it in.  How old is your girl?"

"Ada's almost nine.  But if you asked her age, she'd probably tell you
8.876545 years."

Bradley laughed.  "She does sound a prodigy.  I'm not sure I could face
her."

"And this," said Koto, "is the man who scared away a fifty-ton
octopus.

I'll never understand these Americans."

15.  IN AN IRISH GARDEN

"When I was a small boy," said Patrick CYBrian wistfully, "I used to
love coming up here to watch the magic pictures.  They seemed so much
brighter -- and more interesting-than the real world outside.

No telly in those days, of course and the travelling tent-cinema only
came to the village about once a month."

"Don't believe a word, Jason," said Donald Craig.  "Pat isn't really a
hundred years old."

Though Bradley would have guessed seventy-five, O'Brian might well be
in his eighties.  So he must have been born in the 193as perhaps even
the '2as.  The world of his youth already seemed unimaginably remote;
any exaggeration was minor, especially by Irish standards.

Pat shook his head sadly, as he continued pulling on the cord that
rotated the big lens five metres above their heads.  On the matt-white
table around which they were standing, the lawns and flowerbeds and
gravel paths of Conray Castle performed a stately pirouette.

Everything was unna-turaUy bright and dear, and Bradley could well
imagine that, to a boy, this beautiful old machine must have
transformed the familiar outside world into an enchanted fairyland.

"'Tis a shame, Mr Bradley, that Master Donald doesn't know the truth
when he hears it.  I could tell him stories of the old Lord but what's
the use?"

"You tell them to Ada, anyway."

"Sure -- and she believes me, sensible girl."

"So do I-sometimes.  Like those about Lord Dunsany."

"Only after you'd checked up on me with Father McMullen."

"Dunsany?  The author?"  asked Bradley.

"Yes you've read him?"

"Erno.  But he was a great friend of Dr Beebe-- the first man to go
down half a mile.  That's how I know the name."

"Well, you should read his stories -- especially the ones about the
sea.  Pat says he often came here, to play chess with Lord Conray."

"Dunsany was Grand Master of Ireland," Patrick added.  "But he was also
a very kind man.  So he always let the old Lord win -- just.  How he'd
have loved to play against your computer!  Especially as he wrote a
story about a chessplaying machine."

"He did?"

"WEB-not exactly a machine; maybe an imp."

"What's it called?  I must look it up."

"'The Three Sailors' Gambit' -- ah, there she is!  I might have
guessed."

The old man's voice had softened appreciably as the little boat came
into the field of view.  It was drifting in lazy circles at the centre
of a fair-sized lake, and its sole occupant appeared to be completely
engrossed in a book.

Donald Craig raised his wristcom and whispered: "Ada w we have a
visitor -- we'll be down in a minute."  The distant figure waved a
languid hand, and continued reading.  Then it dwindled swiftly away as
Donald zoomed the camera obscura lens.

Now Bradley could see that the lake was approximately heart-shaped,
connected to a smaller, circular pond where the point of the heart
should have been.  That in turn opened into a third and much smaller
pond, also drcular.  It was a curious arrangement, and obviously a
recent one; the lawn still bore the scars of earth-moving machines.

"Welcome to Lake Mandelbrot," said Patrick, with noticeable lack of
enthusiasm.  "And be careful, Mr Bradley t don't encourage her to
explain it to you."

"I don't think," said Donald, "that any encouragement will be
necessary.  But let's go down and find out."

As her father approached with his two companions, Ada started the motor
of the tiny boat; it was powered by a small solar panel, and was barely
able to match their leisurely walking pace.  She did not head directly
towards them, as Bradley had expected, but steered the boat along the
central axis of the main lake, and through the narrow channel
connecting it to its smaller satellite.  This was quickly crossed, and
the boat entered the third and smallest lake of all.  Though it was now
only a few metres away from them, Bradley could hear no sound from its
motor.  His engineer's soul approved of such efficiency.

"Ada," said Donald Craig, calling across the rapidly diminishing
expanse of water.  "This is the visitor I told you about Mr Bradley.

He's going to help us raise Titanic."

Ada, now preparing to enter harbour, merely acknowledged his presence
with a brief nod.  The final lake really no more than a small pond,
that would be overcrowded by a dozen ducks was connected to a boathouse
by a long, narrow canal.  It was perfectly straight, and Bradley
realised that it lay precisely along the central axis of the three
conjoined lakes.  All this was obviously planned, though for what
purpose he could not imagine.  From the quizzical smile on Patrick's
face, he guessed that the old gardener was enjoying his perplexity.

The canal was bordered on either side by beautiful cypress trees, more
than twenty metres high; it was, Bradley thought, like a miniature
version of the approach to the Taj Mahal.  He had only seen that
masterpiece briefly, years ago, but had never forgotten its splendid
vista.

"You see, Pat, they're all doing fine in spite of what you said."

The gardener pursed his lips and looked critically at the line of
trees.  He pointed to several which, to Bradley's eyes, appeared
indistinguishable from the rest.

"Those may have to be replanted," he said.  "Don't say I didn't warn
you and the Missus."

They had now reached the boathouse at the end of the tree-lined canal,
and waited for Ada to complete her leisurely
approach.  When she was only a metre
away, there was a sudden hysterical yelp and something closely
resembling a small floor-mop leaped out of the boat and hurled itself
at Bradley's feet.

"If you don't move," said Donald, "she may decide you're harmless, and
let you live."

While the tiny Cairn terrier was sniffing suspiciously at his shoes,
Bradley examined her mistress.  He noticed, with approval, the careful
way that Ada tied up the boat, even though that was quite unnecessary;
she was, he could already tell, an extremely well-organised young
lady-- quite a contrast to her hysterical little pet, who had switched
instantly the fawning affection.

Ada scooped up Lady with one hand, and hugged the iuppy to her breast
while she regarded Bradley with a look of frank curiosity.

"Are you really going to help us raise the Titanic?"  she asked.

Bradley shifted uncomfortably and avoided returning that disconcerting
stare.

"I hope so," he said evasively.  "But there are lots of things we have
to talk over first."  And this, he added silently, is neither the time
nor the place.  He would have to wait until they had joined Mrs Craig,
and he was not altogether looking forward to the encounter.

"What were you reading in the boat, Ada?"  he asked lightly, trying to
change the subject.

"Why do you want to know?"  she asked.  It was a perfectly polite
question, with no hint of impertinence.  Bradley was still struggling
for a suitable reply when Donald Craig interjected hastily: "I'm afraid
my daughter hasn't much time for the social graces.  She considers
there are more important things in life.  Like fractals and
non-Euclidean geometry."  Bradley pointed to the puppy.

"That doesn't look very geometric to me."

To his surprise, Ada rewarded him with a charming smile.  "You should
see Lady when she's been dried out after a bath, and her hair's
pointing in all directions.  Then she makes a lovely 3-D fractal."

The joke was right over Bradley's head, but he joined in the general
laughter.  Ada had the saving grace of a sense of humour; he could get
to like her -- as long as he remembered to treat her as someone twice
her age.

Greatly daring, he ventured another question.

"That number 1999 painted on the boathouse," he said.  "I suppose
that's a reference to your mother's famous end-of-century program."

Donald Craig chuckled.

"Nice try, Jason; that's what most people guess.  Let him have it
gently, Ada."

The formidable Ms Craig deposited her puppy on the grass, and it
scuttled away to investigate the base of the nearest cypress.  Bradley
had the uncomfortalle impression that Ada was trying to calibrate his
IQ before she replied.

"If you look carefully, Mr Bradley, you'll see there's a minus sign in
front of the number, and a dot over the last nine."

"SO?"

"So it's really minus one point nine nine nine nine nine --for ever and
ever."

"Amen," interjected Pat.

"Wouldn't it have been easier to write minus two?"

"Exactly what I said," chuckled Donald Craig.  "But don't tell that to
a real mathematician."

"I thought you were a pretty good one."

"God, no -- I'm just a hairy-knuckled byte-basher, compared to
Edith."

"And this young lady here, I suspect.  You know, I'm beginning to feel
out of my depth.  And in my profession, that's not a good idea."

Ada's laugh helped to lift the curious sense of unease that Bradley had
felt for the last few minutes.  There was something depressing about
this place-- something ominous that hovered just beyond the horizon of
consciousness.  It was no use trying to focus upon it by a deliberate
act of will w the fugitive wisp of memory scuttled away as soon as he
attempted to pin it dQwn.  He would have to wait; it would emerge when
it was ready.

"You asked me what book I was reading, Mr Bradley--" "Please call me
Jason --"
"-- so here it is."

"I might have guessed.  He was a mathematician too, wasn't he?

But I'm ashamed to say I've never read Alice.  Our nearest equivalent
is The Wizard of Oz."

"I've read that too, but Dodgson -- Carroll is much better.  How he
would have loved this!"

Ada waved towards the curiously shaped lakes, and the little boathouse
with its enigmatic inscription.

"You see, Mr Brad Mr Jason -- that's the Utter West.  Minus Two is
infinity for the M-set there's absolutely nothing beyond that.

What we're walking along now is the Spike--and this little pond is the
very last of the mini-sets on the negati,;,e side.  One day we'll plant
a border of flowers --won't we, Pat?  -- that will give some idea of
the fantastic detail around the main lobes.  And over there in the east
that cusp where the two bigger lakes meet that's Seahorse Valley, at
minus point seven four five.  The origin -- zero, zero -- of course -is
in the middle of the biggest lake.  The Set doesn't extend so far to
the east; the cusp at Elephant Crossing-- over there, right in front of
the Castle -- is around plus point two seven three."

'TII take your word for it," Bradley answered, completely
overwhelmed.

"You know perfectly well I haven't the faintest idea what you're
talking about."

That was not completely true: it was obvious enough that the Craigs had
used their wealth to carve this landscape into the shape of some
bizarre mathematical function.  It seemed a harmless enough obsession;
there were many worse ways of spending money, and it must have provided
a great deal of employment for the locals.

"I think that's enough, Ada," said Donald Craig, with much more
firmness than he had shown hitherto.  "Let's give Mr Jason some lunch
-- before we throw him head-over-heels into the M-set."

They were leaving the tree-lined avenue, at the point where the narrow
canal opened out into the smallest of the lakes, when Bradley's brain
unlocked .its memory.  Of course the still expanse of water, the boat,
the cypresses-- all the key elements of Bbcldin's painting!

Incredible that he hadn't realised it before...

Rachmaninoff's haunting music welled up from the depths of his mind
-soothing, familiar, reassuring.  Now that he had identified the cause
of his faint disquiet, the shadow lifted from his spirit.

Even later, he never really believed it had been a premonition.

Slowly, reluctantly, the thousands of tons of metal began to stir, like
some marine monster awakening from its sleep.  The explosive charges
that were attempting to jolt it off the sea-bed blasted up great clouds
of silt, which concealed the wreck in a swirling mist.

The decades-long grip of the mud began to yield; the enormous
propellers lifted from the ocean floor.  Titanicven four five.  The
origin -- zero, zero -- of course -is in the middle of the biggest
lake.  The Set doesn't extend so far to the east; the cusp at Elephant
Crossing-- over there, right in front of the Castle -- is around plus
point two seven three."

'TII take your word for it," Bradley answered, completely
overwhelmed.

"You know perfectly well I haven't the faintest idea what you're
talking about."

That was not completely true: it was obvious enough that the Craigs had
used their wealth to carve this landscape into the shape of some
bizarre mathematical function.  It seemed a harmless enough obsession;
there were many worse ways of spending money, and it must have provided
a great deal of employment for the locals.

"I think that's enough, Ada," said Donald Craig, with much more
firmness than he had shown hitherto.  "Let's give Mr Jason some lunch
-- before we throw him head-over-heels into the M-set."

They were leaving the tree-lined avenue, at the point where the narrow
canal opened out into the smallest of the lakes, when Bradley's brain
unlocked .its memory.  Of course the still expanse of water, the boat,
the cypresses-- all the key elements of Bbcldin's painting!

Incredible that he hadn't realised it before...

Rachmaninoff's haunting music welled up from the depths of his mind
-soothing, familiar, reassuring.  Now that he had identified the cause
of his faint disquiet, the shadow lifted from his spirit.

Even later, he never really believed it had been a premonition.

Slowly, reluctantly, the thousands of tons of metal began to stir, like
some marine monster awakening from its sleep.  The explosive charges
that were attempting to jolt it off the sea-bed blasted up great clouds
of silt, which concealed the wreck in a swirling mist.

The decades-long grip of the mud began to yield; the enormous
propellers lifted from the ocean floor.  Titanic began the ascent to
the world she had left, a long lifetime ago.

On the surface, the sea was already boiling from the disturbance far
below.  Out of the maelstrom of foam, a slender mast emerged-still
carrying the crow's-nest from which Frederick Fleet had once telephoned
the fatal words "Iceberg right ahead".

And now the prow came knifing up-the mined superstructure the whole
vast expanse of decking the giant anchors which had taken a
twenty-horse team to move the three towering funnels, and the stump of
the fourth the great cliff of steel, studded with portholes-- and, at
last:

TITANIC

LIVERPOOL The monitor screen went blank; there was a momentary silence
in the studio, induced by a mixture of awe, reverence and sheer
admiration for the movie's special effects.

Parkinson picked up one of the
microspheres, and twirled it between his fingers just as Kilford had
done.

"Glass is totally non-poisonous -- chemically inert.  Anything big
enough to swallow one of these won't be hurt by it."

And he popped the sphere into his mouth.

Behind the control panel, the producer turned to Roy Emerson.

"That was terrific-- but I'm still sorry you wouldn't go on."

"Porky did very well without me.  Do you think I'd have gotten in any
more words than poor Dr Thornley?"

"Probably not.  And that was a neat trick, swallowing the
microsphere-don't think I could manage it.  And I'll make a bet that
from now on, everyone's going to call them Porky's pills."

Emerson laughed.  "I wouldn't be surprised.  And he'll be asked to
repeat the act, every time he goes on TV."

He thought it unnecessary to add that, besides his many other talents,
Parkinson was quite a good amateur conjurer.  Even with freeze-frame,
no one would be able to spot what had really happened to that pill.

And there was another reason why he preferred not to join the panel; he
was an outsider, and this was a family affair.

Though they lay centuries apart, Mary Rose and Titanic had much in
common.  Both were spectacular triumphs of British shipbuilding genius
-- sunk by equally spectacular examples of British incompetence.

20.  INTO THE M-SET

It was hard to believe, Jason Bradley told himself, that people
actually lived like this only a few generations ago.  Though Conray
Castle was a very modest example of its species, its scale was still
impressive to anyone who had spent most of his life in cluttered
offices, motel rooms, ship's cabins -- not to mention deep-diving
minisubs, 'so cramped that the personal hygiene of your companions was
a matter of crucial importance.

The dining room, with its ornately carved ceiling and enormous wall
mirrors, could comfortably seat at least fifty people.  Donald Craig
felt it necessary to explain the little four-place table that looked
lost and lonely at its centre.

"We've not had time to buy proper furniture-- the Castle's own stuff
was in terrible shape-- most of it had to be burned.  And we've been
too busy to do much entertaining.  But one day, when we've finally
established ourselves as the local nobility..."

Edith did not seem to approve of her husband's flippancy, and once
again Bradley had the impression that she was the leader in this
enterprise, with Donald a reluctant-- or at best passive -accomplice.

He could guess the scenario: people with enough money to squander on
expensive toys often discovered that they would have been happier
without them.  And Conray Castle -- with all its surrounding acres and
maintenance staff-- must be a very expensive toy indeed.

 When the servants (servants!  -that was
another novelty) had cleared the remnants of an excellent Chinese
dinner flown in specially from Dublin, Bradley and his hosts retreated
to a set of comfortable armchairs in the adjoining room.

"We won't let you get away," said Donald Craig, "without giving you our
child's guide to the M-set.  Edith can spot a Mandelvirgin at a hundred
metres."

Bradley was not sure if he qualified for this description.  He had
finally recognised the odd shape of the Lake, though he had forgotten
its technical name until reminded of it.  In the last decade of the
century, it had been impossible to escape from manifestations of the
Mandelbrot Set -- they were appearing all the time on video displays,
wallpaper, fabrics, and virtually every type of design.  Bradley
recalled that someone had coined the word "Mandelmania" to describe the
more acute symptoms; he had begun to suspect that it might be
applicable to this odd household.  But he was quite prepared to sit
with polite interest through whatever lecture or demonstration his
hosts had in store for him.

He realised that they too were being polite, in their own way.

They were anxious to have his decision, and he was equally anxious to
give it.

He only hoped that the call he was expecting would come through before
he left the Castle...

Bradley had never met the traditional stage-mother, but he had seen her
in movies like -- what was that old one called?

ah, Fame.  Here was the same passionate determination on the part of a
parent for a child to become a star, even if there were no discernible
talent.  In this case, he did not doubt that the faith was fully
justified.

"Before Ada begins," said Edith, "I'd like to make a few points.

The M-set is the most complex entity in the whole of mathematics -- yet
it doesn't involve anything more advanced than addition and
multiplication -- not even subtraction or division!  That's why many
people with a good knowledge of maths have difficulty in grasping it.

They simply can't believe that something with too much detail to be
explored before the end of the Universe can be generated without using
logs or trig functions or higher transcendentINTO THE M-SET 117 als.

It doesn't seem reasonable that it's all done merely by adding numbers
together."

"Doesn't seem reasonable to me, either.  If it's so simple, why didn't
anyone discover it centuries ago?"

"Very good question!  Because so much adding and multiplying is
involved, with such huge numbers, that we had to wait for high-speed
computers.  If you'd given abacuses to Adam and Eve and all their
descendants right up to now, they couldn't have found some of the
pictures Ada can show you by pressing a few keys.  Go ahead, dear..."

The holoprojector was cunningly concealed; Bradley could not even guess
where it was hiding.  Very easy to make this old castle a haunted one,
he thought, and scare away any intruders.  It would beat a burglar
alarm.

The two crossed lines of an ordinary x-y diagram appeared in the air,
with the sequence of integers o, , 2, 3, 4. marching off in all four
directions.

Ada gave Bradley that disconcertingly direct look, as if she was once
again trying to estimate his IQ so that her presentation could be
appropriately calibrated.

"Any point on this plane," she said, "can be identified by two numbers
its x- and y- coordinates.  OK?"

"OK," Bradley answered solemnly.

"Well, the M-set lies in a very small region near the origin -- it
doesn't extend beyond plus or minus two in either direction, so we can
ignore all the larger numbers."

The integers skittered off along the four axes, leaving only the
numbers 1 and 2 marking distances away from the central zero.

"Now suppose we take any point inside this grid, and join it to the
centre.  Measure the length of this radius w let's call it r."

This, thought Bradley, is putting no great strain on my mental
resources.  When do we get to the tricky part?  "Obviously, in this
case, r can have any value from zero to just under three-- about 2.8,
to be exact.  OK?"

"OK."

"Right.  Now Exercise z. Take any point's r value, and square it.

Keep on squaring it.  What happens?"

"Don't let me spa'd your fun, Ada."

"Well, if r is exactly one, it stays at that value -- no matter how
many times you square it.  One times one times one times one is always
one."

"OK" said Bradley, just beating Ada to the draw.

"If it's even a smidgin more than l, however, and you go on squaring
it, sooner or later it will shoot off to infinity.  Even if it's
1.0OOO...OOOI, and there are a million zeros to the right of the
decimal point.  It will just take a bit longer.

"But if the number is less than 1 -- say .99999999-..with a million
nines-- you get just the opposite.  It may stay close to 1 for ages,
but as you keep on squaring it, suddenly it will collapse and dwindle
away down to zero-- OK?"

This time Ada got there first, and Bradley merely nodded.  As yet, he
could not see the point in this elementary arithmetic, but it was
obviously leading somewhere.

"Lady -- stop bothering Mr Bradley!  So you see, simply squaring
numbers -- and going on squaring them, over and oven- divides them into
two distinct sets..."

' A circle had appeared on the two crossed axes, centred on the origin
and with radius unity.

"Inside that circle are all the numbers that disappear when you keep on
squaringthem.  Outside are all those that shoot off to infinity.  You
could say that the circle radius is a fence a boundary a frontier
dividing the two sets of numbers.  I like to call it the S-set."

"S for squaring?"

"Of cour-- yes.  Now, here's the important point.  The numbers on
either side are totally separated; yet though nothing can pass through
it, the boundary hasn't any thickness.  It's simply a line-- you could
go on magnifying it for ever and it would stay a line, though it would
soon appear to be a straight one because you wouldn't be able to see
its curvature."

"This may not seem very exciting," interjected Donald, "but it's
absolutely fundamental -- you'll soon see why sorry, Ada."

"Now, to get the M-set we make one teeny, weeny change.  We don't just
square the numbers.  We square and add, square and add.  You wouldn't
think it would make all that difference but it opens up a whole new
universe...

"Suppose we start with 1 again.  We square it and get 1. Then we add
them to get 2.

"2 squared is 4. Add the original 1 again answer 5.

"5 squared is 25 add 26.

"26 squared is 676 you see what's happening!  The numbers are shooting
up at a fantastic rate.  A few more times round the loop, and they're
too big for any computer to handle.  Yet we started with -- i!

So that's the first big difference between the M-set and the S-set,
which has its boundary at L "But if we started with a much smaller
number than 1 --say o. 1 -- you'll probably guess what happens."

"It collapses to nothing after a few cycles of squaring and adding."

Ada gave her rare but dazzling smile.

"Usually.  Sometimes it dithers around a small, fixed value -anyway,
it's trapped inside the Set.  So once again we have a map that divides
all the numbers on the plane into two classes.  Only this time, the
boundary isn't something as elementary as a circle."

"You can say that again," murmured Donald.  He collected a frown from
Edith, but pressed on.  "I've asked quite a few people what shape they
thought would be produced; most suggested some kind of oval.  No one
came near the truth: no one ever could.  All right, Lady!  I won't
interrupt Ada again!"

"Here's the first approximation," continued Ada, scooping up her
boisterous puppy with one hand while tapping the keyboard with the
other.  "You've already seen it today."

The now familiar outline of Lake Mandelbrot had appeared superimposed
on the grid of unit squares, but in far more detail than Bradley had
seen it in the garden.  On the right was the largest, roughly
heart-shaped figure, then a smaller circle touching it, a much smaller
one touching that and the narrow spike running off to the extreme left
and ending at -2 on the x-axis.

Now, however, Bradley could see that the main figures were barnacled
-that was the metaphor that came instantly to mind -- with a myriad of
smaller subsidiary circles, many of which had short jagged lines
extending from them.  It was a much more complex shape than the pattern
of lakes in the
"You must be crazy," said Edith.

Donald merely grinned.  "You may be right.  But I've reached the stage
when I don't need the money, though it's always good to have some
around."  He paused, and chuckled softly.

"Enough is enough.  I don't know if you ever heard the wise-crack that
Titanic's most famous casualty, J. J. Astor, once made: 'A man who has
a million dollars is as well-off as one who is rich."  Well, I've made
a few million during my career, and some of it's still in the bank.  I
don't really need any more; and if I do, I can always go down and
tickle another octopus.

"I didn't plan this -- it was a bolt from the blue -- two days ago I'd
already decided to accept your offer."

Edith now seemed more perplexed than hostile.

"Can you tell us who's-- underbid Nippon-Turner?"  Bradley shook his
head.

"Give me a couple of days; there are still a few problems, and I don't
want to fall between three stools."

"I think I understand," said Donald.  "There's only one reason to work
for peanuts.  Every man owes something to his profession."

"That sounds like a quotation."

"It is: Dr Johnson."

"I like it; I may be using it a lot, in the next few weeks.

Meanwhile, before I make a final decision, I want a little time to
think matters over.  Again, many thanks for your hospitality- not to
mention your offer.  I may yet accept it-- but if not, I hope we can
still be friends."

As he lifted away from the Castle, the downwash of the helicopter
ruffled the waters of Lake Mandelbrot, shattering the reflections of
the cypresses.  He was contemplating the biggest break in his career;
before he made his decision, he needed to relax completely.

And he knew exactly how to do that.

2. A Hous of Good REPUT Even the coming of hypersonic transportation
had not done much to change the status of New Zealand; to most people
it was merely the last stop before the South Pole.  The great majority
of New Zealanders were quite content to keep it that way.

Evelyn Merrick was one of the exceptions, and had defected at the ripe
(in her case, very) age of seventeen to find her destiny elsewhere.

Aer three marriages which had left her emotionally scarred but
finandally secure, she had discovered her role in life, and was as
happy as anyone could reasonably expect to be.

The Villa, as it was known to her wide-ranging clientele, was on a
beautiful estate in one of the still unspoiled parts of Kent,
conveniently close to Gatwick Airport.  Its previous owner had been a
celebrated media-tycoon, who had placed his bet on the wrong system
when high-definition TV swept all before it at the end of the twentieth
century.  Later attempts to restore his fortune had misfired, and he
was now a guest of His Majesty's Government for the next five years
(assuming time off for good behaviour).

Being a man of high moral standards, he was quite indignant about the
use which Dame Eva had now made of his property, and had even attempted
to dislodge her.  However, Eva's lawyers were just as good as his;
perhaps better, since she was still at liberty, and had every intention
of remaining so.

 The Villa was run with meticulous
propriety -- the girls' passports, tax returns, health and pension
contributions, medical records and so forth being instantly available
to any government inspector, of whom, Dame Eva sometimes remarked
sourly, there always seemed to be a copious supply.  If any ever came
in the hope of personal gratification, they were sadly disappointed.

On the whole, it was a rewarding career, full of emotional and
intellectual stimulus.  She certainly had no ethical problems, having
long ago decided that anything enjoyed by adults of voting age was
perfectly acceptable, so long as it was not dangerous, unhygienic or
fattening.  Her main cause of complaint was that involvement with
clients caused a high rate of staff turnover, with resulting heavy
expenditure on wedding presents.  She had also observed that
Villa-inspired marriages appeared to last longer than those with more
conventional origins, and intended to publish a statistical survey when
she was quite sure of her data; at the moment the correlation
coefficient was still below the level of significance.

As might be expected in her profession, Evelyn Merrick was a woman of
many secrets, mostly other people's: but she also had one of her own
which she guarded with special care.  Though nothing could have been
more respectable, if it came out it might be bad for trade.  For the
last two years, she had been employing her extensive -- perhaps unique
-- knowledge of paraphilia to complete her Doctor's Degree in
Psychology at the University of Auckland.

She had never met Professor Hinton, except over video circuits-and even
that very rarely, since both preferred the digital impersonality of
computer-file exchanges.  One day perhaps a decade after she had
retired -- her thesis would be published, though not under her own
name, and with all the case histories disguised beyond
identification.

Not even Professor Hinton knew the individuals involved, though he had
made some shrewd guesses at a few.

"Subject O.G."  Eva typed.  "Age 50.  Successful engineer."  She
considered the screen carefully.  The initials, of course, had been
changed according to her simple code, and the age had been rounded down
to the nearest decade.  But the last A HOUSE OF GOOD REPUTE entry was
reasonably accurate: his profession reflected a man's personality, and
should not be disguised unless it was absolutely necessary to avoid
identification.  Even then, it had to be done with sensitivity, so that
the displacement was not too violent.  In the case of a world-famous
musician, Eva had altered "pianist" to "violinist", and she had
converted an equally celebrated sculptor into a painter.  She had even
turned a politician into a statesman.

"...As a small boy, O.G. was teased and occasionally captured by the
pupils of a neighbouring girls' school, who used him as a (fairly
willing) subject for lessons in nursing and rale anatomy.  They
frequently bandaged him from head to foot, and though he now asserts
that there was no erotic element involved, this is rather hard to
believe.  When challenged, he shrugs his shoulders and says 'I just
don't remember."

"Later, as a young man, O.G. witnessed the aftermath of a major
accident which caused many deaths.  Though not injured himself, the
experience also appears to have affected his sexual fantasies.  He
enjoys various forms of bondage (see List A) and he has developed a
mild case of the St Sebastian Complex, most famously demonstrated by
Yukio Mishima.  Unlike Mishima, however, O.G. is completely
heterosexual, scoring only 2.5 +/- 0. on the Standard Mapplethorpe
Phototest.

"What makes O.G."s behaviour pattern so interesting, and perhaps
unusual, is that he is an active and indeed somewhat aggressive
personality, as befits the manager of an organisation in a demanding
and competitive business.  It is hard to imagine him playing a passive
role in any sphere of life, yet he likes my personnel to wrap him
ngineer."  She considered the screen carefully.  The initials, of
course, had been changed according to her simple code, and the age had
been rounded down to the nearest decade.  But the last A HOUSE OF GOOD
REPUTE entry was reasonably accurate: his profession reflected a man's
personality, and should not be disguised unless it was absolutely
necessary to avoid identification.  Even then, it had to be done with
sensitivity, so that the displacement was not too violent.  In the case
of a world-famous musician, Eva had altered "pianist" to "violinist",
and she had converted an equally celebrated sculptor into a painter.

She had even turned a politician into a statesman.

"...As a small boy, O.G. was teased and occasionally captured by the
pupils of a neighbouring girls' school, who used him as a (fairly
willing) subject for lessons in nursing and rale anatomy.  They
frequently bandaged him from head to foot, and though he now asserts
that there was no erotic element involved, this is rather hard to
believe.  When challenged, he shrugs his shoulders and says 'I just
don't remember."

"Later, as a young man, O.G. witnessed the aftermath of a major
accident which caused many deaths.  Though not injured himself, the
experience also appears to have affected his sexual fantasies.  He
enjoys various forms of bondage (see List A) and he has developed a
mild case of the St Sebastian Complex, most famously demonstrated by
Yukio Mishima.  Unlike Mishima, however, O.G. is completely
heterosexual, scoring only 2.5 +/- 0. on the Standard Mapplethorpe
Phototest.

"What makes O.G."s behaviour pattern so interesting, and perhaps
unusual, is that he is an active and indeed somewhat aggressive
personality, as befits the manager of an organisation in a demanding
and competitive business.  It is hard to imagine him playing a passive
role in any sphere of life, yet he likes my personnel to wrap him up in
bandages like an Egyptian mummy, until he is completely helpless.  Only
in this way, after considerable stimulation, can he achieve a
satisfactory orgasm.

"When I suggested that he was acting out a Death Wish, he laughed but
did not attempt to deny it.  His work often involves physical danger,
which may be the very reason why he was attracted to it in the first
place.  However, he gave an alternative explanation which, I am sure,
contains a good deal of truth.

"'When you have responsibilities involving millions of dollars and
affecting many men's lives, you can't imagine how delightful it is to
be completely helpless for a while --unable to control what's happening
around you.  Of course, I know it's all play-acting, but I manage to
pretend it isn't.  I sometimes wonder how I'd enjoy the situation, if
it was for real."" "'You wouldn't,'" I told him, and he agreed."

Eva scrolled the entry, checking it for any clues that might reveal
O.G."s identity.  The Villa specialised in celebrities, so it was
better to be excessively cautious than the reverse.

That caution extended to the celebrities themselves.  The Villa's only
house rule was "no blood on the carpets", and she recalled, with a
grimace of disgust, a Third World country's Chief-of-Staff whose
frenzies had injured one of her girls.  Eva had accepted his apologies,
and his cheque, with cold disdain, then made a quick call to the
Foreign Office.  The General would have been most surprised-- and
mortified to know exactly why the British Ambassador now found so many
reasons for postponing his next visit to the United Kingdom.

Eva sometimes wondered what dear Sister Margarita would have thought of
her star pupil's present vocation; the last time she had wept was when
the notice of her old friend's death had reached her from the Mother
Superior.  And she remembered, with wistful amusement, the question she
had once been tempted to ask her tutor: exactly why should a vow of
perpetual chastity be considered any nobler t any holier than a vow of
perpetual constipation?

It was a perfectly serious query, not in the least intended to
scandalise the old nun or shake the sure foundations of her faith.  But
on the whole, perhaps it was just as well left unasked.

Sister Margarita already knew that little Evelyn Merrick was not meant
for the Church: but she still sent a generous donation to St Jude's
every Christmas.

22.  BUREAUCRAT

ARTICLE 56 Establishment of the Authority 1. There is hereby
established the International Sea-Bed Authority, which shall function
in accordance with this Part.

2. All States Parties are ipsofacto members of the Authority.

4. The seat of the Authority shah be in Jamaica.

ARTICLE 158 Organs of the Authority 2. There is hereby established the
Enterprise, the organ through which the Authority shall carry out the
functions referred to in article 17o, paragraph 1.

(United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, signed at Montego
Bay, Jamaica, on lo December 982) "Sorry about the emoluments," said
Director-General Wilbur Jantz apologetically.  "but they're fixed by UN
regulations."

"I quite understand.  As you know, I'm not here for the money."

"And there are very considerable fringe benefits.  First, you'll have
the rank of Ambassador..."

"Will I have to dress like one?  I hope not I don't even have a tux,
let alone the rest of that damned nonsense."

"No-- but of course I've seen him often enough.  Last time was only
yesterday, on the Science News Channel.  He was analysing the Parkinson
scheme -- and didn't think much of it."

"Between you and me, he doesn't think much of anything he hasn't
invented himself.  And he's usually right, which doesn't endear him to
his colleagues."

Most people still thought it slightly comic that the world's leading
oceanographer had been born in an Alpine valley, and there had been
endless jokes about the prowess of the Swiss Navy.  But there was no
getting away from the fact that the bathyscaphe had been invented in
Switzerland, and the long shadow of the Piccards still lay across the
technology they had founded.

The Director-General glanced at his watch, and smiled at Bradley.

"If my conscience would allow it, I could win bets this way."  He
started a quiet countdown, and had just reached "One" when there was a
knock on the door.

"See what I mean?"  he said to Bradley.  "As they're so fond of saying,
Time is the Art of the Swiss."  Then he called out: "Come in, Franz."

There was a moment of silent appraisal before scientist and engineer
shook hands: each knew the other's reputation, and each was wondering
"Will we be colleagues -- or antagonists?"  Then Professor Franz
Zwicker said, "Welcome aboard, Mr Bradley.  We have much to talk
about."

II -- PREPARATIONS

23.  PHONE-IN "There can't be many people," said Marcus Kilford, "who
don't know that it's now only four years to the Titanic Centennial t or
haven't heard about the plans to raise the wreck.  Once again, I'm
happy to have with me three of the leaders in this project.  I'll talk
to each of them in turn.  Then you'll have a chance of calling in with
any specific questions you have.  At the right time, the number will
flash along the bottom of the screen.

"The gentleman on my left is the famous underwater engineer Jason
Bradley; his encounter with the giant octopus in the Newfoundland
oil-rig is now part of ocean folklore.  He's currently with the
International Sea-Bed Authority, and is responsible for monitoring
operations on the wreck.

"Next to him is Rupert Parkinson, who almost brought the America's Cup
to England last year.  (Sorry about that, Rupert.) His firm is involved
in raising the forward portion of the wreck the larger of the two
pieces into which the ship is broken.

"On my right is Donald Craig, who's associated with the Nippon-Turner
Corporation now the world's largest media chain.  He will tell us about
the plans to raise the stern, which was the last part to sink -carrying
with it most of those who were lost on that unforgettable night,
ninety-six years ago.

"My friends in Japan have worked out a very efficient method of
freezing water, using electric current.  It's already at almost zero
centigrade down there, so very little additional cooling is needed.

"We've manufactured the neutral-buoyancy cables and the thermoelectric
elements, and our underwater robots will start installing them in a few
days.  We're still negotiating for the electricity, and hope to have
contracts signed very soon."

And when you've made your deep-sea iceberg, what then?"

"Ah -- well -- that's something I'd rather not discuss at the
moment."

Though none of those present knew it, Donald was not stalling.  He was
genuinely ignorant -- even baffled.  What had Koto meant in their last
conversation?  Surely he must have been joking: really, it was not very
polite to leave his partners in the dark...

"Very well, Donald.  Any comments, Jason?"

Bradley shook his head.

"Nothing important.  The scheme's audacious, but our scientists can't
fault it.  And, of course, it has what do you say?  poetic justice."

"Rupert?"

"I agree.  It's a lovely idea.  I only hope it works."

Parkinson managed to convey a genuine sense of regret for the failure
he obviously expected.  It was a masterly little performance.

"Well, it's your turn.  Where do you stand?"

"We're using straightforward techniques -- nothing exotic!

Because air is compressed four hundred times at Titanic's depth, it's
not practical to pump it down to get lift.  So we're using hollow glass
spheres; they have the same buoyancy at any depth.  They'll be packed
millions of them in bundles of the appropriate size.  Some may be put
in the ship at strategic points, by small ROVs -- sorry, Remote
Operated Vehicles.  But most of them will be attached to a lifting
cradle we're lowering down to the hull."

"And just how," interjected Kilford, "are you going to attach the hull
to the cradle?"

He had obviously done his homework, Bradley thought admiringly.

Most laymen would have taken such a matter for granted, as a point not
worth special attention; but it was the key to the whole operation.

Rupert Parkinson smiled broadly.

"Donald has his little secrets; so have we.  But we'll be doing some
tests very shortly, and Jason has kindly agreed to observe them
-haven't you?"

"Yes -- if the US Navy can lend us Marvin in time.  ISA doesn't have
any deep subs of its own, alas.  But we're working on it."

"One day I'd like to dive with you -- I think", said Kilford.

"Can you get a video link down to the wreck?"

"No problem, with fibre optics: we have several monitoring circuits
already."

"Splendid: I'll start bullying my producer.  Well, I see there are lots
of lights flashing.  Our first caller is Mr -- sorry, I guess that's
Miss -- Chandrika de Silva of Notting Hill Gate.  Go ahead,
Chandrika..."

24.  ICE

"We're in a buyer's market," said Koto with undisguised glee.

"The US and USSR navies are trying to underbid each other.  If we got
tough, I think they'd both pay us to take their radioactive toys off
their hands."

On the other side of the world, the Craigs were watching him through
the latest marvel of communications technology.  POLAR , opened with
great fanfare only a few weeks ago, was the first fibre-optic cable to
be laid under the Arctic icecap.  By eliminating the long haul up to
the.  geostationary orbit, and its slight but annoying time-delay, the
global phone system had been noticeably improved; speakers no longer
kept interrupting each other, or wasting time waiting for replies.  As
the Director-General of INTELSAT had said, smiling bravely through his
tears, "Now we can devote comsats to the job God intended them for
--providing service to airplanes and ships and automobiles -and
everyone who likes to get out into the fresh air."

"Have you made a deal yet?"  asked Donald.

"It will be wrapped up by the end of the week.  One Russki, one Yank.

Then they'll compete to see which will do the better job for us.

Isn't that nicer than throwing nukes at each other?"

"Much nicer."

"The British and French are also trying to get into the act--that helps
our bargaining position, of course.  We may even
rent one of theirs as a standby.  Or in case we decide to
speed up operations."

"Just to keep level with Porky and Co.?  Or to get our section up
first?"

There was a brief silence -- just about long enough for the question to
have travelled to the Moon and back.

"Really, Edith!"  said Koto.  "I was thinking of unexpected snags.

Remember, we're not in a race -- perish the thought!  We've both
promised ISA to lift between 07 and 5 April '12.  We want to make sure
we can meet the schedule-- that's all."

"And will you?"

"Let me show you our little home movie-- I'd appreciate it if you'd
exit'Record mode.  This isn't the final version, so I'd like your
comments at this stage."

The Japanese studios, Donald recalled, had a long and well-deserved
reputation for model-work and special effects.  (How many times had
Tokyo been destroyed by assorted monsters?) The detail of ship and
sea-bed was so perfect that there was no sense of scale; anyone who did
not know that visibility underwater was never more than a hundred
metres-- at best -- might have thought that this was the real thing.

Titanic's crumpled rear section -- about a third of her total
length-lay on a flat, muddy plain surrounded by the debris that had
rained down when the ship tore in two.  The stern itself was in fairly
good shape, though the deck had been partly peeled away, but further
forward it looked as if a giant hammer had smashed into the wreck.

Only half of the rudder protruded from the sea-bed; two of the three
enormous propellers were completely buried.  Extricating them would be
a major problem in itself.

"Looks a mess, doesn't it?"  said Koto cheerfully.  "But watch."

A leisurely shark swam past, suddenly noticed the imaginary camera, and
departed in alarm.  A nice touch, thought Donald, silently saluting the
animators.

Now time speeded up.  Numbers indicating days flickered on the right of
the picture, twenty-four hours passing in every second.  Slim girders
descended from the liquid sky, and assembled themselves into an open
framework surrounding the wreckage.  Thick cables snaked into the
shattered hulk.

Day 40o -- more than a year had passed.  Now the water, hitherto quite
invisible, was becoming milky.  First the upper portion of the wreck,
then the twisted plating of the hull, then everything down to the
sea-bed itself, slowly disappeared into a huge block of glistening
whiteness.

"Day 600," said Koto proudly.  "Biggest ice-cube in the world -except
that it isn't quite cube-shaped.  Think of all the refrigerators that's
going to sell."

Maybe in Asia, thought Donald.  But not in the ilK --especially in
Belfast.  Already there had been protests, cries of "sacrilege!"  and
even threats to boycott everything Japanese.  Well, that was Koto's
problem, and he was certainly well aware of it.

"Day 650.  By this time the sea-bed will also have consolidated, right
down to several metres below the triple screws.  Everything will be
sealed tight in one solid block.  All we have to do is lift it up to
the surface.  The ice will only provide a fraction of the buoyancy we
need.  So..."

". . . so you'll ask Porky to sell you a few billion micro-spheres."

"Believe it or not, Donald, we had thought of making our own.  But to
copy western technology?  Perish the thought!"

"Then what have you invented instead?"

"Something very simple; we'll use a really hi-tech approach.

"Don't tell anyone yet but we're going to bring the Titanic up with
rockets."

25.  JASON JNR

There were times when the International Sea-bed Authority's Deputy
Director (Atlantic) had no official duties, because both halves of the
Titanic operation were proceeding smoothly.  But Jason Bradley was not
the sort of man who enjoyed inaction.

Because he did not have to worry about tenure -- the income on his
investments was several times his ISA salary--he regarded himself as
very much a free agent.  Others might be trapped in their little boxes
on the Authority's Organisation Chart; Jason Bradley roved at will,
visiting any departments that looked interesting.  Sometimes he
informed the DG, sometimes not.  And usually he was welcomed, because
his fame had spread before him, and other department heads regarded him
more as an exotic visitor than a rival.

The other four Deputy Directors (Pacific, Indian, Antarctic, Arctic)
all seemed willing enough to show him what was happening in their
respective ocean empires.  They were, of course, now united against a
common enemy -- the global rise in the sea-level.  After more than a
decade of often acrimonious argument, it was now agreed that this was
between one and two centimetres a year.

Bluepeace and other environmental groups put the blame on Man; the
scientists were not so sure.  It was true that the billions of tons of
CO2 from thermal power plants and automobiles made some contribution to
the notorious "Green  "He doesn't look
much like his father," said Roy Emerson.

Bradley was getting rather tired of the joke, though for reasons which
none of his colleagues -- except the Director-General-- could have
known.  But he usually managed a sickly grin when displaying the lab's
latest wonder to wIPs.  Mere VIPs were handled by the Deputy Director,
Public Relations.

"I wonder if you realise," Bradley shouted, to make himself heard above
the roar and rattle of machinery, "what a bargain you've got.

She cost almost a quarter-billion to build -- and that was back when a
billion dollars was real money."

Rupert Parkinson was wearing an immaculate yachtsman's outfit which,
especially when crowned by a hard-hat, seemed a little out of place
down here beside Glomar Explorer's moon-pool.  The oily rectangle of
water-- larger than a tennis court -- was surrounded by heavy salvage
and handling equipment, much of it showing its age.  Everywhere there
were signs of hasty repairs, dabs of anti-corrosion paint, and ominous
notices saying OUT OF ORDER.  Yet enough seemed to be working;
Parkinson claimed they were actually ahead of schedule.

It's hard to believe, Bradley told himself, that it's more than thirty
years since I stood here, looking down into this same black rectangle
of water.  I don't feel thirty years older.  but I don't remember much
about the callow youngster who'd just signed up for his first big
job.

Certainly he could never have dreamed of the one I'm holding down
now.

It had turned out better than he had expected.  After decades of
battling with UN lawyers and a whole alphabet stew of government
departments and environmental authorities, Bradley was learning that
they were a necessary evil.

The Wild West days of the sea were over.  There had been a
TO JASON BRADLEY -- IN RECOGNITION OF YOUR HUMANE
TREATMENT OF A UNIQUE CREATURE, OCTOPUS GIGANTEUS VERRILL At least once
a month Bradley would leave his office and fly to Newfoundland -- a
province that was once more living up to its name.

Since operations had started, more and more of world attention had been
turned towards the drama being played out on the Grand Banks.  The
countdown to 2012 had begun, and bets were already being placed on the
winner of "The Race for the Titanic".

And there was another focus of interest, this time a morbid one...

"What annoys me," said Parkinson, as they left the noisy and clamorous
chaos of the moon-pool, "are the ghouls who keep asking, 'Have you
found any bodies yet?"

"I'm always getting the same question.  One day I'll answer: 'Yes
-you're the first."" Parkinson laughed.

"Must try that myself.  But here's the answer I give.  You know that
we're still finding boots and shoes lying on the sea-bed -- in pairs, a
few centimetres apart?  Usually they're cheap and well-worn, but last
month we came across a beautiful example of the best English
leatherwork.  Looks as if they're straight from the cobbler-- you can
still read the label that says 'By Appointment to His Majesty'.

Obviously one of the first class passengers...

"I've put them in a glass case in my office, and when I'm Parkinson
raised the lid, almost reverently, and then drew aside the sheet of
metal foil beneath it.

"Standard 8o-pound Ceylon tea chest," he said.  "It happened to be the
right size, so they simply repacked it.  And I'd no idea they used
aluminium foil, back in 1912!  Of course, the B.O.P. wouldn't fetch a
very good price at Colombo auction now but it did its job.

Admirably."

With a piece of stiff cardboard, Parkinson delicately cleared away the
top layer of the soggy black mess; he looked, Bradley thought, exactly
like an underwater archaeologist extracting a fragment of pottery from
the sea-bed.  This,
however, was no twenty-five-century-old Greek amphora, but something
far more sophisticated.

"Ththat was once more living up to its name.  Since operations had
started, more and more of world attention had been turned towards the
drama being played out on the Grand Banks.  The countdown to 2012 had
begun, and bets were already being placed on the winner of "The Race
for the Titanic".

And there was another focus of interest, this time a morbid one...

"What annoys me," said Parkinson, as they left the noisy and clamorous
chaos of the moon-pool, "are the ghouls who keep asking, 'Have you
found any bodies yet?"

"I'm always getting the same question.  One day I'll answer: 'Yes
-you're the first."" Parkinson laughed.

"Must try that myself.  But here's the answer I give.  You know that
we're still finding boots and shoes lying on the sea-bed -- in pairs, a
few centimetres apart?  Usually they're cheap and well-worn, but last
month we came across a beautiful example of the best English
leatherwork.  Looks as if they're straight from the cobbler-- you can
still read the label that says 'By Appointment to His Majesty'.

Obviously one of the first class passengers...

"I've put them in a glass case in my office, and when I'm Parkinson
raised the lid, almost reverently, and then drew aside the sheet of
metal foil beneath it.

"Standard 8o-pound Ceylon tea chest," he said.  "It happened to be the
right size, so they simply repacked it.  And I'd no idea they used
aluminium foil, back in 1912!  Of course, the B.O.P. wouldn't fetch a
very good price at Colombo auction now but it did its job.

Admirably."

With a piece of stiff cardboard, Parkinson delicately cleared away the
top layer of the soggy black mess; he looked, Bradley thought, exactly
like an underwater archaeologist extracting a fragment of pottery from
the sea-bed.  This,
however, was no twenty-five-century-old Greek amphora, but something
far more sophisticated.

"The Medici Goblet," Parkinson whispered almost reverently.  "No one
has seen it for a hundred years; no one ever expected to see it
again."

He exposed only the upper few inches, but that was enough to show a
circle of glass inside which multicoloured threads were embedded in a
complex design.

"We won't remove it until we're on land," said Parkinson, "but this is
what it looks like."

He opened a typical coffee-table art book, bearing the title Glories of
Venetian Glass.  The full-page photo showed what, at first sight,
looked like a glittering fountain, frozen in midair.

"I don't believe it," said Bradley, after a few seconds of wide-eyed
astonishment.  "How could anyone actually drink from it?

More to the point-- how could anyone make it?"

"Good questions.  First of all, it's purely ornamental --intended to be
looked at, not used.  A perfect example of Wilde's dictum -- 'All art
is quite useless'.

"And I wish I could answer your second question.  We just don't know.

Oh, of course we can guess at some of the techniques used -- but how
did the glass-blower make those curlicues intertwine?  And look at the
way those little spheres are nested one inside the other!  If I hadn't
seen them with my own eyes, I'd have sworn that some of these pieces
could only have been assembled in zero gravity."

"So that's why Parkinson's booked space on Skyhab 3."

"What a ridiculous rumour; not worth contradicting."

"Roy Emerson told me he was looking forward to his first trip into
space.  and setting up a weightless lab."

'TU fax Roy a polite note, telling him to keep his bloody mouth shut.

But since you've raised the subject yes, we think there are
possibilities for zero-gee glass-blowing.  It may not start a
revolution in the industry, like float-glass back in the last century,
but it's worth a try."

"This probably isn't a polite question -- but how much is this goblet
worth?"

"I assume you're not asking in your official capacity, so I won't give
a figure I'd care to put in a company report.  Anyway, you know how
crazy the art business is-- more ups and downs than the stock market!

Look at those late twentieth-century megadollar daubs you can't give
away now.  And in this case there's the history of the piece-- how can
you put a value on that?"

"Make a guess."

"I'd be very disappointed at anything less than fifty M."  Bradley
whistled.

"And how much more is down there?"

"Lots.  Here's the complete listing, prepared for the exhibition the
Smithsonian had planned.  Is planning -- just a hundred years late."

There were more than forty items on the list, all with highly technical
Italianate descriptions.  About half had question marks beside them.

"Bit of a mystery here," said Parkinson.  "Twenty-two of the pieces are
missing but we know they were aboard, and we're sure G.-G.

had them in his suite, because he complained about the space they were
taking up -- he couldn't throw a party."

"So going to blame the French again?"

It was an old joke, and rather a bitter one.  Some of the French
expeditions to the wreck, in the years following its 985 discovery, had
done considerable damage while attempting to recover artefacts.

Bollard and his associates had never forgiven them.

"No -- I guess they've a pretty good alibi; we're definitely the first
inside.  My theory is that G.-G.  had them moved out into an adjoining
suite or corridor.  I'm sure they're not far away.  We'll find them
sooner or later."

"I hope so; if your estimate is right and after all you're the expert
-- those boxes of glass will pay for this whole ape ration.

And everything else will be a pure bonus.  Nice work, Rupert."

"Thank you.  We hope Phase 2 goes equally well."

"The Mole?  I noticed it down beside the moon-pool.  Anything since
your last report-- which was rather sketchy?"

"I know-- we were in the middle of urgent mods when your office started
making rude noises about schedules and deadlines.  But now we're on top
of the problem -- I hope."

"Do you still plan to make a test first, on a stretch of open
sea-bed?"

"No.  We're going to go for broke; we're confident that all systems are
OK, so why wait?  Do you remember what happened in the Apollo
Programme, back in '68?  One of the most daring technological gambles
in history...

"The big Saturn V had only flown twice -- unmanned and the second
flight had been a partial failure.  Yet NASA took a calculated risk;
the next flight was not only manned -- it went straight to the moon!

"Of course, we're not playing for such high stakes, but if the Mole
doesn't work-- or we lose it-- we're in real trouble; our whole
operation depends on it.  The sooner we know about any real problems,
the better.

"No one's ever tried something quite like this before; but our first
run will be the real thing -- and we'd like you to watch.

"Now, Jason-- how about a nice cup of tea?"

27.  INJUNCTION ARTICLE 1 Use of terms and scope i. For the purposes of
this Convention: 0) "Area" means the sea-bed and ocean floor and
subsoil thereof, beyond the limits of national jurisdiction; (2)
"Authority" means the International Sea-Bed Authority; ARTICLE 14

Protection of the marine environment Necessary measures shall be taken
in accordance with this Convention with respect to activities in the
Area to ensure effective protection for the marine environment from
harmful effects which may arise from such activities.  To this end the
Authority shall adopt appropriate rules, regulations and procedures for
inter alia: (a) the prevention, reduction and control of pollution and
other hazards to the marine environment.  particular attention being
paid to the need for protection from harmful effects of such activities
as drilling, dredging, disposal of waste, construction and operation or
maintenance of installations, pipelines and other devices related to
such activities.

(United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, 1982)

 "We're in deep trouble," said Koto, from
his Tokyo office, "and that's not meant to be funny."

"What's the problem?"  asked Donald Craig, relaxing in the Castle
garden.  From time to time he liked to give his eyes a chance of
focusing on something more than half a metre away, and this was an
unusually warm and sunny afternoon for early spring.

"Bluepeace.  They've lodged another protest with ISAm and this time I'm
afraid they've got a case."

"I thought we'd settled all this."

"So did we; heads are rolling in our legal department.  We can do
everything we'd planned -- except actually raise the wreck."

"It's a little late in the day to discover that, isn't it?  And you've
never told me how you intended to get the extra lift.  Of course, I
never took that crack about rockets seriously."

"Sorry about that -- we'd been negotiating with Dupont and Thiokol and
Union Carbide and half a dozen others didn't want to talk until we were
certain of our supplier."

"Of what?"

"Hydrazine.  Rocket monopropellant.  So I wasn't economis-ing too
greatly with the truth."

"Hydrazine?  Now where -- of course!  That's how Cussler brought her
up, in Raise the Titanic/" "Yes, and it's quite a good idea -- it
decomposes into pure nitrogen and hydrogen, plus lots of heat.  But
Cussler didn't have to cope with Bluepeace.  They got wind of what we
were doing -- wish I knew how -- and claim that hydrazine is a
dangerous poison, and some is bound to be spilled however carefully we
handle it, and so on and so forth."

"Is it a poison?"

"Well, I'd hate to drink it.  Smells like concentrated ammonia, and
probably tastes worse."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Fight, of course.  And think of alternatives.  Porky will be laughing
his head off."

28.  MoLE

The three-man deep-sea submersible Marvin had been intended as the
successor of the famous Alvin, which had played such a key role in the
first exploration of the wreck.  Alvin, however, showed no intention of
retiring, though almost every one of its original components had long
since been replaced.

Marvin was also much more comfortable than its progenitor, and had
greater reserves of power.  No longer was it necessary to spend a
boring two and a half hours in free fall to the sea-bed; with the help
of its motors, Marvin could reach the Titanic in less than an hour.

And in an emergency, by jettisoning all external equipment, the
titanium sphere holding the crew could get back to the surface in
minutes -- an incompressible air bubble ascending from the depths.

For Bradley, this was a double first.  He had never yet seen the
Titanic with his own eyes, and though he had handled Marvin on test and
training runs down to a few hundred metres, he had never taken it right
down to the bottom.  Needless to say, he was carefully watched by the
submersible's usual pilot, who was doing his best not to be a back-seat
driver.

"Altitude two hundred metres.  Wreck bearing one two zero."

Altitude!  That was a word that sounded strangely in a diver's ear.

But here inside Marvin's life-support sphere,
stuck before it can complete its
mission, Porky and Co.  will have to go back to the drawing board.

He was waiting on the port side when the Mole resurfaced after
forty-five minutes.  It was not attempting any speed records; its
maiden voyage had been a complete success.

Now the first of the planned thirty belts, each capable of lifting a
thousand tons, had been safely emplaced.  When the operation had been
completed, Titanic could be lifted off the ocean floor, like a melon in
a string bag.

That was the theory, and it seemed to be working.  Fda was still a long
way off, but now it had come just a little closer.

29.  SARCOPHAGUS

"We've found it!"

Roy Emerson had never seen Rupert Parkinson in so exuberant a mood; it
was positively un-English.

"Where?"  he asked.  "Are you sure?"

"Ninety-nine -- well, ninety-five percent.  Just where I expected.

There was an unoccupied suite -- wasn't ready in time for the voyage.

On the same deck as G.-G.  and only a few yards away.

Both doors are jammed so we'll have to cut our way in.  The ROV's going
down now to have a crack at it.  You should have been here."

Perhaps, thought Emerson.  But this is a family affair, and he would
feel an interloper.  Besides, it might be a false alarm -- like most
rumours of sunken treasure.

"How long before you get inside?"

"Shouldn't take more than an hour -- it's fairly thin steel, and we'll
be through it in no time."

"Well, good luck -- keep me in the picture."

Roy Emerson went back to what he pretended was work.  He felt guilty
when he was not inventing something, which was now most of the time.

Trying to reduce the electronic ,chaos of his data banks by rearranging
and reclassifying did give the illusion of useful employment.

And so he missed all the excitement.

The little group in Rupert's suite aboard Glomar Explorer was
Jason Bradley had seen something like this before, in a space movie
whose name he couldn't recall.  There had been a dead astronaut cradled
in mechanical arms, being carried towards the stars... But this robot
Piet was rising from the Atlantic depths, towards the circling
inflatable boats waiting to receive it.

"That's the last one," said Parkinson sombrely.  "The girl.  We still
don't know her name."

Just like those Russian sailors, thought Bradley, who had been laid out
on this very same deck, more than thirty years ago.  He could not avoid
it: the silly clich flashed into his mind: "This is where I came in."

And, like many of the sailors brought up in Operation JENNIFER, these
dead also appeared to be only sleeping.  That was the most amazing
-indeed, uncanny -- aspect of the whole matter, which had seized the
imagination of the world.  After all the trouble we went to, explaining
why there couldn't possibly be even a scrap of bone .  . .

"I'm surprised," he said to Parkinson, "that you were able to identify
any of them, after all these years."

"Contemporary newspapers -- family albums.  Even poor Irish immigrants
usually had at least one photo taken during their lifetime.

Especially when they were leaving home for ever.  I don't think there's
an attic in Ireland the media haven't ransacked in the last couple of
days."

31.  A MATTER OF MEGAWATTS "We have the answer," said a tired but
triumphant Koto.  "I wonder if it matters now," answered Donald
Craig.

"Oh, all that hysteria isn't going to last.  Our PR boys are already
hard at work -- and so are Porky's.  We've had a couple of summit
meetings to plan a joint strategy.  We may even turn it to our mutual
advantage."

"I don't see--" "Obvious, thanks to our -- well, Porky's careful
exploring, these poor folk will at last get a Christian burial, back in
their own country.  The Irish will love it.  Don't tell anyone, but
we're already talking to the Pope."

Donald found Koto's flippant approach more than a little offensive.  It
would certainly upset Edith, who seemed fascinated by the lovely
child-woman the world had named Colleen.

"You'd better be careful.  Some of them may be Protestant."

"Not likely -- they all boarded in the deep south, didn't they?"

"Yes -- at Queenstown.  You won't find it on the map, though -- a name
like that wasn't popular after Independence.  Now it's called Cobh."

"How do you spell that?"

"C-O-B-H."

"Well, we'll talk to the Archbishops, or whoever, as well as the
Cardinals, just to cover all bases.  But let me tell you what
NOBODY HERE BUT US ROBOTS Until
the first decade of the new century, the great wreck and the debris
surrounding it had remained virtually unchanged, though not
untouched.

Now, as 2020 approached, it was a hive of activity -- or, rather, two
hives, a thousand metres apart.

The framework of scaffolding around the bow section was almost
complete, and the Mole had successfully laid twenty-five of the massive
straps under the hull: there were only five to go.  Most of the mud
that had piled up around the prow when it drove into the sea-bed had
been blasted away by powerful water jets, and the huge anchors were no
longer half buried in silt.

More than twenty thousand tons of buoyancy had already been provided by
as many cubic metres of packaged micro-spheres, strategically placed
around the framework, and at the few places inside the wreck where the
structure could safely take the strain.  But Titanic had not stirred
from her resting place -- nor was she supposed to.  Another ten
thousand tons of lift would be needed to get her out of the mud, and to
start her on the long climb to the surface.

As for the shattered stern -- that had already disappeared inside a
slowly accreting block of ice.  The media were fond of quoting Hardy's
"In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too" -- even though the
poet could never have imagined this application of his words.

The penultimate verse was also quoted widely, and equally out of
context.  Both the Parkinson and Nippon-Turner consortia were rather
tired of being told that They were bent By paths coincident On being
anon twin halves of one august event They hoped that it would be
"august" but not, if they could possibly help it, coincident.

Virtually all the work on both portions of the wreck had been carried
out by remote control from the surface; only in critical cases were
human beings actually required on the site.  During the past decade,
underwater robot technology had been pushed far beyond even the
remarkable achievements of the previous century's off-shore o'd
operations.  The pay-off would be enormous -- although, as Rupert
Parkinson often wryly remarked, most of it would go to other people.

There had, of course, been problems, mishaps -- even accidents, though
none involving loss of life.  During one severe winter storm, Explorer
had been forced to abandon station, much to the disgust of her captain,
who considered this a professional insult.  His vomitous passengers did
not altogether appreciate his point of view.

Even this display of North Atlantic ferocity, however, had not
interrupted operations on the stern.  Two hundred metres down, the
demobilised nuclear submarines now rechristened, after a pioneer
oceanographer and a famous shipbuilder, Matthew Fontaine Maury and
Peter the Great, were scarcely aware of the storm.  Their reactors
continued steadily pouring megawatt upon megawatt of low-voltage
current down to the sea-bed -- creating a rising column of warm water
in the process, as heat was pumped out of the wreck.

This artificial up welling had produced an unexpected bonus, by
bringing to the surface nutrients that would otherwise have been
trapped on the sea-bed.  The resulting plankton bloom was much
appreciated by the local fish population, and the last cod harvest had
been a record one.

The Government of Newfoundland had formally requested the submarines to
remain on station, even when they had fulfilled their contract with
Nippon-Turner.

Quite apart from all this activity off the Grand Banks, a great deal of
money and effort was being expended thousands of kilometres away.  Down
in Florida, not far from the launch pads that had seen men leave for
the Moon and were now seeing them prepare to go to Mars-dredging and
construction for the Titanic Underwater Museum was well under way.  And
on the other side of the globe, Tokyo-on-Sea was preparing an even more
elaborate display, with transparent viewing corridors for visitors and,
of course, continuous performances of what was hoped would be a truly
spectacular movie.

Vast sums of money were also being gambled elsewhere--especially in the
land once more called Russia.  Thanks to Peter the Great, share
dealings in Titanic spin-off companies were very popular on the Moscow
Stock Exchange.

Another of my monomanias," said Franz Zwicker, "is the Sunspot Cycle.

Especially the current one."

"What's particular about it?"  asked Bradley, as they walked down to
the lab together.

"First of all, it will peak in -- you guessed it!  -- 2012.  It's
already way past the 1990 maximum, and getting close to the 2001
record."

"So?"

"Well, between you and me, I'm scared.  So many cranks have tried to
correlate events with the eleven-year cycle which isn't always eleven
years anyway!  -- that Sunspot counting sometimes gets classed with
astrology.  But there's no doubt that the Sun influences practically
everything on Earth.  I'm sure it's responsible for the weird weather
we've been having during the last quarter-century.  To some extent,
anyway; we can't put all the blame on the human race, much as Bluepeace
and Co.  would like to."

"I thought you were supposed to be on their side!"

"Only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.  The rest of the week I keep
a wary eye on Mother Nature.  And the weather PAREMS aren't the only
abnormality.  Seismic activity seems to be increasing.  Look at
California.  Why do people still build houses in San Francisco?  Wasn't
2002 bad enough?  And we're still waiting for the Big One..."

Jason felt privileged to share the scientist's thoughts; the were now
seeing them prepare to go to Mars-dredging and construction for the
Titanic Underwater Museum was well under way.  And on the other side of
the globe, Tokyo-on-Sea was preparing an even more elaborate display,
with transparent viewing corridors for visitors and, of course,
continuous performances of what was hoped would be a truly spectacular
movie.

Vast sums of money were also being gambled elsewhere--especially in the
land once more called Russia.  Thanks to Peter the Great, share
dealings in Titanic spin-off companies were very popular on the Moscow
Stock Exchange.

Another of my monomanias," said Franz Zwicker, "is the Sunspot Cycle.

Especially the current one."

"What's particular about it?"  asked Bradley, as they walked down to
the lab together.

"First of all, it will peak in -- you guessed it!  -- 2012.  It's
already way past the 1990 maximum, and getting close to the 2001
record."

"So?"

"Well, between you and me, I'm scared.  So many cranks have tried to
correlate events with the eleven-year cycle which isn't always eleven
years anyway!  -- that Sunspot counting sometimes gets classed with
astrology.  But there's no doubt that the Sun influences practically
everything on Earth.  I'm sure it's responsible for the weird weather
we've been having during the last quarter-century.  To some extent,
anyway; we can't put all the blame on the human race, much as Bluepeace
and Co.  would like to."

"I thought you were supposed to be on their side!"

"Only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.  The rest of the week I keep
a wary eye on Mother Nature.  And the weather PAREMS aren't the only
abnormality.  Seismic activity seems to be increasing.  Look at
California.  Why do people still build houses in San Francisco?  Wasn't
2002 bad enough?  And we're still waiting for the Big One..."

Jason felt privileged to share the scientist's thoughts; the
Deep Jeep was the lab's other main project, in some ways almost equally
demanding.  The reaction of most visitors at first viewing was: "Is it
a submarine or a diving suit?"  And the answer was always "Both".

Servicing and operating three-man deep-submersibles iik.  Marvin was an
expensive business: a single dive could cost a hundred thousand
dollars.  But there were many occasions when a much less elaborate,
one-man vehicle would be adequate.

Jason Bradley's secret ambition was already well-known to the entire
lab.  He hoped Deep Jeep would be ready in time to take him down to
Titanic while the wreck still lay on the ocean floor.

It would be decades before the meteorologists could prove that the
great storm of 2000 was one of the series that had begun in the 1980s,
heralding the climatic changes of the next millennium.  Before it
exhausted its energies battering against the western ramparts of the
Alps, Gloria did twenty billion dollars' worth of damage and took more
than a thousand lives.

The weather satellites, of course, gave a few hours' warning -otherwise
the death toll would have been even greater.  But, inevitably, there
were many who did not hear the forecasts, or failed to take them
seriously.  Especially in Ireland, which was the first to receive the
hammer-blow from the heavens.

Donald and Edith Craig were editing the latest footage from Operation
Deep Freeze when Gloria hit Conray Castle.  They heard and felt nothing
deep inside the massive walls--not even the crash when the camera
obscura was swept off the battlements.

Ada now cheerfully admitted that she was hopeless at pure mathematics
-- the kind which, in G.H. Hardy's famous toast, would never be of any
use to anyone.  Unknown to him -- because the secrets of ENIGMA's
code-breaking were not revealed until decades later -Hardy had been
proved spectacularly wrong during his own lifetime.  In the hands of
Alan Turing and his colleagues,
even something as abstract as number theory could win a war.

Most of calculus and higher trigonometry, and virtually all of symbolic
logic, were closed books to Ada.  She simply wasn't interested; her
heart was in geometry and the properties of space.

Already she was trifling with five dimensions, four having proved too
simple.  Like Newton, much of the time she was "sailing strange seas of
thought-- alone".

But today, she was back in ordinary 3-space, thanks to the present that
"Uncle" Bradley had just sent her.  Thirty years after its first
appearance, the Rubik Cube had made a comeback-- in a far more deadly
mutation.

Because it was a purely mechanical device, the original Cube had one
weakness, for which its addicts were sincerely thankful.  Unlike all
their neighbours, the six centre squares on each face were fixed.

The other forty-eight squares could orbit around them, to create a
possible 43,252,005,274,489,856,000 distinct PAREMS.

The Mark II had no such limitations; all the fifty-four squares were
capable of movement, so there were no fixed centres to give reference
points to its maddened manipulators.  Only the development of
microchips and liquid crystal displays had made such a prodigy
possible; nothing really moved, but the multicoloured squares could be
dragged around the face of the Cube merely by touching them with a
fingertip.

Relaxing in her little boat with Lady, engrossed with her new toy, Ada
had been slow to notice the darkening sky.  The storm was almost upon
her before she started the electric motor and headed for shelter.

That there could be any danger never occurred to her; after all, Lake
Mandelbrot was only three feet deep.  But she disliked getting wet-and
Lady hated it.

By the time she had reached the lake's first western lobe, the roar of
the gale was almost deafening.  Ada was thrilled; this was really
exciting!  But Lady was terrified, and tried to hide herself under the
seat.

Heading down the Spike, between the avenue of cypresses, she was partly
sheltered from the full fury of the gale.  But for the first time, she
became all.armed; the great trees on either side were swaying bacJc and
forth like reeds.

She was only a dozen metres from the safety of the boathouse, far into
the Utter West of the M-set and nearing the infinity border-post at
minus .999, when Patrick O'Brian's fears about the transplanted cypress
trees were tragically fulfilled.

5. ARTEFACT

One of the most moving archaeological discoveries ever made took place
in Israel in 1976, during a series of excavations carried out by
scientists from the Hebrew University and the French Centre for
Prehistoric Research in Jerusalem.

At a 10,000-year-old camp-site, they uncovered the skeleton of a child,
one hand pressed against its cheek.  In that hand is another tiny
skeleton: that of a puppy about five months old.

This is the earliest example we know of man and dog sharing the same
grave.  There must be many, many later ones.

(From Friends of Man by Roger Caras.  Simon & Schuster, 2OO1.) "You may
be interested to know," said Dr Jafferjee with that clinical detachment
which Donald found annoying (though how else could psychiatrists stay
sane?), "that Edith's case isn't unique.  Ever since the M-set was
discovered in x98o, people have managed to become obsessed with it.

Usually they are computer hackers, whose grip on reality is often
rather tenuous.  There are no less than sixty-three examples of
Mandelmania now in the data banks."

"And is there any cure?"

Dr Jafferjee frowned.

"Cure" was a word he seldom used.  "Adjustment" was the term he
preferred.

"Let's say that in 80 percent of the cases, the subject has been able
to resume an -- ah -- normal life, sometimes with the help of
medication or electronic implants.  Quite an encouraging figure."

Except, thought Donald, for the 20 percent.  Which category does Edith
belong to?

For the first week after the tragedy, she had been unnaturally calm;
after the funeral, some of their mutual friends had been shocked by her
apparent lack of emotion.  But Donald knew how badly she had been
wounded, and was not surprised when'she began to behave irrationally.

When she started to wander around the Castle at night, searching
through the empty rooms and dank passageways that had never been
renovated, he realised that it was time to get medical advice.

Nevertheless, he kept putting it off, hoping that Edith would make the
normal recovery from the first stages of grief.  Indeed, this seemed to
be happening.  Then Patrick O'Brian died.

Edith's relationship with the old gardener had always been a prickly
one, but they had respected each other and shared a mutual love for
Ada.  The child's death had been as devastating a blow to Pat as to her
parents; he also blamed himself for the tragedy.  If only he had
refused to transplant those cypresses-- if only...

He began drinking heavily again, and was now seldom sober.  One cold
night, after the landlord of the Black Swan had gently ejected him, he
managed to lose his way in the village where he had spent his entire
life, and was found frozen to death in the morning.  Father McMullen
considered that the verdict should have been suicide rather than
misadventure; but if it was a sin to give Pat a Christian burial, he
would argue that out with God in due course.  As, also, the matter of
the tiny bundle that Ada held cradled in her arms.

The day after the second funeral, Donald had found Edith sitting in
front of a hi-resolution monitor, studying one of the infinite
miniature versions of the Set.  She would not speak to him, and
presently he realised, to his horror, that she was searching for Ada.

In after years, Donald Craig would often wonder about the relationship
that had developed between himself and Jason Bradley.

Though they had met only half a dozen times, and then almost always on
business, he had felt that bond of mutual sympathy that sometimes grows
between two men, and can be almost as strong as a sexual one, even when
it has absolutely no erotic content.

Perhaps Donald reminded Bradley of his lost partner Ted Collier, of
whom he often spoke.  In any event, they enjoyed each other's company,
and met even when it was not strictly necessary.  Though Karo and the
Nippon-Turner syndicate might well have been suspicious, Bradley never
compromised his ISA neutrality.  Still less did Craig try to exploit
it; they might exchange personal secrets, but not professional
confidences.  Donald never learned what role, if any, Bradley had
played in the Authority's decision to ban hydrazine.

After Ada's funeral -- which Bradley had flown half-way round the world
to attend -- they had an even closer link.  Both had lost a wife and
child; though the circumstances were different, the effects were much
the same.  They became even more intimate, sharing secrets and
vulnerabilities that neither had revealed to any other person.

Later, Donald wondered why he did not think of the idea himself;
perhaps he was so close to it that he couldn't see the picture for the
scan-lines.

The fallen cypresses had been cleared away, and they were walking by
the side of Lake Mandelbrot-- for the last time, as it turned out, for
both of them -- when Bradley outlined the scenario.  "It's not my idea,
he explained, rather apologetically.  "I got it from a psychologist
friend."

It was a long time before Donald discovered who the "friend" was, but
he saw the possibilities at once.

"Do you really think it will work?"  he asked.

"That's something you'll have to discuss with Edith's psychiatrist.

Even if it is a good idea, he may not be willing to go along with it.

the NIH syndrome, you know."

"National Institute of Health?"

"No-- Not Invented Here."

Donald laughed, without much humour.

"You're right.  But first, I must see if I can do my part.  It won't be
easy."

That had been an understatement; it was the most difficult task he had
ever undertaken in his life.  Often he had to stop work, blinded by
tears.

And then, in their own mysterious way, the buried circuits of his
subconscious triggered a memory that enabled him to continue.

Somewhere, years ago, he had come across the story of a surgeon in a
Third World country, who ran an eye-bank which restored sight to poor
people.  To make a graft possible corneas had to be removed from the
donor within minutes of death.

That surgeon must have had a steady hand, as he sliced into his own
mother's eyes.  I can do no less, Donald told himself grimly, as he
went back to the editing table where he and Edith had spent so many
hours together.

Dr Jafferjee had proved surprisingly receptive.  He had asked in a
mildly ironic but quite sympathetic manner: "Where did you get the
idea?  Some pop-psych video-drama?"

"I know it sounds like it.  But it seems worth a try-- if you
approve."

"You've already made the disk?"

"Capsule: I'd like to run it now -- I see you've got a hybrid viewer in
your outer office."

"Yes -- it will even show VHS tapes!  I'll call Dolores -- I rely on
her a good deal."  He hesitated, and looked thoughtfully at Donald as
if he was going to add something.  Instead, he pressed a switch and
said softly into the clinic's paging system: "Nurse Dolores will you
please come to my office?  Thank you."  screen, radiating tendrils that
connected it to the rest of the Mandelbrot universe.  There was no way
of even guessing at the scale, but Donald had already noted the
coordinates that defined the size of this particular version.  If one
could imagine the whole Set, stretching out beyond this monitor, it was
already larger than the Cosmos that even the Hubble space telescope had
yet revealed.

"Are you ready?"  asked Dr Jafferjee.

Donald nodded.  Nurse Dolores, sitting immediately behind Edith,
glanced towards their camera to indicate that she had heard him.

"Then go ahead."

Donald pressed the "Execute" key, and the sub-routine took over.

The ebon surface of the simulated Lake Mandelbrot seemed to tremble.

Edith gave a sudden start of surprise.  "Good!"  whispered Dr
Jafferjee.  "She's reacting!"

The waters parted.  Donald turned away; he could not bear to watch
again this latest triumph of his skills.  Yet he could still see Ada's
image as her voice said gently: "I love you, mother -- but you cannot
find me here.  I exist only in your memories-- and I shall always be
there.  Goodbye..."

Dolores caught Edith's falling body, as the last syllable died away
into the irrevocable past.

Edith Craig is still somewhere inside that skull, thought Donald as he
sat with Dr Jafferjee and Nurse Dolores, watching the figure sitting
stiffly at the big monitor.  Can I smash the invisible, yet unyielding,
barrier that grief has erected, and bring her back to the world of
reality?

The familiar black, beetle-shaped image floated on the screen.
It was a charming idea, though not everyone agreed
that it really worked.  The door for the interior of the world's only
deep-diving tourist submarine had been borrowed straight from Disney's
classic 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

Passengers who boarded the Piccard (port of registry, Geneva) found
themselves in a plush, though rather oddly proportioned, mid-Victorian
drawing room.  This was supposed to provide instant reassurance, and
divert all thoughts from the several hundred tons pressing on each of
the little windows which gave a rather restricted view of the outside
world.

The greatest problems that Piccard's builders had had to face were not
engineering, but legal ones.  Only Lloyd's of London would insure the
hull; no one would insure the passengers, who tended to be VIPs with
astronomical credit ratings.  So, before every dive, notarised waivers
of liability were collected, as discreetly as possible.

The ritual was only slightly more unsettling than the cabin steward's
cheerful litany of possible disasters that passengers on transocean
flights had endured for decades.  "No smoking" signs, of course, were
no longer necessary; nor did Piccard have seat-belts and life-jackeLs
-- which would have been about as useful as parachutes on commercial
airliners.  Its numerous built-in safety features were unobtrusive and
automatic.  If the worst came to the worst, the independent
two-man crew-capsule would
separate from the passenger unit, and each would make a free ascent to
the surface, ultrasonic beacons pinging frantically.

This particular dive was the last one of the season: it was getting
late in the year, and Piccard would soon be air-lifted back to calmer
seas in the southern hemisphere.  Although at the depths the submarine
operated, winter and summer made no more difference than day and night,
bad weather on the surface could make passengers very, very unhappy.

During the thirty-minute free-fall to the wreck site, Piccard's
distinguished guests watched a short video showing the current status
of operations, and a map of the planned dive.  There was nothing else
to see during the descent into darkness, except for the occasional
luminous fish attracted to this strange invader of its domain.

Then, abruptly, it seemed that a ghostly dawn was spreading far
below.

All but the faint red emergency lights in Piccard were switched off, as
Titanic's prow loomed up ahead.

Almost everyone who saw her now was struck by the same thought; she
must have looked much like this, in the Harland and Wolff shipyard a
hundred years ago.  Once again she was surrounded by an elaborate
framework of steel scaffolding, while workers swarmed over her.  The
workers, however, were no longer human.

Visibility was excellent, and the pilot manoeuvred Piccard so that the
passengers on both sides of the cabin could get the best possible view
through the narrow portholes.  He was extremely careful to avoid the
busy robots, who ignored the submarine completely.  It was no part of
the universe they had been trained to deal with.

"If you look out on the right," said the tour guide t a young Woods
Hole graduate, making a little money in his vacation -- "you'll see the
'Down' cable, stretching up to Explorer.  And there's a module on the
way right now, with its counterweight.  Looks like a two-ton unit.

"And there's a robot going to meet it now the module's unhooked you see
it's got neutral buoyancy, so it can be moved around easily.

The robot will carry it over to its attachment point on the lifting
cradle, and hook it on.  Then the two-ton counterweight that brought it
down will be shuttled over to the 'llp' cable, and sent back to
Explorer to be reused.  After that's been done ten thousand times, they
can lift Titanic.  This section of her, anyway."

"Sounds a very roundabout way of doing things," commented one of the
VIPs.  "Why can't they just used compressed air?"

The guide had heard this a dozen times, but had learned to answer all
such questions politely.  (The pay was good, and so were the fringe
benefits.) "It's possible, ma'am, but much too expensive.  The pressure
here is enormous.  I imagine you're all familiar with the standard
SCUBA bottles they're usually rated at two hundred atmospheres.

Well, if you opened one of these down here, the air wouldn't come
out.

The water would rush in and fdl half the bottle?

Perhaps he'd overdone it; some of the passengers were looking a little
worried.  So he continued hastily, hoping to divert their thoughts: "We
do use some compressed air for trimming and fine control.

And in the final stages of the ascent, it will play a major role.

"Now, the skipper is going to fly us towards the stern, along the
promenade deck.  Then he'll do a reverse run, so you'll all have an
equally good view.  I won't do any more talking for a while..."

Very slowly, Piccard moved the length of the great, shadowy hulk.

Much of it was in darkness, but some open hatches spilled dramatic fans
of light where robots were at work in the interior, fixing buoyancy
modules wherever lifting forces could be tolerated.

No one spoke a word as the weed-festooned walls of steel glided by.  It
was very hard to grasp the scale of the wreck--still, after a hundred
years, one of the largest passenger ships ever built.  And the most
luxurious, if only for reasons of pure economics.  Titanic had marked
the end of an era; after the war that was coming, no one would ever
again be able to afford such opulence.  Nor, perhaps, would anyone care
to risk it, lest such arrogance once again provoke the envy of the
gods.

The mountain of steel faded into the distance; for a while, the nimbus
of light surrounding it was still faintly visible.

Piccard dumped its excess weights
-they would be collected later, and sent back along the "Up" elevator
cable at Titanic's bow.

It was time to start autographing the souvenir brochure; and that, to
most of the passengers, was quite a surprise...

D.S.V. "PICCAR!Y' October 14, 2o R.M.S. "TITANIC" April 14,19x2

LUNCHEON Consomm FermierCockie Leekie Fillets of Brill Egg l'Argenteuil
Chicken la Maryland Corned beef Vegetables, Dumplings FROM THE GRILL
illed Mutton Chops Mashed, Fried and Baked Jacket Potato the bottle?

Perhaps he'd overdone it; some of the passengers were looking a little
worried.  So he continued hastily, hoping to divert their thoughts: "We
do use some compressed air for trimming and fine control.

And in the final stages of the ascent, it will play a major role.

"Now, the skipper is going to fly us towards the stern, along the
promenade deck.  Then he'll do a reverse run, so you'll all have an
equally good view.  I won't do any more talking for a while..."

Very slowly, Piccard moved the length of the great, shadowy hulk.

Much of it was in darkness, but some open hatches spilled dramatic fans
of light where robots were at work in the interior, fixing buoyancy
modules wherever lifting forces could be tolerated.

No one spoke a word as the weed-festooned walls of steel glided by.  It
was very hard to grasp the scale of the wreck--still, after a hundred
years, one of the largest passenger ships ever built.  And the most
luxurious, if only for reasons of pure economics.  Titanic had marked
the end of an era; after the war that was coming, no one would ever
again be able to afford such opulence.  Nor, perhaps, would anyone care
to risk it, lest such arrogance once again provoke the envy of the
gods.

The mountain of steel faded into the distance; for a while, the nimbus
of light surrounding it was still faintly visible.

Piccard dumped its excess weights
-they would be collected later, and sent back along the "Up" elevator
cable at Titanic's bow.

It was time to start autographing the souvenir brochure; and that, to
most of the passengers, was quite a surprise...

D.S.V. "PICCAR!Y' October 14, 2o R.M.S. "TITANIC" April 14,19x2

LUNCHEON Consomm FermierCockie Leekie Fillets of Brill Egg l'Argenteuil
Chicken la Maryland Corned beef Vegetables, Dumplings FROM THE GRILL
Grilled Mutton Chops Mashed, Fried and Baked Jacket Potatoes Custard
Pudding Apple MeringuePastry BUFFET Salmon MayonnaisePotted Shrimps
Norwegian AnchoviesSoused Herrings Plain & Smoked Sardines Roast Beef

20O

 Round of Spiced Beef Veal & Ham Pie
Virginia & Cumberland Ham Bologna Sausage Brawn Galantine of.Chicken
Corned Ox Tongue Lettuce Beetroot Tomatoes CHEESE Cheshire, Stilton,
Gorgonzola, Edam Camembert, Roquefort, St Ivel, Cheddar

37.  RESURRECTION

Iced draught Munich Lager Beer 3d.  & cd.  a Tankard "I'm afraid quite
a few items are off the menu," said the young guide, in tones of mock
apology.  "Piccard's catering arrangements are rather limited.  We
don't even run to a microwave -- would take too much power.  So please
ignore the Grill; I can assure you that the cold buffet is delicious.

We also have some of the cheeses-but only the milder ones.

Gorgonzola didn't seem a very good idea in these confined quarters...

"Oh yes the lager-- it's genuine, straight from Munich!  And it cost us
rather more than three pence per tankard.  Even more than six.

"Enjoy yourselves, ladies and gentlemen.  We'll be topside in just one
hour."

It had not been easy to arrange, and had taken months of arguing across
the border.  However, the joint funeral services had gone smoothly
enough; for once, sharing the same tragedy, Christian could talk
politely to Christian.  The fact that one of the dead had come from
Northern Ireland helped a good deal; coffins could be lowered into the
ground simultaneously in Dublin and Belfast.

As the "Lux aeterno" of Verdi's Requiem Mass ebbed softly away, Edith
Craig turned to Dolores and asked: "Should I tell Dr Jafferjee now?  Or
will he think I'm crazy again?"

Dolores frowned, then answered in that lilting Caribbean accent that
had once helped to reach the far place where Edith's mind was hiding:
"Please, dear, don't use that word.  And yes, I think you should.  It's
about time we spoke to him again he'll be getting worried.  He's not
like some doctors I could mention he keeps track of his patients.

They're not just case numbers to him."

Dr Jafferjee was indeed pleased to receive Edith's call; he wondered
where it was coming from, but she did not enlighten him.  He could see
that she was sitting in a large room with cane furniture (ah, probably
the tropics Dolores' home island?) and was happy to note that she
seemed completely relaxed.  There were two large photographs

Anyway, there's only one way to find out and we'll learn a lot in the
process."

"How long do you think it will take?"

"Ask me in five years.  Then I may know if we'll need another decade m
or a century.  Or forever."

"I can only wish you luck.  It's a fascinating project -- and you're
going to have lots of problems beside the purely technical ones.

Her relations, for example, if they're ever located."

"It doesn't seem likely.  The latest theory is that she was a stowaway,
and so not on the passenger list."

"Well, the Church.  The media.  ThOusands of sponsors.  Ghost writers
who want to do her autobiography.  I'm beginning to feel sorry for the
poor girl already."

And he could not help thinking, though he did not say it aloud: I hope
Dolores won't be jealous.

Donald, of course, had been both astonished and indignant: husbands
(and wives) always were on such occasions.

"She didn't even leave any message?"  he said unbelievingly.

Dr Jafferjee shook his head.

"There's no need to worry.  She'll contact you as soon as she's settled
down.  It will take her a while to adjust.  Give her a few weeks."

"Do you know where she's gone?"

The doctor did not answer, which was answer enough.  "Well, are you
quite sure she's safe?"

"No doubt of it; she's in extremely good hands."  The psychiatrist made
one of those lengthy pauses which were part of his stock-in-trade.

"You know, Mr Craig, I should be quite annoyed with you."

"Why?"  asked Donald, frankly astonished.

"You've cost me the best member of my staff my right-hand woman."

"Nurse Dolores?  I wondered why I'd not seen her -- I wanted to thank
her for all she'd done."

Another of those calculated pauses; then Dr Jafferjee said: "She's
helped Edith more than you imagine.  Obviously, you've never guessed,
and this may be a shock to you.  But I owe you the truth it will help
you with your own adjustment.

"Edith's prime orientation isn't towards men -- and Dolores actively
disliked them, though she was sometimes kind enough to make an
exception in my case...

"She was able to contact Edith on the physical level even before we
connected on the mental one.  They will be very good for each other.

But I'll miss her, dammit."

Donald Craig was speechless for a moment.  Then he blurted out: "You
mean -- they were having an affair?  And you knew it?"

"Of course I did; my job as a physician is to help my patients in any
way I can.  You're an intelligent man, Mr Craig I'm surprised that
seems to shock you."

"Surely it's -- unprofessional conduct!"

"What nonsense!  Just the reverse it's highly professional.  Oh, back
in the barbarous twentieth century many people would have agreed.

Can you believe it was a crime in those days for the staff of
institutions to have any kind of sex with patients under their care,
even though that would often have been the best possible therapy for
them?

"One good thing did come out of the AIDS epidemic it forced people to
be honest: it wiped out the last remnants of the Puritan aberration.

My Hindu colleagues with their temple prostitutes and erotic sculpture
had the right idea all the time.  Too bad it took the West three
thousand years of misery to catch up with them."

Dr Jafferjee paused for breath, giving Donald Craig time to marshal his
own thoughts.  He could not help feeling that the doctor had lost some
of his professional detachment.  Had he been erotically interested in
the inaccessible Nurse Dolores?  Or did he have deeper problems?

But, of course, everyone knew just why people became psychiatrists in
the first place...

With luck, you could cure yourself.  And even if you failed, the work
was interesting -- and the pay was excellent.

IV -- FINALE

38.  ICHTER EIGHT Jason Bradley was on the bridge of Glomar Explorer,
monitoring J.J."s progress on the sea-bed, when he felt the sudden
sharp hammer-blow.  The two electronics technicians watching the
displays never even noticed; they probably thought it was some change
in the incessant rhythm of the ship's machinery.  Yet for a chilling
instant Jason was reminded of a moment almost a century ago, equally
unnoticed by most of the passengers...

But, of course, Explorer was at anchor (in four kilometres of water,
and how that would have astonished Captain Smith!) and no iceberg could
possibly creep undetected through her radar.  Nor, at drifting speed,
would it do much worse than scrape off a little paint.

Before Jason could even call the communications centre, a red star
began to flash on the satfax screen.  In addition, a piercing audio
alarm, guaranteed to set teeth on edge as it warbled up and down
through a kilocycle range, sounded on the unit's seldom-used speaker.

Jason punched the audio cut-off, and concentrated on the message.

Even the two landlubbers beside him now realised that something was
wrong.

"What is it?"  one of them asked anxiously.  "Earthquake-- and a big
one.  Must have been close."

"Any danger?"

"Not to us.  I wonder where the epicentre is..."

He had to wait a few
minutes for the seismograph-computer networks to do their
calculations.

Then a message appeared on the fax screen:

SUBSEA EARTHQUAKE ESTIMATED RICHTER 7 EPICENTRE APPROX 55 W 44 N.

ALERT ALL ISLANDS AND COASTAL AREAS NORTH ATLANTIC Nothing else
happened for a few seconds; then another line appeared: CORRECTION:
UPDATE TO RICHTER 8 Four kilometres below, J.J. was patiently and
efficiently going about its business, gliding over the sea-bed at an
altitude of ten metres and a speed of a comfortable eight knots.  (Some
nautical traditions refused to die; knots and fathoms still survived
into the metric age.) Its navigation program had been set so that it
scanned overlapping swathes, like a ploughman driving back-and-forth
across a field being prepared for the next harvest.

The first shock-wave bothered J.J. no more than it had done Explorer.

Even the two nuclear submarines had been completely unaffected; they
had been designed to withstand far worse w though their commanders had
spent a few anxious seconds speculating about depth-charges.

J.J. continued its automatic quest, collecting and recording megabytes
of information every second.  Ninety-nine percent of this would never
be of the slightest interest to anyone and it might be centuries before
scientific gold was found in the residue.

To eye or video camera, the sea-bed here appeared almost completely
featureless, but it had been chosen with care.  The original "debris
field" around the severed stern section had long ago been cleared of
all interesting items; even the lumps of coal spilled from the bunkers
had been salvaged and made into souvenirs.  However, only two years ago
a magneto-meter search had revealed anomalies near the bow which might
be worth investigating.  J.J. was just the entity for the job; in
another few hours it would have completed the survey, and would return
to its floating base.

"It looks like 1929 all over again," said Bradley.  Back in the ISA
Lab, Dr Zwicker shook his head.  "No -- much worse, I'm afraid."

In Tokyo, at another node of the hastily arranged conference, Koto
asked: "What happened in 19297" "The Grand Banks Earthquake.  It
triggered a turbidity current -- call it an underwater avalanche.

Snapped the telegraph cables one after the other, like cotton, as it
raced across the sea-bed.  That's how its speed was calculated --sixty
kilometres an hour.  Perhaps more."

"Then it could reach us in-- my God-- three or four hours.  What's the
likelihood of damage?"

"Impossible to say at this stage.  Best case very little.  The 1929
quake didn't touch Titanic, though many people thought she'd been
buried: luckily, it was a couple of hundred kilometres to the west.

Most of the sediment was diverted into a canyon, and missed the wreck
completely."

"Excuse me," interrupted Rupert Parkinson, "we've just heard that one
of our flotation modules has surfaced.  Jumped twenty metres out of the
water.  And we've lost telemetry to the wreck.  How about you, Koto?"

Koto hesitated only a moment; then he called out something in Japanese
to an associate off-screen.

"I'll check with Peter and Maury.  Dr Zwicker -- what's your worst-case
analysis?"

"Our first quick look suggests a few metres of sediment.

We'll have a better computer modelling within the hour."

"A metre wouldn't be too bad."

"It could wreck our schedule, dammit."

"A report from Maury, gentlemen," said Koto.  "No problem -everything
normal."

"But for how long?  If that avalanche really is racing towards us, we
should pull up whatever equipment we can.  What do you advise, Dr
Zwicker?"

The scientist was just about to speak when Bradley
whispered urgently in his ear.  He looked startled, then
glum m then nodded in reluctant agreement.

"I don't think I should say any more, gentlemen.  Mr Bradley is more
experienced in this area than I am.  Before I give any specific advice,
I should consult our legal department."

There was a shocked silence; then Rupert Parkinson said quickly: "We're
all men of the world: we can understand that ISA doesn't want to get
involved in lawsuits.  So let's not waste time.  We're pulling up what
we can.  And I advise you to do the same, Koto just in case Dr
Zwicker's worst case is merely the bad one."

That was preciely what the scientist had feared.  A submarine seaquake
was impressive enough; but as a fission bomb serves as detonator for a
fusion one -- it might merely act as a trigger to release even greater
forces.

Millions of years of solar energy had been stored in the petrochemicals
beneath the bed of the Atlantic; barely a century's worth had been
tapped by Man.

The rest was still waiting.

39- PRODIGAL SON On the bed of the Atlantic, a billion dollars'-worth
of robots downed tools and started to float up to the surface.  There
was no great hurry; no lives were at stake, even though fortunes
were.

Titanic shares were already plunging on the world's stock exchanges,
giving media humorists an opportunity for all-too-obvious jokes.

The great off-shore oil fields were also playing it safe.

Although Hibernia and Avalon, in relatively shallow water, had little
to fear from turbidity currents, they had suspended all operations, and
were doubly and triply checking their emergency and backup systems.

Now there as nothing to do but to wait and to admire the superb auroral
displays that had already made this Sunspot Cycle the most spectacular
ever recorded.

Just before midnight -- no one was getting much sleep Bradley was
standing on Explorer's helicopter pad, watching the great curtains of
ruby and emerald fire being drawn across the northern sky.  He was not
a member of the crew; if the skipper or anyone else wanted him, he
would be available in seconds.  Busy people, especially in emergencies,
did not care to have observers standing behind their backs -- however
well-intentioned or highly qualified they might be.

And the summons, when it did come, was not from the Bridge, but the
Operations Centre.

 I'm really enjoying this, Bradley told
imself.  For the first time, I have an iron-clad excuse to take Deep
Jeep down to the wreck, without having to make application through
channels, in triplicate.

There'll be plenty of time later to do the paperwork -- or to input the
electronic memos...

To speed the descent, Deep Jeep was heavily overweighted; this was no
time to worry about littering the sea-bed with discarded ballast.

Only twenty minutes after the brilliant auroral glow had faded in the
waters above him, Bradley saw the first phosphorescent nimbus around
Titanic's prow.  He did not need it, of course, because he knew his
exact location, and the wreck was not even his target; but he was glad
that the lights had been switched on again for his exclusive benefit.

J.J. was only half a kilometer away, going about its business with
simple-minded concentration and devotion to duty.  The monotonous "ping
ping-ping" call-sign of its beacon filled Deep Jeep's tiny bubble of
air every ten seconds, and it was also clearly visible on the search
sonar.

without much hope, Bradley retransmitted the Emergency Recall sequence,
and continued to do so as he approached the recalcitrant robot.  He was
not surprised, or disappointed, at the total lack of response.  Not to
worry; he told
himself; I've lots of other tricks up my sleeve.

He saved the next one until they were only ten metres apart.  Deep Jeep
could easily outrun J.J and Bradley had no difficulty in placing his
vehicle athwart the robot's precomputed track.  Such underwater
confrontations had often been arranged, to test J.J."s Obstacle
Avoidance algorithms -- and these, at least, now operated exactly as
planned.

J.J. came to a complete halt, and surveyed the situation.  At this
point-blank range Bradley could just detect, with his unaided ears, a
piccolo-like sub-harmonic as the robot scanned the obstacle ahead, and
tried to identify it.

He took this opportunity of sending out the Recall command once more;
no luck.  It was pointless to try again; the problem must be in the
software.

J.J. turned ninety degrees left, and headed off at right angles to its
original course.  It went only ten metres, then swung back to its old
bearing, hoping to avoid the obstruction.  But Bradley was there
already.

While J.J. was thinking this over, Bradley tried a new gambit.  He
switched on the external sound transducer.  "J.J" he said.  "Can you
hear me?"

"Yes," the robot answered promptly.  "Do you recognise me?"

"Yes, Mister Bradley."

(Good -- we're getting somewhere... ) "Do you have any problems?"

"No.  All systems are normal."

"We have sent you a Recall -- Subprogramme 999.  Have you received
it?"

"No.  I have not received it."

(Well, whatever science-fiction writers may have pretended, robots
won't lie -- unless they're programmed to do so.  And no one's played
that dirty trick on J.J. -- I hope .  . . ) "One has been sent out.  I
repeat; obey Code 999.  Acknowledge."

"I acknowledge."

"Then execute."

"Command not understood."

(Damn; we're going round in cirdes.  And we could do that literally,
until we both ran out of power-- or patience.) While Bradley was
considering his next step, Explorer interrupted the dialogue.

"Deep Jeep -- sorry you're having no luck so far.  But we've an update
for you -- and a message from the Prof."

"Go ahead."

"You're missing some real fireworks.  There's been a --well, blow-out's
the only word -- round 4 west, 50 north.  Much too deep to do any
serious damage to the off-shore rigs, luckily -- but hydrocarbon gas is
bubbling up by the millions of cubic metres.  And it's ignited -- we
can see the glare from here -- forget the aurora!  You should see the
Earthsat images: looks as if the North Atlantic's on fire."

I'm sure it's very spectacular, thought Bradley.  But how does it
affect me?

"What's that about a message from Dr Zwicker?"

"He asked us to tell you Tommy Gold was right.  Said you'd
understand."

"Frankly, I'm not interested in proving scientific theories at the
moment.  How long before I must come up?"

Bradley felt no sense of alarm -- only of urgency.  He could drop his
remaining ballast and blow his tanks in a matter of seconds, and be
safely on his way up long before any submarine avalanche could
overwhelm him.  But he was determined to complete his mission, for
reasons which were now as much personal as professional.

"Latest estimate is one hour -- you may have more.  Plenty of time
before it gets here -- if it does."

An hour was ample; five minutes might be enough.

"J.J" he commanded.  "I am giving you a new program.  Command 527."

That was Main Power Cutoff, which should leave only the backup systems
running.  Then J.J. would have no choice but to surface.

"Command 527 accepted."

Good -- it had worked!  J.J."s external lights flickered, and the
little attitude-control propellers idled to a halt.  For a moment,
J.J.

was dead in the water.  Hope I haven't overdone it, Bradley thought.

Then the lights came on
again, and the props started to spin once more.

Well, it was a nice try.  Nothing had gone wrong this time, but it was
impossible to remember everything, in a system as complex as l.J."s.

Bradley had simply forgotten one small detail.  Some commands only
worked in the lab; they were disabled on operational missions.

The override had been automatically overridden.

That left only one option: If gentle persuasion had failed, he would
have to use brute force.  Deep Jeep was much stronger than l.l.

-- who in any case had no limbs with which to dimages: looks as if the
North Atlantic's on fire."

I'm sure it's very spectacular, thought Bradley.  But how does it
affect me?

"What's that about a message from Dr Zwicker?"

"He asked us to tell you Tommy Gold was right.  Said you'd
understand."

"Frankly, I'm not interested in proving scientific theories at the
moment.  How long before I must come up?"

Bradley felt no sense of alarm -- only of urgency.  He could drop his
remaining ballast and blow his tanks in a matter of seconds, and be
safely on his way up long before any submarine avalanche could
overwhelm him.  But he was determined to complete his mission, for
reasons which were now as much personal as professional.

"Latest estimate is one hour -- you may have more.  Plenty of time
before it gets here -- if it does."

An hour was ample; five minutes might be enough.

"J.J" he commanded.  "I am giving you a new program.  Command 527."

That was Main Power Cutoff, which should leave only the backup systems
running.  Then J.J. would have no choice but to surface.

"Command 527 accepted."

Good -- it had worked!  J.J."s external lights flickered, and the
little attitude-control propellers idled to a halt.  For a moment,
J.J.

was dead in the water.  Hope I haven't overdone it, Bradley thought.

Then the lights came on
again, and the props started to spin once more.

Well, it was a nice try.  Nothing had gone wrong this time, but it was
impossible to remember everything, in a system as complex as l.J."s.

Bradley had simply forgotten one small detail.  Some commands only
worked in the lab; they were disabled on operational missions.

The override had been automatically overridden.

That left only one option: If gentle persuasion had failed, he would
have to use brute force.  Deep Jeep was much stronger than l.l.

-- who in any case had no limbs with which to defend itself.  Any
wrestling match would be very one-sided.

But it would also be undignified.  There was a better way.

Bradley put Deep Jeep into reverse, so that the submersible no longer
blocked J.l. The robot considered the new situation for a few seconds,
then set off again on its rounds.  Such dedication was indeed
admirable, but it could be overdone.  Was it true that archaeologists
had found a Roman sentry still at his post in Pompeii, overwhelmed by
the ashes of Vesuvius because no officer had come to relieve him of his
duty?  That was very much what l.J. now seemed determined to do.

"Sorry about this," Bradley muttered as he caught up with the
unsuspecting machine.

He ja/nmed Deep Jeep's manipulator arm into the main prop, and pieces
of metal flew off in all directions.  The auxiliary fans spun J.l. in a
half-circle, then slowed to rest.

There was only one way out of this situation, and l.l. did not stop to
argue.

The intermittent beacon signal switched over to the continuous distress
call -- the robot MAYDAY -- which meant "Come and Get Me!"

Like a bomber dropping its payload, J.J. released the iron ballast
weight which gave it neutral buoyancy, and started its swift rise to
the surface.

"JJ."s on the way up," Bradley reported to Explorer.  "Should be there
in twenty minutes."

Now the robot was safe; it would be tracked by half a dozen systems as
soon as it broke water, and would be back in the moon-pool well before
Deep Jeep.

"I hope you realise," Bradley muttered as J.J. disappeared into the
liquid sky above, "that hurt me much more than it hurt you."

40. TOUR OF INSPECTION

Jason Bradley was just preparing to drop his own ballast and follow
J.J. up to the surface when Explorer called again.

"Nice work, Jason--we're tracking J.J. on the way up.  The inflatables
are already waiting for him.

"But don't drop your weights yet.  There's a small job the N-T group
would like you to do-- it will only take a minute or five."

"Do I have that long?"

"No problem, or we wouldn't ask.  A good forty minutes before the thing
hits-it looks like a weather front on our computer simulations.

We'll give you plenty of warning."

Bradley considered the situation.  Deep Jeep could easily reach the
Nippon-Turner site within five minutes, and he would like to have one
last look at Titanic both sections, if possible.  There was no risk;
even if the arrival estimate was wildly in error, he would still have
several minutes of warning time and could be a thousand metres up
before the avalanche swept past below.

"What do they want me to do?"  he asked, swinging Deep Jeep around so
that the ice-shrouded stern was directly ahead on his sonar scan.

"Mau has a problem with its power cables can't haul them up.

May be snaed somewhere.  Can you check?"

"Will do."

41.  FREE ASCENT

Even now, Bradley did not consider himself to be in real jeopardy; he
was more annoyed than alarmed.  Yet, on the face of it, the situation
seemed dramatic enough.  He was stranded on the sea-bed, his buoyancy
lost.  The glancing blow from the ascending mini-iceberg must have
sheared away some of Deep Jeep's flotation modules.  And as if that was
not enough, the biggest underwater avalanche ever recorded was bearing
down upon him, and was now due to arrive in ten or fifteen minutes.  He
could not help feeling like a character in an old Steven Spielberg
movie.

(First step: see if Deep leep's propulsion system can provide enough
lift to get me out of this .  . .) The submarine stirred briefly, and
blasted up a cloud of mud which filled the surrounding water with a
dazzling cloud of reflected light.  Deep Jeep rose a few metres, then
settled back.  The batteries would be flat long before he could reach
the surface.

(I hate to do this.  A couple of million bucks down the drain-- or at
least on the sea-bed.  But maybe we can salvage the rest of Deep Jeep
when this is all over --just as they did with good old Alvin, long
ago.) Bradley reached for the "Chicken switch", and unlatched the
protective cover.

"Deep Jeep calling Explorer.  I've got to make a free ascent; you won't
hear from me until I reach the surface.  Keep a good sonar look-out
-I'll be coming up fast.  Get your thrusters started, in case you have
to sidestep me."

Calculations had shown -- and tests had confirmed-- that shorn of its
surrounding equipment Deep Jeep's buoyant life-support sphere would hit
forty klicks, and jump high enough out of the water to land on the deck
of any ship that was too close.  Or, of course, hole it below the water
line, if it was unlucky enough to score a direct hit.

"We're ready, Jason.  Good luck."

He turned the little red key, and the lights flickered once as the
heavy current pulsed through the detonators.

There are some engineering systems which can never be fully checked
out, before the time when they are needed.  Deep Jeep had been well
designed, but testing the escape mechanism at four hundred atmospheres'
pressure would have required most of ISA's budget.

The twin explosive charges separated the buoyant life-support sphere
from the rest of the vehicle, exactly as planned.

But, as Jason had often said, the sea could always think of something
else.  The titanium hull was already stressed to its maximum safe
value; and the shock-waves, relatively feeble though they were,
converged and met at the same spot.

It was too late for fear or regret; in the fraction of a second that
was left to him before the sphere imploded, Jason Bradley had time for
only a single thought: this is a good place to die.

42.  TXE VILLA, AT SUNSET

As he drove his hired car past the elaborate iron gates, the
beautifully manicured trees and flowerbeds triggered a momentary
flashback.  With a deliberate effort of will, Donald Craig forced down
the up welling memories of Conray Castle.  He would never see it again;
that chapter of his life was over.

The sadness was still there, and part of it would always be with him.

And yet he also felt a sense of liberation; it was not too late -- what
was Milton's most misquoted phrase?  -- to seek fresh woods and
pastures new.  I'm trying to reprogram myself, Donald thought wryly.

Open New File .  . .

There was a parking space waiting for him a few metres from the elegant
Georgian house; he locked the hired car, and walked to the front
door.

There was a very new brass plate at eye-level, just above bell-push and
speaker grille.  Though Donald could not see any camera lens, he did
not doubt that one was observing him.

The plate carried a single line, in bold lettering: Dr Evelyn Merrick,
PhD.  (Psych) Donald looked at it thoughtfully for a few seconds, then
smiled and reached for the bell-push.  But the door anticipated him.

There was a faint click as it swung open; then Dame Eva
said, in that probing yet sympathetic voice that would
often remind him of Dr Jafferjee: "Welcome aboard, Mr Craig.  Any
friend of Jason's is a friend of mine."

43.  EXORCISM 2012 APRIL X5, 02.00 It was a bad time for the media
networks g too early for the Americas, not late enough for the evening
E uronews.  In any case, it was a story that had peaked; few were now
interested in a race that had been so well and truly lost.

Every year, for a century now, the US Coastguard had dropped a wreath
at this same spot.  But this centennial was a very special one-the
focus of so many vanished hopes and dreams-- and fortunes.

G!omar Explorer had been swung into the wind, so that her forward
deckhouse gave her distinguished guests some protection from the icy
gusts from the north.  Yet it was not as cold as it had been on that
immaculate night a hundred years ago, when the whole North Atlantic had
lain all Dana/ to the stars.

There was no one aboard who had been present the last time Explorer had
paid its tribute to the dead, but many must have recalled that secret
ceremony on the other side of the world, in a blood-stained century
that now seemed to belong to another age.  The human race had matured a
little, but still had far to go before it could claim to be
civilised.

The slow movement of Elgar's Second Symphony ebbed into silence.

No music could have been more appropriate than this haunting farewell
to the EdwardJan Era, composed  during
the very years that Titanic grew in the Belfast shipyard.

All eyes were on the tall, grey-haired man who picked up the single
wreath and dropped it gently over the side.  For a long time he stood
in silence; though all his companions on the windswept deck could share
his emotions, for some they were especially poignant.  They had been
with him aboard the Knorr, when the TV monitor had shown the first
wreckage on the morning of September x985.  And there was one whose
dead wife's wedding ring had been cast into these same waters, a
quarter of a century ago.

This time, Titanic was lost for ever to the race that had conceived and
built i'/erno human eyes would look upon her scattered fragments
again.

More than a few men were free at last, from the obsessions of a
lifetime.

44.  EPILOGUE: THE DEEPS OF TIME

The star once called the Sun had changed little since the far-off days
when men had worshipped it.

Two planets had gone t one by design, one by accident and Saturn's
rings had lost much of their glory.  But, on the whole, the Solar
System had not been badly damaged during its brief occupancy by a
space-faring species.

Indeed, some regions still showed signs of past improvements.  The
Martian oceans had dwindled to a few shallow lakes, but the great
forests of mutated pines still survived along the equatorial belt.  For
ages to come, they would maintain and protect the ecology they had been
designed to create.

Venus once called New Eden-had reverted to its former hell.

And of Mercury, nothing remained.  The system's mother lode of heavy
metals, it had been whittled away though millennia of
astra-engineering.  The last remnant of the core with its unexpected
and providential bonus of magnetic monopoles had been used to build the
world-ships of the Exodus Fleet.

And Pluto, of course, had been swallowed by the fearsome singularity
which the best sdentists of the human race were still vainly struggling
to comprehend, even as they fled in search of safer suns.  There was no
trace of this ancient tragedy, when the Seeker fell Earthwards out of
deep space, following an invisible trail.

The interstellar probe that Man had launched towards the Galactic core
had reconnoitred a dozen stars before its signals had been intercepted
by another civilisation.  The Seeker knew, to within a few dozen
light-years, the origin of the primitive machine whose trajectory it
was retracing.  It had explored almost a hundred solar systems, and had
discovered much.  The planet it was approaching now was little
different from many others it had inspected; there was no cause for
excitement, even if the Seeker had been capable of such an emotion.

The radio spectrum was silent, except for the hiss and crash of the
cosmic background.  There were none of the glittering networks which
covered the nightlands of most technologically developed worlds.

Nor, when it entered atmosphere, did the Seeker find the chemical
traces of industrial development.

Automatically, it went into the standard search routine.  It dissolved
into a million components, which scattered over the face of the
planet.

Some would never return, but would merely send back information.  No
matter; the Seeker could always create others to replace them.  Only
its central core was indispensable-- and there were backup copies of
that, safely stored at right angles to all three dimensions of normal
space.

Earth had orbited the Sun only a few times before the Seeker had
gathered all the easily accessible information about the abandoned
planet.  It was little enough; megayears of winds and rains had wiped
away all man's cities, and the slow grinding of the tectonic plates had
completely changed the patterns of land and sea.  Continents had become
oceans; sea beds had become plains, which had then been wrinkled into
mountains...

. . The anomaly was the faintest of echoes on a neutrino scan, but it
attracted immediate attention.  Nature abhorred straight lines, right
angles, repeated patterns-- except on the scale of crystals and
snowflakes.  This was millions of times larger; indeed, it dwarfed the
Seeker.  It could only be the work of intelligence.

The object lay in the heart of a mountain, beneath kilometreo of
sedimentary rock.  To reach it would require only seconds; to excavate
it without doing any damage, and to learn all its secrets, might
require months or years.  The scan was EPILOGUE: The DEEPS OF TIME
repeated, at higher resolution.  Now it was observed that the object
was made from ferrous alloys of an extremely simple type.  No
civilisation that could build an interstellar probe would have used
such crude materials.  The Seeker almost felt disappointment...

Yet, primitive though this object was, no other artefact of comparable
size or complexity had been found.  It might, after all, be worth the
trouble of recovering.

The Seeker's high-level systems considered the problem for many, many
microseconds, analysing all the possibilities that might arise.

Presently the Master Correlator made its decision.

"Let us begin."

SOURCES AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS R.M.S. Titanic has haunted me all my life,
as is amply demonstrated by this extract from Arthur C. Clarke's
Chronicles of the Strange and Mysterious (Collins, 987): My very first
attempt at a full-length science-fiction story (fortunately long since
destroyed) concerned that typical disaster of the spaceways, the
collision between an interplanetary liner and a large meteorite -- or
small comet, if you prefer.  I was quite proud of the title, Icebergs
of Space never dreaming at the time that such things really existed.  I
have always been a little too fond of surprise endings.  In the last
line I revealed the name of the wrecked spaceship.  It was-- wait for
it g My... Titanic.

More than four decades later, I returned ;to the subject in Imperial
Earth (976) bringing the wreck to New York to celebrate the 2276

Quincentennial.  At the time of writing, of course, no one knew that
the ship was in two badly damaged portions.

Meanwhile I had grown to know Bill MacQuitty, the Irish movie-maker
(and much else) to whom this book is dedicated.  Following the success
of his superb A Night to Remember (1958), Bill was determined to film
my 1961 novel A Fall of Moondust; however, the Rank Organisation
refused to dabble in fantasy (men on the Moon, indeed!) and the project
 SOURCES AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS was turned
down.  I am happy to say that the novel is now being turned into a TV
mini-series by another close friend, Michael Deakin.  If you wonder how
we manage to find seas of dust on the Moon, stay tuned.

I am also indebted to Bill MacQuitty for photographs, plans, drawings
and documents on R.M.S. Titanic- especially the menu reproduced in
Chapter 36, "The Last Lunch".  Bill's beautiful book, Irish Gardens,
(text by Edward Hyams; Macdonald, London, 1967) also provided much
inspiration.

It is pleasant to record that Bill's Director of Photography was
Geoffrey Unsworth -- who, a decade later, also filmed 2001: A Space
Odyssey.  I can still remember Geoffrey wandering round the set with
a slightly bemused expression, telling all and sundry: "I've been in
this business for forty years -- and Stanley's just taught me something
I didn't know."  Michael Crichton has reminded me that Superman was
dedicated to Geoffrey, who died during its production, much mourned by
all those who had worked with him.

This novel would not have been possible, of course, without inputs from
the two classic books on the subject, Walter Lord's A Night to Remember
(Allen Lane, 1976) and Robert Bollard's The Discovery of the Titanic
(Madison Press Books, 1987), both of : which are beyond praise.

Two other books I have also found very valuable are Walter Lord's
recent "sequel" The Night Lives :.:i On (William Morrow, 1986) and
Charles Pellegrino's Her Name Titanic (Avon, 199o).  I am also
extremely grateful to Charlie (who appears in Chapter 43) for a vast
amount of technical in-?

formation about "Bringing up Baby" -- an enterprise which: ?

we both regard with very mixed feelings.?

2 Martin Gardner's book The Wreck of the Titanic Foretold?.

(Prometheus Books, 1986) reprints the extraordinary Morgan Robertson
novel, The Wreck of the Titan (1898!) which Lord Aldiss refers to in
Chapter 9. Martin makes a good case for :!;: intelligent anticipation
on Robertsoh'S part; nevertheless, I' cannot blame anyone who thinks
there must have been some feedback from 1912 .....

Since many of the events in this novel have already occurred!

or are about to do so-- it has often been necessary to refer to real
individuals.  I hope they will enjoy my occasional extrapolation of
their activities.

The "Century Syndrome" (Chapter 4) already has many people worried,
though we will have to wait until 12.00 to see whether matters are as
bad as I suggest.  While I was writing this book, my most long-standing
American friend, Dr Charles Fowler (GCA, 1942

-though neither of us can quite believe it) sent me an article from the
Boston Globe entitled "Mainframes have a problem with the year 2000".

According to this, the joke in the trade is that everyone will retire
in 1999- We'll see...

This problem will not, of course, arise in 2099.  By then, computers
will be able to take care of themselves (as well as H. Sap if he/she is
still around).

I have not invented the unusually large mollusc in Chapter 12.

Details (with photographs) of this awesome beast will be found in
Arthur C. Clarke's Mysterious World (Collins, x98o).  Octopus giganteus
was first positively identified by F.G. Wood and Dr Joseph Gennaro
(Natural History, March 2971), both of whom I was happy to get on
camera for my Mysterious World TV series.

The useful hint on octopus allergies (e.g. what to do if you find one
in the toilet) comes from Jacques-Yves Cousteau and Phllipppe Diole's
Octopus and Squid: The Soft Intelligence (Cassell, 1973).

And here I must put on record something that has mystified me for many
years.  In this book, Jacques asserts that though his divers have
played with octopuses (very well: octopodes) hundreds of times, they
have never once been bitten -- and have never even heard of such an
incident.  Well... the only time I caught one, off the eastern coast of
Australia, it bit me!  (see The Coast of Coral: Harper and Row, 956)I
am quite unable to explain this total breakdown of the laws of
probability.

According to Omni magazine, the question described in Chapter 13 was
actually set in a high-school intelligence test, and only one
genius-type pupil spotted that the printed answer was wrong.  I still
find' this amazing; sceptics may profitably spend a few minutes with
scissors and cardboard.  The even more incredible story of Srinivasa
Ramanujan, mentioned passim in the same chapter, will be found in
G.H.

Hardy's small classic, A Mathematician's Apology, and more
titled "Mainframes have a problem with the year
2000".

According to this, the joke in the trade is that everyone will retire
in 1999- We'll see...

This problem will not, of course, arise in 2099.  By then, computers
will be able to take care of themselves (as well as H. Sap if he/she is
still around).

I have not invented the unusually large mollusc in Chapter 12.

Details (with photographs) of this awesome beast will be found in
Arthur C. Clarke's Mysterious World (Collins, x98o).  Octopus giganteus
was first positively identified by F.G. Wood and Dr Joseph Gennaro
(Natural History, March 2971), both of whom I was happy to get on
camera for my Mysterious World TV series.

The useful hint on octopus allergies (e.g. what to do if you find one
in the toilet) comes from Jacques-Yves Cousteau and Phllipppe Diole's
Octopus and Squid: The Soft Intelligence (Cassell, 1973).

And here I must put on record something that has mystified me for many
years.  In this book, Jacques asserts that though his divers have
played with octopuses (very well: octopodes) hundreds of times, they
have never once been bitten -- and have never even heard of such an
incident.  Well... the only time I caught one, off the eastern coast of
Australia, it bit me!  (see The Coast of Coral: Harper and Row, 956)I
am quite unable to explain this total breakdown of the laws of
probability.

According to Omni magazine, the question described in Chapter 13 was
actually set in a high-school intelligence test, and only one
genius-type pupil spotted that the printed answer was wrong.  I still
find' this amazing; sceptics may profitably spend a few minutes with
scissors and cardboard.  The even more incredible story of Srinivasa
Ramanujan, mentioned passim in the same chapter, will be found in
G.H.

Hardy's small classic, A Mathematician's Apology, and more
conveniently in Volume
1 of James Newman's The World of Mathematics.

For a crash-course in off-shore oil-drilling operations, I must thank
my long-time Sri Lankan friend Cuthbert Charles and his colleagues
Walter Jackson and Danny Stephens (all with Brown & Root Vickers Ltd)
and Brian Redden (Technical Services Division Manager, Wharton
Williams).  They prevented me from making (I hope) too many flagrant
errors, and they are in no way responsible for my wilder extrapolations
of their truly astonishing achievements -- already comparable to much
that we will be doing in space during the next century.  I apologise
for rewarding their kindness by sabotaging so much of their
handiwork.

The full story of 1974's "Operation JENNIFER" has never been told, and
probably never will be.  To my surprise, its director turned out to be
an old acquaintance, and I am grateful to him for his evasive but not
unhelpful replies to my queries.  On the whole, I would prefer not to
know too much about the events of that distant summer, so that I am not
handicapped by mere facts.

While writing this novel, I was amused to encounter another work of
fiction using the Glomar Explorer, though (luckily!) for a very
different purpose: Ship of Gold, by Thomas Allen and Norman Palmar
(Macmillan, x987).

My thanks also to sundry CIA and KGB acquaintances, who would prefer to
remain anonymous.

One informant I am happy to identify is Professor William Orr,
Department of Geological Sciences, University of Oregon, my erstwhile
shipmate on the floating campus S.S. Universe.  The plans and
documentation he provided on Glomar Explorer (now languishing in Suisun
Bay, California, between Vallejo and Martinez -- you can see her from
Highway 68o) were essential inputs.

The discovery of major explosive events on the sea-bed, referred to in
Chapter 33, was reported by David B. Prior, Earl H. Doyle and Michael
J. Kaluza in Science, vol.  243, 27 January 1989, pp 527-19, under the
title "Evidence for Sediment Eruption on Deep Sea Floor, Gulf of
Mexico".

On the very day I was making the final corrections to this MS, I
learned that there is now strong evidence that oil

/

?

drilling can cause earthquakes.  The 28 October 1989 Science News cites
a paper by Paul Segall of the US Geological Survey, making this claim
in the October 2989 issue of Geology.

The report on the Neolithic grave quoted in Chapter 34 will be found in
Nature, 276, 608, 2978.

Ralph C. Merkle's truly mind-boggling paper "Molecular Repair of the
Brain" first appeared in the October 2989 issue of Cryonics (published
LCOR, 22327, Doherty St, Riverside, Ca 92503) to whom I am grateful for
an advance copy.

I am indebted to Dr John Money, one of my many friends at Johns Hopkins
Hospital, Baltimore, for the useful word "paraphilia" (Chapter 22).

My thanks to Kumar Chitty for information on the UN Law of the Sea
Convention, directed for many years by the late Ambassador Shirley
Hamilton Amarasinghe.  It is a great tragedy that Shirley (the
hospitality of whose Park Avenue apartment I often enjoyed in the '7as)
did not see the culmination of his efforts.  He was a wonderful
persuader, and had he lived might even have prevented the US and ilK
delegations from shooting themselves in the foot.

I am particularly grateful to my collaborator Gentry Lee (Cradle, the
Rama trilogy) for arranging his schedule so that I could concentrate
all my energies on my own (latest) last novel.

Very special thanks to Navam and Sally Tambayah not to mention Tasha
and Cindy-- for hospitality, WORDSTAR and foxes...

And, finally: a tribute to my dear friend the late Reginald Ross, who
besides many other kindnesses introduced me to Rachmaninoff and Elgar
half a century ago, and who died at the age of 92 while this book was
being written.

MANDELMEMO The literature on the Mandelbrot Set, first introduced to
the non-IBM world in A.K. Dewdney's "Computer Recreations" (Scientific
American, August 2985, pp 26-25) is now enormous.  The master's own
book, The Fractal Geometry of Nature (W.H. Freeman 2982) is highly
technical, and much is inaccessible 
APPENDIX:

TtE COLOURS Or INFINZ?

?

In November z989, when receiving the Association of Space Explorers'
Special Achievement Award in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, I had the privilege
of addressing the largest gathering of astronauts and cosmonauts ever
assembled at one place.  (More than fifty, including Apollo zz's Buzz
Aldrin and Mike Collins, and the first "space walker" Alexei Leonov,
who is no longer embarrassed at sharing the dedication of 2ozo: Odyssey
Two with Andrei Sakharov.) I decided to expand their horizons by
introducing them to something really large, and, with astronaut Prince
Sultan bin Salmon bin Abdul Ariz in the chair, delivered a lavishly
illustrated lecture "The Colours of Infinity: Exploring the Fractal
Universe".

The material that follows is extracted from my speech; another portion
appears at the beginning of Chapter z5.  I'm only sorry that I cannot
illustrate it with the gorgeous 35-millimetre slides -- and videos -- I
used at Riyadh.

Today, everybody is familiar with graphs -- especially the one with
time along the horizontal axis, and the cost of living climbing
steadily up the vertical one.  The idea that any point on a plane can
be expressed by two numbers, usually written x and y, now appears so
obvious that it seems quite surprising that the world of mathematics
had to wait until 1637 for Descartes to invent it.

We are still discovering the consequences of that apparently simple
idea, and the most amazing is now just ten years old.  It's called the
Mandelbrot Set (from now on, the M-set) and you're soon going to meet
it everywhere-- in the design of fabrics, wallpaper, jewellery and
linoleum.  And, I'm afraid, it will be popping out of your TV screen in
every other commercial.

Yet the most astonishing feature of the M-set is its basic
simplicity.

Unlike almost everything else in modern mathematics, any schoolchild
can understand how it is produced.  Its generation involves nothing
more advanced than addition and multiplication; there's no need for
such complexities as subtraction and -- heaven forbid!

-division, let alone any of the more exotic beasts from the
mathematical menagerie.

There can be few people in the civilised world who have not encountered
Einstein's famous E = rnca, or who would consider it too hopelessly
complicated to understand.  Well, the equation that defines the M-set
contains the same number of terms, and indeed looks very similar.  Here
it is: Z=z+c Not very terrifying, is it?  Yet the lifetime of the
Universe would not be long enough to explore all its ramifications.

The zs and the c in Mandelbrot's equation are all numbers, not (as in
Einstein's) physical quantities like mass and energy.  They are the
coordinates which specify the position of a point, and the equation
controls the way in which it moves, to trace out a pattern.

There's a very simple analogue familiar to everyone --those children's
books with blank pages sprinkled with numbers, which when joined up in
the right order reveal hidden -- and often surprising -pictures The
image on a TV screen is produced by a sophisticated application of the
same principle.

In theory, anyone who can add and multiply could plot out the M-set
with pen or pencil on a sheet of squared paper.  However, as we'll see
later, there are certain practical difficulties -- notably the fact
that a human life-span is

/

?:::

APPENDIX: THE COLOURS OF INFINITY

seldom more than a hundred years.  So the Set is invariably
computer-generated, and usually shown on a Visual Display Unit.

Now, there are two ways of locating a point in space.  The more common
employs some kind of grid reference -- west-east, north-south, or, on
squared graph-paper, a horizontal X-axis and a vertical Y-axis.

But there's also the system used in radar, now familiar to most people
thanks to countless movies.  Here the position of an object is given by
(1) its distance from the origin, and (2) its direction, or compass
bearing.  Incidentally, this is the natural system-- the one you use
automatically and unconsciously when you play any ball game.

Then you're concerned with distances and angles, with yourself as the
origin.

So think of a computer's VDU as a radar screen, with a single blip on
it, whose movements are going to trace out the M-set.  However, before
we switch on our radar, I want to make the equation even simpler, to:
Z=z2 I've thrown c away, for the moment, and left only the zs.  Now let
me define them more precisely.

Small z is the initial range of the blip -- the distance at which it
starts.  Big Z is its final distance from the origin.  Thus if it was
initially 2 units away, by obeying this equation it would promptly hop
to a distance of 4.

Nothing to get very excited about, but now comes the modification that
makes all the difference: Z z That double arrow is a two-way traffic
sign, indicating that the numbers flow in both directions.

This time, we don't stop at Z = 4; we make that equal to a new z -which
promptly gives us a second Z of 16, and so on.  In no time we've
generated the series 256: 65,536: 4,294,967,296.

and the spot that started only 2 units from the centre is heading
towards infinity in giant steps of ever-increasing magnitude.

This
process of going round and round a loop is called "iteration".

It's like a dog chasing its own tail, except that a dog doesn't get
anywhere.  But mathematical iteration can take us to some very strange
places indeed-- as we shall soon discover.

Now we're ready to turn on our radar.  Most displays have range circles
at 10, 20...x00 kilometres from the centre.  We will require only a
single circle, at a range of .  There's no need to specify any units,
as we're dealing with pure numbers.  Make them centimetres or
light-years, as you please.

Let's suppose that the initial position of our blip is anywhere on this
circle-- the bearing doesn't matter.  So z is And because 1 squared is
still x, so is Z. And it remains at that value, because no matter how
many times you square , it always remains exactly .  The blip may hop
round and round the circle, but it always stays on it.

Now consider the case where the initial z is greater than .  We've
already seen how rapidly the blip shoots off to infinity if z equals
2-- but the same thing will happen sooner or later, even if it's only a
microscopic shade more than l: say 1.x. Watch: At the first square, Z
becomes then x. 00ooooooo00o000oo0008 i.oooooo6 .

oooooocooooooocoooo32 and so on for pages of printout.  For all
practical purposes, the value is still exactly 1. The blip hasn't moved
visibly outwards or inwards; it's still on the circle at range 1.

But those zeros are slowly being whittled away, as the digits march
inexorably across from the right.  Quite suddenly, something appears in
the third, second, first decimal place-- and the numbers explode after
a very few additional terms, as this example shows: 1.001 1.0012 .004

1.0081.016 1.032

1.006 .361.292 1.6682.783 7.745

59.9873598.46712948970

1676757oooooooo

281xS14OCOOCOOOOOOCgOCOO

(Overflow)

There could be a million-a billion zeros on the right-hand side, and
the result would still be the same.  Eventually the digits would creep
up to the decimal point -- and then Z would take off to infinity.

Now let's look at the other case.  Suppose z is a microscopic amount
less than 1 say something like As before, nothing much happens for a
long time as we go round the loop, except that the numbers on the far
right get steadily smaller.  But after a few thousand or million
iterations -- catastrophe!  Z suddenly shrinks to nothing, dissolving
in an endless string of zeros...

Check it out on your computer.  It can only handle twelve digits?

Well, no matter how many you had to play with, you'd still get the same
answer.  Trust me...

The results of this "program" can be summarised in three laws that may
seem too trivial to be worth formulating.  But no mathematical truth is
trivial, and in a few more steps these laws will take us into a
universe of mind-boggling wonder and beauty.

Here are the Three Laws of the "Squaring" Program: 1. If the input z is
exactly equal to 1, the output Z always remains 1.

2. If the input is more than , the output eventually becomes
infinite.

3. If the input is less than 1, the output eventually becomes zero.

That circle of radius 1 is therefore a kind of map-- or, if you like,
fence -- dividing the plane into two distinct territories.

Outside it, numbers which obey the squaring law have the
One might have guessed that, from the nature of the
equation.

But no one could possibly have intuited its real appearance: if the
question had been put to me in virginal pre-Mandelbrot days, I would
probably have hazarded: "Something like an ellipse, squashed along the
Y-axis."

I might even (though I doubt it) have correctly guessed that it would
be shifted towards the left, or minus, direction.

At this point, I would like to try a thought-experiment on you.

The M-set being literally indescribable, here's my attempt to describe
it: Imagine you're looking straight down on a rather plump turtle,
swimming westwards.  It's been crossed with a swordfish, so has a
narrow spike pointing ahead of it.  Its entire perimeter is festooned
with bizarre marine growths and with baby turtles of assorted sizes,
which have smaller weeds growing on them...

I defy you to find a description like that in any maths textbook.

And if you think you can do better when you've seen the real beast,
you're welcome to try.  (I suspect that the insect world might provide
better analogies; there may even be a Mandlebrot Beetle lurking in the
Brazilian rain-forests.  Too bad we'll never know.)
Here is the first crude approximation, shorn of
details much like Conray Castle's "Lake Mandelbrot" (Chapter 18).

If you like to fill its blank spaces with the medieval cartographers'
favourite "Here be dragons" you will hardly be exaggerating.

First of all, note that -- as I've already remarked it's shifted to the
left (or west, if you prefer) of the S-set, which of course extends
from +x to - along the X-axis.  The M-set only gets to o.25 on the
right along the axis, though above and below the axis it bulges out to
just beyond o.4 On the !eft-hand side, the map stretches to about -1.4,
and then it sprouts a peculiar spike or antenna which reaches out to
exactly -2.o. As far as the M-set is concerned, there is nothing beyond
this point; it is the edge of the Universe.  Mandelbrot fans call it
"the Utter West", and you might like to see what happens when you make
c equal to -2.  Z doesn't converge to zero but it doesn't escape to
infinity either, so the point belongs to the Set just.  But if you make
c the slightest bit larger, say -2.ooooo...ooooox, before you know it
you're passing Pluto and heading for Quasar West.

Now we.come to the most important distinction between the two sets.

The S-set has a nice, dean line for its boundary.  The frontier of the
M-set is, to say the least, fuzzy.  Just how fuzzy you will begin to
understand when we start to "zoom" into it; only then will we see the
incredible flora and fauna which flourish in that disputed territory.

The boundary -- if one can call it that -- of the M-set is not a simple
line; it is something which Euclid never imagined, and for which there
is no word in ordinary language.  Mandelbrot, whose command of English
(and American) is awesome, has ransacked the dictionary for suggestive
nouns.  A few examples: foams, sponges, dusts, webs, nets, curds.  He
himself coined the technical name fractal, and is now putting up a
spirited rear guard action to stop anyone defining it too predsely.

Computers can easily make "snapshots" of the M-set at any
magnification, and even in black and white they are -2-10
fascinating.

However, by a simple trick they can be coloured, and transformed into
objects of amazing, even surreal, beauty.

The original equation, of course, is no more concerned with colour than
is Euclid's Elements of Geometry.  But if we instruct the computer to
colour any given region in accordance with the number of times z goes
round the loop before it decides whether or not it belongs to the
M-set, the results are gorgeous.

Thus the colours, though arbitrary, are not meaningless.  An exact
analogy is found in cartography.  Think of the contour lines on a
relief map, which show elevations above sea-level.  The spaces between
them are often coloured so that the eye can more easily grasp the
information conveyed.  Ditto with bathymetric charts; the deeper the
ocean, the darker the blue.  The map-maker can make the colours
anything he likes, and is guided by aesthetics as much as geography.

It's just the same here -- except that these contour lines are set
automatically by the speed of the calculation -- I won't go into
details.  I have not discovered what genius first had this idea
-perhaps Monsieur M. himself -- but it turns them into fantastic works
of art.  And you should see them when they're animated...

One of the many strange thoughts that the M-set generates is this.

In principle, it could have been discovered as soon as the human race
learned to count.  In practice, since even a "low-magnification" image
may involve billions of calculations, there was no way in which it
could even be glimpsed before computers were invented!  And such movies
as Art Matrix' 'Nothing but Zooms' would have required the entire
present world population to calculate night and day for years -without
making a single mistake in multiplying together trillions of
hundred-digit numbers...

I began by saying that the Mandelbrot Set is the most extraordinary
discovery in the history of mathematics.  For who could have possibly
imagined that so absurdly simple an equation could have generated such
-- literally infinite complexity, and such unearthly beauty?

The Mandelbrot Set is, as I have tried to explain, essentially a map.

We've all read those stories about maps which reveal the location of
hidden treasure.

Well, in this case-- the map/s the treasure!

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[] Thhen they're animated...

One of the many strange thoughts that the M-set generates is this.

In principle, it could have been discovered as soon as the human race
learned to count.  In practice, since even a "low-magnification" image
may involve billions of calculations, there was no way in which it
could even be glimpsed before computers were invented!  And such movies
as Art Matrix' 'Nothing but Zooms' would have required the entire
present world population to calculate night and day for years -without
making a single mistake in multiplying together trillions of
hundred-digit numbers...

I began by saying that the Mandelbrot Set is the most extraordinary
discovery in the history of mathematics.  For who could have possibly
imagined that so absurdly simple an equation could have generated such
-- literally infinite complexity, and such unearthly beauty?

The Mandelbrot Set is, as I have tried to explain, essentially a map.

We've all read those stories about maps which reveal the location of
hidden treasure.

Well, in this case - the map/s the treasure!

