GLIDE PATH ARTHUR C. CLARKE Glide Patharthur C. Clarkeibooks
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GLIDE PATH ARTHUR C. CLARKE Glide PathArthur C. Clarkeibooks, IncArthur C. Clarke20031-59019-399-7Worden-usenNoneNoneCopyright © 1963, 2003 by Arthur C. Clarke{C629EF39-4863-4734-9A94-1B674381DEFA} ARTHUR C. CLARKE GLIDE PATH Arthur C. Clarke is the world-renowned author of such science fiction classics as 2001: A Space Odyssey , for which he shared an Oscar nomination with director Stanley Kubrick, and its popular sequels, 2010: Odyssey Two , 2061: Odyssey Three , and 3001: Final Odyssey ; the highly acclaimed The Songs of Distant Earth ; the bestselling collection of original short stories, The Sentinel ; and over two dozen other books of fiction and non-fiction. He received the Marconi International Fellowship in 1982. He resides inSri Lanka , where he continues to write and consult on issues of science, technology, and the future. THE ARTHUR C. CLARKE COLLECTION published by ibooks, inc.: FICTION Page 1 Glide Path SCIENCE FICTION The Sentinel Tales from Planet Earth Imperial Earth SCIENCE The Blue Planet Trilogy The Coast of Coral The Reefs of Taprobane The Treasure of the Great Reef ALSO AVAILABLE ARTHUR C. CLARKE’S VENUS PRIME Volumes 1-6 by Paul Preuss GLIDE PATH ARTHUR C. CLARKE ibooks new york www.ibooksinc.com To Luis Alvarez, George Comstock, Richard Gray, and all who worked on AN/MPN-1 XE— wherever they may be A Publication of ibooks, inc. Page 2 Copyright © 1963, 2003 by Arthur C. Clarke An ibooks, inc. Book All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Distributed by Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of theAmericasNew YorkNY10020 ibooks, inc. 24 West 25th Street New York,NY10010 The ibooks World Wide Web Site address is: http://www.ibooks.net ISBN 1-5917-6594-3 As many of the incidents in this book are based upon real events, and a few are, indeed, unadorned reminiscence, some readers may be tempted to identify the leading characters with actual people. I would therefore like to stress, with even more than the usual emphasis, that all the characters in the following pages (except the Mark I) are entirely imaginary. They are not in any way based upon, or intended to depict, the men who developed and perfected the radar talk-down system, known in real life as GCA (Ground Controlled Approach). The sequence of events also departs completely from historical facts, which seldom arrange themselves for the convenience of storytellers. Nevertheless, I hope that this novel does justice to the skill, enthusiasm, and devotion of those to whom it is dedicated. GLIDE PATH 1 F lying Officer Alan Bishop found it singularly peaceful on this tiny metal platform a hundred feet above theNorth Sea . The fact that Adolf Hitler was undoubtedly preparing some sort of mischief over there on the Continent, and that it was his duty to watch out for it, seemed quite irrelevant on such a warm autumn afternoon. Nothing moved in the whole expanse of sea and sky; even the big concave dish of the radar scanner had ceased its restless searching and was staring straight towardHolland . If it did start to spin, Alan would have to move smartly; it was not very practical to share the platform with a whirling ten-foot saucer standing on its rim. Page 3 Below him, the rest of the station appeared equally relaxed. But this, Alan knew, was an illusion. In the wooden hut at the base of the tower, Sergeant Campbell was attacking a defective wave monitor with liberal doses of solder and profanity. Over there inside that mysterious barbed-wire enclosure, Flight Lieutenant Hicks, Royal New Zealand Air Force, was assembling his Gee installation—whatever that might be. F/O Bishop resented the existence of any radar device that was secret to him, but all his attempts to winkle information out of Hicks had been wholly unsuccessful. At least, he consoled himself, by the look of the antenna arrays it was only old-fashioned meter-wave-length stuff, so it couldn’t be very interesting. There were probably fifty people hard at work within a hundred yards of him, but the only signs of life were the bored Service Policeman on duty at the main gate and a Woman’s Auxiliary Air Force operator doing some voluntary gardening on the skimpy flower bed around the Orderly Room. At least, Alan assumed it was voluntary; the WAAF Commanding Officer had not, as far as he knew, started doling out horticultural exercises to criminous airwomen. The parabolic bowl looming above him gave a premonitory creak and twisted toward the south, as if tired of staring for so long in one direction. There was no danger that it would start spinning at full speed—Sergeant Campbell knew that he was up here—but Alan thought he had better move. The big dish was aimed straight at him, and he was sitting in a radio beam of a frequency and strength no one would have dreamed possible only a few years ago. It might be imagination, but he felt that he was already starting to cook. Half a million watts were squirting silently, invisibly towardHolland , focused into a narrow beam by the big radio searchlight. Not a billionth of that energy was coming back, reflected from whatever obstacles it had encountered before it skimmed clear of the horizon and headed out into space. Yet that feeble echo was enough to betray the presence of any ships or low-flying aircraft within a hundred miles of the coast, and to pinpoint them accurately on the cathode-ray screen in the receiver hut. There were times, however, when old-fashioned vision was better than radar, and this was such a moment. A mere half mile away was an approaching target of much more interest than Nazi torpedo boats or low-level bombers. As soon as Alan spotted the brown van weaving along the narrow lane, he started to descend the tower with reckless speed. Despite his early warning, the news was all over the station before he reached ground level. By the time he sauntered through the main gate (it was, of course, undignified for officers to run) the queue for the NAAFI van was so long that it seemed incredible that the station could still be fully operational. If Hitler only knew, thought Alan, he could sabotage the entire radar chain by organizing a simultaneous onslaught of NAAFI vans loaded with off-ration chocolates and cigarettes. The two charming but slightly distraught elderly ladies were doing their best to cope with the ravening horde that had boiled out of Orderly Room and Operations Blocks. Whenever he saw them, Alan was irresistibly reminded of a phrase he had once come across in some tattered Victorian romance—“distressed gentlewomen.” There was no doubt that they were gentlewomen, and their distress was equally obvious as they tried to portion out their limited supply of Players, Mars Bars, and Cadbury’s chocolate without favoritism. In the background, brisk bargaining was already in progress between smokers and nonsmokers as chocolates and cigarettes changed hands. It was hard to believe, Alan told himself, that once upon a time you could walk into a shop and buy as many sweets or fags as you could carry…. Page 4 He was retreating with his spoils when he saw the Commanding Officer heading purposefully toward him. He liked Flight Lieutenant Williams, but at the same time felt rather sorry for him; these Admin types must have such drab and tedious lives, dealing with their endless paperwork and quite unable to understand the electronic marvels all around them. But someone had to read and sign the bumph that emerged from Group Headquarters in a ceaseless stream; not everybody had enough brains to be a technical officer. “I’ve news for you, Bish.” Williams grinned amiably. “You’ve been posted.” Alan stared at him, disbelief and indignation striving for mastery. “But that’s ridiculous!” he finally blurted out. “I’ve only been here a fortnight. That’s not even time to learn how the gear works!” “Are you presuming,” purred Williams, “to doubt the inscrutable wisdom of Group HQ?” “Yes,” retorted Alan, without hesitation. “What’s it all about? Where are they sending me?” “I haven’t a clue—the signal didn’t say. But they want you in a hurry; you’ve got to report to a Wing Commander Stevens tomorrow afternoon. So you’ll have to pack your things right away—you won’t have much time if you’re going to catch the 6:30.” “What about my inventory? It’ll take hours to check.” “You’re not short of anything, are you?” “I hope not.” “Well, Hicks will sign for it, unless you both want to stay up all night counting bits and pieces.” Alan was shocked at this casual attitude, but if his successor was willing to accept responsibility, sight unseen, for a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of radar equipment, that was his business. There was certainly no chance of catching that morning train if every spare part and every secret document had to be accounted for before he left the station. F/O Bishop was a chronic worrier, and halfway back to the radar hut he suddenly recalled an item well worth worrying about. A few weeks ago, some mysterious interference had blotted out the radar signals on several of the local sets and had, naturally, been blamed on enemy jamming. It occurred at the same time every morning, and for a few minutes only; after several days of intensive research, the antijamming expert from Group Headquarters had proved that the interference came, not from the other side of theNorth Sea , but from Alan’s electric shaver.