Arthur C. Clarke - The Ghost From the Grand Banks

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Arthur C Clarke - The Ghost From The

Grand Banks

INTRODUCTION

Much has happened in the more than a decade since I wrote this book. There has been a dive to the

wreck almost every year - one with paying passengers! And of course James Cameron's magnificent

movie has been seen all around the world. (Alas, the television series Michael Deakin and I wrote on my

lunar version of a similar disaster, A Fall of Moondust, was turned down at the last moment.)

As everyone knows, the world survived the 'Century Syndrome' (Chapter 4). Now we have plenty of

time to prepare for Y3K.

Finally, I am indebted to Charlie Pellegrino for his latest book, Ghosts of the Titanic (William Morrow,

2000). This exhaustive coverage of the last hours of the ship, and the stories of its survivors, is packed

with heartrending and often astonishing incidents. As Jim Cameron remarks on the jacket, Pellegrino

brings the Titanic back to life.

Colombo, Sri Lanka

PRELUDE

Chapter 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 sidekicks, 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 kilometers northwest of Hawaii.

For that matter, not even Glomar Explorer's 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 favored a lost reconnaissance satellite.

No one dreamed that they were going to lift an entire Russian submarine from water two thousand

fathoms deep - with its nuclear warheads, its codebooks, and its cryptographic equipment. And, of

course, its crew....

Until this 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

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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 Pacific. 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 closing words for burial at sea.

There was a long silence after the last 'Amen,' followed by a brief command to the Honor 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 forever 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 rumor was true, and that in due course the film of this ceremony would be sent to

Moscow. It would have been a civilized gesture - but a somewhat ambiguous one. And he doubted that

Security would approve, however skillfully the editing was done.

As the list 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.

Chapter 2 THE COLORS 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?), at least through compassion and a shared grief.

Because it is so hard to see the obvious, it had been months before he realized the true cause of his

discomfort. The Torrington Clinic was more like a luxury hotel than a world-famous center for the

treatment of psychological disorders. Nobody died here; trolleys never rolled from wards to operating

theaters; 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.

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'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!'

Donald 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.

'What did Dr. Jafferjee say? Is it okay 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 hatboxes, 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 meter-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 ninety 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 one particular

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 clusters - 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

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Cosmos, though at that magnification, computing even a single image might take years.

Donald 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

recognized categories. There were multipointed 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 - looking like a fuzzy figure eight lying on its

side - that contained all this controlled chaos would reappear. Then the endless cycle would begin again,

though with variations so subtle that they eluded the eye.

Surely, thought Donald, Edith must realize, 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 had asked himself every day, in the months since the tragedy.

Chapter 3 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 aforethought: '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 clear: '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,

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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 realize it at the time - was a ride in a high-speed Coast Guard

patrol boat off Key West, back in '03...'

Though it had led him to fame and fortune, even now Emerson preferred not to recall certain aspects of

that trip. It had seemed a good idea at the time - a short pleasure cruise through Hemingway's old

stomping grounds, at the invitation of a cousin in the Coast Guard. How amazed Ernest would have been

at the target of their antismuggling activities - blocks of crystal, about the size of a matchbox, that had

made their way from Hong Kong via Cuba. But these TIMs - Terabyte Interactive Microlibraries - had

put so many U.S. publishers out of business that Congress had dusted off legislation that dated back to

the heydays of Prohibition.

Yes, it had sounded very attractive - while he was still on terra firma. What Emerson had forgotten (or

his cousin had neglected to tell him) was that smugglers preferred to operate in the worst weather they

could find, short of a Gulf hurricane.

'It was a rough trip, and about the only thing I remembered afterwards was the gadget on the bridge that

allowed the helmsman to see ahead, despite the torrents of rain and spray that were being dumped on us.

'It was simply a disc of glass, spinning at high speed. No water could stay on it for more than a fraction of

a second, so it was always perfectly transparent. I thought at the time it was far better than a car's

windshield wiper; and then I forgot all about it.'

'For how long?'

'I'm ashamed to say. Oh, maybe a couple of years. Then one day I was driving through a heavy rainstorm

in the New Jersey countryside, and my wipers jammed; I had to pull off the road until the storm had

passed. I was stuck for maybe half an hour; and at the end of that time, the whole thing was clear in my

mind.'

'That's all it took?'

'Plus every cent I could lay my hands on, and two years of fifteen-hour days and seven-day weeks in my

garage.' (Emerson might have added 'And my marriage,' but he suspected that his host already knew

that. He was famed for his careful research.)

'Spinning the windshield - or even part of it - obviously wasn't practical. Vibrations had to be the answer;

but what kind?

'First I tried to drive the whole windshield like a loudspeaker cone. That certainly kept the rain off, but

then there was the noise problem. So I went ultrasonic; it took kilowatts of power - and all the dogs in

the neighborhood went crazy. Worse still, few windshields lasted more than a couple of hours before

they turned into powdered glass.

'So I tried subsonics. They worked better - but gave you a bad headache after a few minutes of driving.

Even if you couldn't hear them, you could feel them.

'I was stuck for months, and almost gave up the whole idea, when I realized my mistake. I was trying to

vibrate the whole massive sheet of multiplex safety glass - sometimes as much as ten kilograms of it. All I

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needed to keep dancing was a thin layer on the outside; even if it was only a few microns thick, it would

keep the rainwater off.

'So I read all I could about surface waves, transducers, impedance matching - '

'Whoa! Can we have that in words of one syllable?'

'Frankly, no. All I can say is that I found a way of confining low-energy vibrations to a very thin surface

layer, leaving the main bulk of the windshield unaffected. If you want details, I refer you to the basic

patents.'

'Happy to take your word for it, Mr. Emerson. Now, our next guest - '

Possibly because the interview had taken place in London, where the works of the New England

transcendentalist were not everyday reading, Emerson's host had failed to make the connection with his

famous namesake (no relation, as far as he knew). No American interviewer, of course, missed the

opportunity of complimenting Roy on inventing the apocryphal Better Mousetrap. The automobile

industry had indeed beaten a path to his door; within a few years, almost all the world's millions of

metronoming blades had been replaced by the Sonic Wave Windshield Wiper. Even more important,

thousands of accidents had been averted, with the improvement of visibility in bad-weather driving.

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 Hydro 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 paralyzing 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 Wave 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?'

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'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.

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....

Chapter 4 THE CENTURY SYNDROME

When the clocks struck midnight on Friday, 31 December 1999, there could have been few educated

people who did not realize 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 siècle

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 1 January 2000 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, 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, realized that most

of those dates lacked a vital component.

The human bank clerks and accountants who did what was still called 'bookkeeping' 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 99 years. Recalculate all mortgages,

overdrafts, interest-bearing accounts on this basis....' The results would be international chaos on a scale

never witnessed before; it would eclipse all earlier achievements of artificial stupidity - even Black

Monday, 5 June 1995, when a faulty chip in Zurich had set the bank rate at 150 percent instead of 15

percent.

There were not enough programmers in the world to check all the billions of financial statements that

existed, and to add the magic '19' prefix wherever necessary. The only solution was to design special

software that could perform the task, by being injected - like a benign virus - into all the programs

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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 1997 - 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 women 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 well-organized

financial system to face the twenty-first century. It could even deal with badly organized ones, inserting

the computer equivalent of red flags at danger points where human intervention might still be necessary.

It was just as well that 1 January 2000 was a Saturday; most 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.

Chapter 5 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.

Halfway 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.

Emerson's 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 had been too

engrossed in discovering how to operate his wonderful new equipment to actually use it) Joe was waiting

for him with a new surprise.

'It won't take much of your time,' he said, 'and it's a great honor: Parkinson's are one of the most

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distinguished firms in England, established over two hundred years ago. And it's the first time they've ever

taken a director from outside the family - let alone a foreigner.'

'Ha! I suppose they need more capital.'

'Of course. But it's to your mutual interest - and they really respect you. You know what you've done to

the glass business, worldwide.'

'Will I have to wear a top hat and - what do they call them - spats?'

'Only if you want to be presented at court, which they could easily arrange.'

To his considerable surprise, Roy Emerson had found the experience not only enjoyable, but stimulating.

Until he joined the board of Parkinson's and attended its bimonthly meetings in the City of London, he

thought he knew something about glass. He very quickly discovered his mistake.

Even ordinary plate glass, which he had taken for granted all his life - and which contributed to most of

his fortune - had a history which astonished him. Emerson had never asked himself how it was made,

assuming that it was squeezed out of the molten raw material between giant rollers.

So indeed it had been, until the middle of the twentieth century - and the resulting rough sheets had

required hours of expensive polishing. Then a crazy Englishman had said: Why not let gravity and surface

tension do all the work? Let the glass float on a river of molten metal: that will automatically give a

perfectly smooth surface....

After a few years, and a few million pounds, his colleagues suddenly stopped laughing. Overnight, 'float

glass' made all other methods of manufacturing obsolete.

Emerson was much impressed by this piece of technological history, recognizing its parallel with his own

breakthrough. And he was honest enough to admit that it had required far more courage and commitment

than his own modest invention. It exemplified the difference between genius and talent.

He was also fascinated by the ancient art of the glassblower, who had not been wholly replaced by

technology and probably never would be. He even paid a visit to Venice, now cowering nervously

behind its Dutch-built dikes, and goggled at the intricate marvels in the Glass Museum. Not only was it

impossible to imagine how some of them had been manufactured, it was incredible that they had even

been moved intact from their place of origin. There seemed no limit to the things that could be done with

glass, and new uses were still being discovered after two thousand years.

On one particularly dull board meeting Emerson had been frankly daydreaming, admiring the nearby

dome of St. Paul's from one of the few vantage points that had survived commercial greed and

architectural vandalism. Two more items on the agenda and they'd be at Any Other Business; then they

could all go to the excellent lunch that was waiting in the Penthouse Suite.

The words 'four hundred atmospheres pressure' made him look up. Sir Roger Parkinson was reading

from a letter which he was holding as if it were some species of hitherto unknown insect. Emerson

quickly riffled through the thick folder of his agenda and found his own copy.

It was on impressive stationery, but the usual polynomial legal name meant nothing to him; he noted

approvingly, however, that the address was in Lincoln's Inn Fields. At the bottom of the sheet, like a

modest cough, were the words 'Est. 1803,' in letters barely visible to the naked eye.

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'They don't give the name of their client,' said young (thirty-five if he was a day) George Parkinson.

'Interesting.'

'Whoever he is,' interjected William Parkinson-Smith - the family's secretly admired black sheep, much

beloved by the gossip channels for his frequent domestic upheavals - 'he doesn't seem to know what he

wants. Why should he ask for quotes on such a range of sizes? From a millimeter, for heaven's sake, up

to a half-meter radius.'

'The larger size,' said Rupert Parkinson, famous racing 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 (100 Meters Silver, 2004 Olympics).

'Laser-zapping was given up years ago - and the microspheres for that were tiny. Even a millimeter

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 we was too wise to do so - yet. He knew how often these

brainstorming sessions led to vital conclusions - even decisions - that mere logic would never have

discovered. And even when they fizzled out, they helped the members of his worldwide 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 coincidences that no self-respecting novelist would allow in a work of fiction.

Emerson was sitting almost facing the portrait of Basil Parkinson, 1874-1912. And everyone knew

where he had died, though the exact circumstances were still the stuff of legend - 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 around 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

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Arthur C. Clarke - The Ghost From the Grand Banks

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