"Now, Captain, this is a delicate subject, but I've had a lot of questions about it during the last week."
Oh no, groaned Smith. Not the zero gravity toilets again!
"At this very moment, we are passing right through the heart of the asteroid belt -"
(I wish it was the toilets, thought Smith...)
"- and though no spaceship has ever been seriously damaged by a collision, aren't we taking quite a risk? After all, there are literally millions of bodies, down to the size of beachballs, orbiting in this section of space. And only a few thousand have been charted."
"More than a few: over ten thousand."
"But there are millions we don't know about."
"That's true; but it wouldn't help us much if we did."
"What do you mean?"
"There's nothing we can do about them."
"Why not?"
Captain Smith paused for careful thought. Willis was right - this was indeed a delicate subject; Head Office would rap his knuckles smartly, if he said anything to discourage potential customers.
"First of all, space is so enormous that even here - as you said, right in the heart of the asteroid belt - the chance of collision is - infinitesimal. We've been hoping to show you an asteroid - the best we can do is Hanuman, a miserable three hundred metres across - but the nearest we get to it is a quarter of a million kilometers."
"But Hanuman is gigantic, compared to all the unknown debris that's floating around out here. Aren't you worried about that?"
"About as worried as you are, at being struck by lightning on Earth."
"As a matter of fact, I once had a narrow escape, on Pike's Peak in Colorado - the flash and the bang were simultaneous. But you admit that the danger does exist - and aren't we increasing the risk, by the enormous speed at which we're travelling?"
Willis, of course, knew the answer perfectly well; once again he was putting himself in the place of his legions of unknown listeners on the planet that was getting a thousand kilometers further away with every passing second.
"It's hard to explain without mathematics," said the Captain (how many times he had used that phrase. Even when it wasn't true!), "but there's no simple relationship between speed and risk. To hit anything at spacecraft velocities would be catastrophic; if you're standing next to an atomic bomb when it goes off, it makes no difference whether it's in the kiloton or megaton class."
That was not exactly a reassuring statement, but it was the best he could do. Before Willis could press the point further, he continued hastily:
"And let me remind you that any - er - slight extra risk we may be running is in the best of causes. A single hour may save lives."
"Yes, I'm sure we all appreciate that." Willis paused; he thought of adding "And, of course, I'm in the same boat", but decided against it. It might sound immodest - not that modesty had ever been his strong suit. And anyway, he could hardly make a virtue of a necessity; he had very little alternative now, unless he decided to walk home.
"All this," he continued, "brings me to another point. Do you know what happened just a century and a half ago, on the North Atlantic?"
"In 1911?"
"Well, actually 1912 -"
Captain Smith guessed what was coming, and stubbornly refused to cooperate by pretending ignorance.
"I suppose you mean the Titanic," he said.
"Precisely," answered Willis, gamely concealing his disappointment. "I've had at least twenty reminders from people who think they're the only one who's spotted the parallel."
"What parallel? The Titanic was running unacceptable risks, merely trying to break a record."
He almost added "And she didn't have enough lifeboats", but luckily checked himself in time, when he recalled that the ship's one and only shuttle could carry not more than five passengers. If Willis took him up on that, it would involve altogether too many explanations.
"Well, I grant that the analogy is far-fetched. But there's another striking parallel which everyone points out. Do you happen to know the name of the Titanic's first and last Captain?"
"I haven't the faintest - " began Captain Smith. Then his jaw dropped.
"Precisely," said Victor Willis, with a smile which it would be charitable to call smug.
Captain Smith would willingly have strangled all those amateur researchers. But he could hardly blame his parents for bequeathing him the commonest of English names.
39: The Captain's Table
It was a pity that viewers on (and off) Earth could not have enjoyed the less formal discussions aboard Universe. Shipboard life had now settled down to a steady routine, punctuated by a few regular landmarks - of which the most important, and certainly the most long-established, was the traditional 'Captain's Table'.
At 1800 hours exactly, the six passengers, and five of the officers not on duty, would join Captain Smith for dinner. There was, of course, none of the formal dress that had been mandatory aboard the floating palaces of the North Atlantic, but there was usually some attempt at sartorial novelty. Yva could always be relied upon to produce some new brooch, ring, necklace, hair-ribbon, or perfume from an apparently inexhaustible supply.
If the drive was on, the meal would begin with soup; but if the ship was coasting and weightless, there would be a selection of hors-d'oeuvres. In either event, before the main course was served Captain Smith would report the latest news - or try to dispel the latest rumours, usually fuelled by newscasts from Earth or Ganymede.
Accusations and countercharges were flying in all directions, and the most fantastic theories had been proposed to account for Galaxy's hijacking. A finger had been pointed at every secret organization known to exist, and many that were purely imaginary. All the theories, however, had one thing in common. Not one of them could suggest a plausible motive.
The mystery had been compounded by the one fact which had emerged. Strenuous detective work by ASTROPOL had established the surprising fact that the late "Rose McCullen" was really Ruth Mason, born in North London, recruited to the Metropolitan Police - and then, after a promising start, dismissed for racist activities. She had emigrated to Africa - and vanished. Obviously, she had become involved in that unlucky continent's political underground. SHAKA was frequently mentioned, and as frequently denied by the USSA.
What all this could possibly have to do with Europa was endlessly, and fruitlessly, debated around the table - especially when Maggie M confessed that at one time she had been planning a novel about Shaka, from the viewpoint of one of his thousand unfortunate wives. But the more she researched the project, the more repellent it became. "By the time I abandoned Shaka," she wryly admitted, "I knew exactly what a modern German feels about Hitler."
Such personal revelations became more and more common as the voyage proceeded. When the main meal was over, one of the group would be given the floor for thirty minutes. Between them; they had a dozen lifetimes of experience, on as many heavenly bodies, so it would be hard to find a better source of after-dinner tales.
The least effective speaker was, somewhat surprisingly, Victor Willis. He was frank enough to admit it, and to give the reason.
"I'm so used," he said, almost but not quite apologetically, "to performing for an audience of millions that I find it hard to interact with a friendly little group like this."
"Could you do better if it wasn't friendly?" asked Mihailovich, always anxious to be helpful. "That could easily be arranged."
Yva, on the other hand, turned out to be better than expected, even though her memories were confined entirely to the world of entertainment. She was particularly good on the famous - and infamous - directors she had worked with, especially David Griffin.
"Was it true," asked Maggie M, doubtless thinking of Shaka, "that he hated women?"
"Not at all," Yva answered promptly. "He just hated actors. He didn't believe they were human beings."
Mihailovich's reminiscences also covered a somewhat limited territory - the great orchestras and ballet
companies, famous conductors and composers, and their innumerable hangers-on. But he was so full of hilarious stories of backstage intrigues and liaisons, and accounts of sabotaged first nights and mortal feuds among prima donnas, that he kept even his most unmusical listeners convulsed with laughter, and was willingly granted extra time.
Colonel Greenburg's matter-of-fact accounts of extraordinary events could hardly have provided a greater contrast. The first landing at Mercury's - relatively - temperate south pole had been so thoroughly reported that there was little new to be said about it; the question that interested everyone was:
"When will we return?" That was usually followed by: "Would you like to go back?"
"If they ask me to, of course I'll go," Greenburg answered. "But I rather think that Mercury is going to be like the Moon. Remember - we landed there in 1969 - and didn't go back again for half a lifetime. Anyway, Mercury isn't as useful as the Moon - though perhaps one day it may be. There's no water there; of course, it was quite a surprise to find any on the Moon. Or I should say in the Moon.
"Though it wasn't as glamorous as landing on Mercury, I did a more important job setting up the Aristarchus Mule-train."
"Mule-train?"
"Yep. Before the big equatorial launcher was built, and they started shooting the ice straight into orbit, we had to haul it from the pit-head to the Imbrium Spaceport. That meant levelling a road across the lava plains and bridging quite a few crevasses. The Ice Road, we called it - only three hundred kilometers, but it took several lives to build...
"The 'mules' were eight-wheeled tractors with huge tyres and independent suspension: they towed up to a dozen trailers, with a hundred tons of ice apiece. Used to travel by night - no need to shield the cargo then.
"I rode with them several times. The trip took about six hours - we weren't out to break speed records - then the ice would be offloaded into big, pressurized tanks, waiting for sunrise. As soon as it melted, it would be pumped into the ships.
"The Ice Road is still there, of course, but only the tourists use it now. If they're sensible, they'll drive by night, as we used to do. It was pure magic, with the full Earth almost directly overhead, so brilliant that we seldom used our own lights. And although we could talk to our friends whenever we wanted to, we often switched off the radio and left it to the automatics to tell them we were OK. We just wanted to be alone, in that great shining emptiness - while it was still there, because we knew it wouldn't last.
"Now they're building the Teravolt quarksmasher, running right around the equator, and domes are going up all over Imbrium and Serenitatis. But we knew the real lunar wilderness, exactly as Armstrong and Aldrin saw it - before you could buy 'Wish you were here' cards in the post office at Tranquillity Base."
40: Monsters from Earth
"... lucky you missed the Annual Ball: believe it or not, it was just as grisly as last year's. And once again our resident mastodon, dear Ms Wilkinson, managed to crush her partners' toes, even on the Half-gee Dance Floor.
"Now some business. Since you won't be back for months, instead of a couple of weeks, Admin is looking lustfully at your apartment - good neighbourhood, near downtown shopping area, splendid view of Earth on clear days, etc., etc. - and suggests a sublet until you return. Seems a good deal, and will save you a lot of money. We'll collect any personal effects you'd like stored.
"Now this Shaka business. We know you love pulling our legs, but frankly Jerry and I were horrified! I can see why Maggie M turned him down -yes, of course we've read her Olympic Lusts - very enjoyable, but too feminist for us.
"What a monster - I can understand why they've called a gang of African terrorists after him. Fancy executing his warriors if they got married! And killing all the poor cows in his wretched empire, just because they were female! Worst of all - those horrid spears he invented; shocking manners, jabbing them into people you've not been properly introduced to...
"And what a ghastly advertisement for us feys! Almost enough to make one want to switch. We've always claimed that we're gentle and kindhearted (as well as madly talented and artistic, of course) but now you've made us look into some of the so-called Great Warriors (as if there was anything great about killing people!) we're almost ashamed of the company we've been keeping.
"Yes, we did know about Hadrian and Alexander - but we certainly didn't know about Richard the Lion Heart and Saladin. Or Julius Caesar - though he was everything - ask Antony as well as Cleo. Or Frederick the Great, who does have some redeeming features; look how he treated old Bach.
"When I told Jerry that at least Napoleon is an exception - we don't have to be saddled with him - do you know what he said? "I bet Josephine was really a boy." Try that on Yva.
"You've ruined our morale, you rascal, tarring us with that blood-stained brush (sorry about the mixed metaphor). You should have left us in happy ignorance...
"Despite that, we send our love, and so does Sebastian. Say hello to any Europans you meet. Judging by the reports from Galaxy, some of them would make very good partners for Ms Wilkinson."
41: Memoirs of a Centenarian
Dr Heywood Floyd preferred not to talk about the first mission to Jupiter, and the second to Lucifer ten years later. It was all so long ago - and there was nothing he had not said a hundred times to Congressional Committees, Space Council boards and media persons like Victor Willis.
Nevertheless, he had a duty to his fellow passengers which could not be avoided. As the only living man to have witnessed the birth of a new sun - and a new solar system - they expected him to have some special understanding of the worlds they were now so swiftly approaching. It was a naïve assumption; he could tell them far less about the Galilean satellites than the scientists and engineers who had been working there for more than a generation. When he was asked 'What's it really like on Europa?' (or Ganymede, or Io, or Callisto...) he was liable to refer the enquirer, rather brusquely, to the voluminous reports available in the ship's library.
Yet there was one area where his experience was unique. Half a century later, he sometimes wondered if it had really happened, or whether he had been asleep aboard Discovery when David Bowman had appeared to him. Almost easier to believe that a spaceship could be haunted...
But he could not have been dreaming, when the floating dust motes assembled themselves into that ghostly image of a man who should have been dead for a dozen years. Without the warning it had given him (how clearly he remembered that its lips were motionless, and the voice had come from the console speaker) Leonov and all aboard would have been vaporized in the detonation of Jupiter.
"Why did he do it?" Floyd asked during one of the after-dinner sessions. "I've puzzled over that for fifty years. Whatever he became, after he went out in Discovery's space pod to investigate the monolith, he must still have had some links with the human race; he was not completely alien. We know that he returned to Earth - briefly - because of that orbiting bomb incident. And there's strong evidence that he visited both his mother and his old girlfriend; that's not the action of - of an entity that had discarded all emotions."
"What do you suppose he is now?" asked Willis. "For that matter - where is he?"
"Perhaps that last question has no meaning - even for human beings. Do you know where your consciousness resides?"
"I've no use for metaphysics. Somewhere in the general area of my brain, anyway."
"When I was a young man," sighed Mihailovich, who had a talent for deflating the most serious discussions, "mine was about a metre lower down."
"Let's assume he's on Europa; we know there's a monolith there, and Bowman was certainly associated with it in some way - see how he relayed that warning."
"Do you think he also relayed the second one, telling us to stay away?"
"Which we are now going to ignore -"
"- in a good cause -" Captain Smith, who was usually content to let the discussion go where it wished, made one of his rare interjections.
"Dr Floyd," he said thoug
htfully, "you're in a unique position, and we should take advantage of it. Bowman went out of his way to help you once. If he's still around, he may be willing to do so again. I worry a good deal about that ATTEMPT NO LANDINGS HERE order. If he could assure us that it was - temporarily suspended, let's say - I'd be much happier."
There were several "hear, hears" around the table before Floyd answered.
"Yes, I've been thinking along the same lines. I've already told Galaxy to watch out for any - let's say manifestations - in case he tries to make contact."
"Of course," said Yva, "he may be dead by now - if ghosts can die."
Not even Mihailovich had a suitable comment to this, but Yva obviously sensed that no one thought much of her contribution.
Undeterred, she tried again.
"Woody, dear," she said. "Why don't you simply give him a call on the radio? That's what it's for, isn't it?"
The idea had occurred to Floyd, but it had somehow seemed too naïve to take seriously.
"I will," he said. "I don't suppose it will do any harm."
42: Minilith
This time, Floyd was quite sure he was dreaming...
He had never been able to sleep well in zero gravity, and Universe was now coasting, unpowered, at maximum velocity. In two days it would start almost a week of steady deceleration, throwing away its enormous excess speed until it was able to rendezvous with Europa.
However many times he adjusted the restraining straps, they always seemed either too tight or too loose. He would have difficulty in breathing - or else he would find himself drifting out of his bunk.
Once he had awoken in mid-air, and had flailed away for several minutes until, exhausted, he had managed to 'swim' the few metres to the nearest wall. Not until then had he remembered that he should merely have waited; the room ventilating system would have soon pulled him to the exhaust grille without any exertion on his part. As a seasoned space-traveller, he knew this perfectly well; his only excuse was simple panic.