"What's the problem?"
"Can't go any further. More stalactites... too close together for me to get through... and too thick to break without explosives. And that would be a shame... the colours are beautiful... first real greens and blues I've seen on Halley. Just a minute while I get them on video...
Dr Chant braced himself against the wall of the narrow tunnel, and aimed the camera. With his gloved fingers be reached for the HI-INTENSITY switch, but missed it and cut off the main lights completely.
"Lousy design," he muttered. "Third time I've done that."
He did not immediately correct his mistake, because he had always enjoyed that silence and total darkness which can be experienced only in the deepest caves. The gentle background noises of his life-support equipment robbed him of the silence, but at least—
—what was that? From beyond the portcullis of stalactites blocking further progress he could see a faint glow, like the first light of dawn. As his eyes grew adapted to the darkness, it appeared to grow brighter, and he could detect a hint of green. Now he could even see the outlines of the barrier ahead.
"What's happening?" said Greenburg anxiously.
"Nothing - just observing."
And thinking, he might have added. There were four possible explanations.
Sunlight could be filtering down through some natural light duct - ice, crystal, whatever. But at this depth? Unlikely.
Radioactivity? He hadn't bothered to bring a counter; there were virtually no heavy elements here. But it would be worth coming back to check.
Some phosphorescent mineral - that was the one he'd put his money on. But there was a fourth possibility - the most unlikely, and most exciting, of all.
Dr Chant had never forgotten a moonless - and Luciferless - night on the shores of the Indian Ocean, when he had been walking beneath brilliant stars along a sandy beach. The sea was very calm, but from time to time a languid wave would collapse at his feet - and detonate in an explosion of light.
He had walked out into the shallows (he could still remember the feel of the water round his ankles, like a warm bath) and with every step he took there had been another burst of light. He could even trigger it by clapping his hands close to the surface.
Could similar bioluminescent organisms have evolved, here in the heart of Halley's Comet? He would love to think so. It seemed a pity to vandalize something so exquisite as this natural work of art - with the glow behind it, the barrier now reminded him of an altar screen he had once seen in some cathedral - but he would have to go back and get some explosives. Meanwhile, there was the other corridor...
"I can't get any further along this route," he told Greenburg, "so I'll try the other. Coming back to the junction - setting the reel on rewind." He did not mention the mysterious glow, which had vanished as soon as he switched on his lights again.
Greenburg did not reply immediately, which was unusual; probably he was talking to the ship. Chant did not worry; he would repeat his message as soon as he had got under way again.
He did not bother, because there was a brief acknowledgement from Greenburg.
"Fine, Cliff - thought I'd lost you for a minute. Back at the chamber - now going into the other tunnel - hope there's nothing blocking that."
This time, Greenburg replied at once.
"Sorry, Bill. Come back to the ship. There's an emergency - no, not here - everything's fine with Universe. But we may have to return to Earth at once."
It was only a few weeks before Dr Chant discovered a very plausible explanation for the broken columns. As the comet blasted its substance away into space at each perihelion passage, its mass distribution continually altered. And so, every few thousand years, its spin became unstable, and it would change the direction of its axis - quite violently, like a top that is about to fall over as it loses energy. When that occurred, the resulting cometquake could reach a respectable five on the Richter scale.
But he never solved the mystery of the luminous glow. Though the problem was swiftly overshadowed by the drama that was now unfolding, the sense of a missed opportunity would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life.
Though he was occasionally tempted, he never mentioned it to any of his colleagues. But he did leave a sealed note for the next expedition, to be opened in 2133.
20: Recall
Have you seen Victor?" said Mihailovich gleefully, as Floyd hurried to answer the Captain's summons. "He's a broken man."
"He'll grow it back on the way home," snapped Floyd, who had no time for such trivialities at the moment. "I'm trying to find out what's happened."
Captain Smith was still sitting, almost stunned, in his cabin when he arrived. If this was an emergency affecting his own ship, he would have been a tornado of controlled energy, issuing orders right and left. But there was nothing he could do about this situation, except await the next message from Earth.
Captain Laplace was an old friend; how could he have got into such a mess? There was no conceivable accident, error of navigation, or failure of equipment that could possibly account for his predicament. Nor, as far as Smith could see, was there any way in which Universe could help him get out of it. Operations Centre was just running round and round in circles; this looked like one of those emergencies, all too common in space, where nothing could be done except transmit condolences and record last messages. But he gave no hint of his doubts and reservations when he reported the news to Floyd.
"There's been an accident," he said. "We've received orders to return to Earth immediately, to be fitted out for a rescue mission."
"What kind of accident?"
"It's our sister ship, Galaxy. She was doing a survey of the Jovian satellites. And she's made a crash landing."
>He saw the look of amazed incredulity on Floyd's face.
"Yes, I know that's impossible. But you've not heard anything yet. She's stranded - on Europa."
"Europa!"
"I'm afraid so. She's damaged, but apparently there's no loss of life. We're still awaiting details."
"When did it happen?"
"Twelve hours ago. There was a delay before she could report to Ganymede."
"But what can we do? We're on the other side of the Solar System. Getting back to lunar orbit to refuel, then taking the fastest orbit to Jupiter - it would be - oh, at least a couple of months!" (And back in Leonov's day, Floyd added to himself, it would have been a couple of years...)
"I know; but there's no other ship that could do anything." -
>"What about Ganymede's own inter-satellite ferries?"
"They're only designed for orbital operations."
"They've landed on Callisto."
"Much lower energy mission. Oh, they could just manage Europa, but with negligible payload. It's being looked into, of course."
Floyd scarcely heard the Captain; he was still trying to assimilate this astonishing news. For the first time in half a century - and only for the second time in all history! - a ship had landed on the forbidden moon. And that prompted an ominous thought.
"Do you suppose," he asked, "that - whoever - whatever - is on Europa could be responsible?"
"I was wondering about that," said the Captain glumly. "But we've been snooping around the place for years, without anything happening."
"Even more to the point - what might happen to us if we attempted a rescue?"
"That's the first thing that occurred to me. But all this is speculation - we'll have to wait until we have more facts. Meanwhile - this is really why I called you - I've just received Galaxy's crew manifest, and I was wondering..."
Hesitantly, he pushed the print-out across his desk. But even before Heywood Floyd scanned the list, he somehow knew what he would find.
"My grandson," he said bleakly.
And, he added to himself, the only person who can carry my name beyond the grave.
III: Europan Roulette
21: The Politics of Exile
Despite all the gloomier forecasts, t
he South African Revolution had been comparatively bloodless - as such things go. Television, which had been blamed for many evils, deserved some credit for this. A precedent had been set a generation earlier in the Philippines; when they know that the world is watching, the great majority of men and women tend to behave in a responsible manner. Though there have been shameful exceptions, few massacres occur on camera.
Most of the Afrikaners, when they recognized the inevitable, had left the country long before the takeover of power. And - as the new administration bitterly complained - they had not gone empty-handed. Billions of rands had been transferred to Swiss and Dutch banks; towards the end, there had been mysterious flights almost every hour out of Cape Town and Jo'burg to Zurich and Amsterdam. It was said that by Freedom Day one would not find one troy ounce of gold or a carat of diamond in the late Republic of South Africa - and the mine workings had been effectively sabotaged. One prominent refugee boasted, from his luxury apartment in The Hague, "It will be five years before the Kaffirs can get Kimberley working again - if they ever do." To his great surprise, De Beers was back in business, under new name and management, in less than five weeks, and diamonds were now the single most important element in the new nation's economy.
Within a generation, the younger refugees had been absorbed - despite desperate rearguard actions by their conservative elders - in the deracinated culture of the twenty-first century. They recalled, with pride but without boastfulness, the courage and determination of their ancestors, and distanced themselves from their stupidities. Virtually none of them spoke Afrikaans, even in their own homes.
Yet, precisely as in the case of the Russian Revolution a century earlier, there were many who dreamed of putting back the clock - or, at least, of sabotaging the efforts of those who had usurped their power and privilege. Usually they channelled their frustration and bitterness into propaganda, demonstrations, boycotts, petitions to the World Council - and, rarely, works of art. Wilhelm Smuts' The Voortrekkers was conceded to be a masterpiece of (ironically) English literature, even by those who bitterly disagreed with the author.
But there were also groups who believed that political action was useless, and that only violence would restore the longed-for status quo. Although there could not have been many who really imagined that they could rewrite the pages of history, there were not a few who, if victory was impossible, would gladly settle for revenge.
Between the two extremes of the totally assimilated and the completely intransigent, there was an entire spectrum of political - and apolitical - parties. Der Bund was not the largest, but it was the most powerful, and certainly the richest, since it controlled much of the lost Republic's smuggled wealth, through a network of corporations and holding companies. Most of these were now perfectly legal, and indeed completely respectable.
There was half a billion of Bund money in Tsung Aerospace, duly listed in the annual balance sheet. In 2059, Sir Lawrence was happy to receive another half-billion, which enabled him to accelerate the commissioning of his little fleet.
But not even his excellent intelligence traced any connection between the Bund and Tsung Aerospace's latest charter mission for Galaxy. In any event, Halley was then approaching Mars, and Sir Lawrence was so busy getting Universe ready to leave on schedule that he paid little attention to the routine operations of her sister ships.
Though Lloyd's of London did raise some queries about Galaxy's proposed routing, these objections were quickly dealt with. The Bund had people in key positions everywhere; which was unfortunate for the insurance brokers, but very good luck for the space lawyers.
22: Hazardous Cargo
It is not easy to run a shipping line between destinations which not only change their positions by millions of kilometers every few days, but also swing through a velocity range of tens of kilometers a second. Anything like a regular schedule is out of the question; there are times when one must forget the whole idea and stay in port - or at least in orbit - waiting for the Solar System to rearrange itself for the greater convenience of mankind.
Fortunately, these periods are known years in advance, so it is possible to make the best use of them for overhauls, retrofits, and planet leave for the crew. And occasionally, by good luck and aggressive salesmanship, one can arrange some local chartering, even if only the equivalent of the old-time "Once around the Bay" boat-ride.
Captain Eric Laplace was delighted that the three-month stayover off Ganymede would not be a complete loss. An anonymous and unexpected grant to the Planetary Science Foundation would finance a reconnaissance of the Jovian (even now, no one ever called it Luciferian) satellite system, paying particular attention to a dozen of the neglected smaller moons. Some of these had never even been properly surveyed, much less visited.
As soon as he heard of the mission, Rolf van der Berg called the Tsung shipping agent and made some discreet enquiries.
"Yes, first we'll head in towards Io - then do a flyby of Europa -"
"Only a flyby? How close?"
"Just a moment - odd, the flight plan doesn't give details. But of course she won't go inside the Interdiction Zone."
"Which was down to ten thousand kilometers at the last ruling... fifteen years ago. Anyway, I'd like to volunteer as Mission Planetologist. I'll send across my qualifications -"
"No need to do so, Dr van der Berg. They've already asked for you."
It is always easy to be wise after the event, and when he cast his mind back (he had plenty of time for it later) Captain Laplace recalled a number of curious aspects of the charter. Two crew members were taken suddenly sick, and were replaced at short notice; he was so glad to have substitutes that he did not check their papers as closely as he might have done. (And even if he had, he would have discovered that they were perfectly in order.)
Then there was the trouble with the cargo. As captain, he was entitled to inspect anything that went aboard the ship. Of course, it was impossible to do this for every item, but he never hesitated to investigate if he had good reason. Space crews were, on the whole, a highly responsible body of men; but long missions could be boring, and there were tedium-relieving chemicals which - though perfectly legal on Earth - should be discouraged off it.
When Second Officer Chris Floyd reported his suspicions, the Captain assumed that the ship's chromatographic 'sniffer' had detected another cache of the high-grade opium which his largely Chinese crew occasionally patronized. This time, however, the matter was serious - very serious.
"Cargo Hold Three, Item 2/456, Captain. The manifest says 'Scientific apparatus'. It contains explosives."
"What!"
"Definitely, Sir. Here's the electrogram."
"I'll take your word for it, Mr Floyd. Have you inspected the item?"
"No, Sir. It's in a sealed crew case, half a metre by one metre by five metres, approximately. One of the largest packages the science team brought aboard. It's labelled FRAGILE - HANDLE WITH CARE. But so is everything, of course."
Captain Laplace drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the grained plastic "wood" of his desk. (He hated the pattern, and intended to get rid of it on the next refit.) Even that slight action started him rising out of his seat, and he automatically anchored himself by wrapping his foot around the pillar of the chair.
Though he did not for a moment doubt Floyd's report - his new Second Officer was very competent, and the Captain was pleased that he had never brought up the subject of his famous grandfather -there could be an innocent explanation. The sniffer might have been misled by other chemicals with nervous molecular bondings.
They could go down into the hold and force open the package. No - that might be dangerous, and could cause legal problems as well. Best to go straight to the top; he'd have to do that anyway, sooner or later.
"Please bring Dr Anderson here - and don't mention this to anyone else."
"Very good, Sir." Chris Floyd gave a respectful but quite unnecessary salute, and left the room in a smooth, effortless glide.
br /> The leader of the science team was not accustomed to zero gravity, and his entrance was quite clumsy. His obvious genuine indignation did not help, and he had to grab the Captain's desk several times in an undignified manner.
"Explosives! Of course not! Let me see the manifest... 2/456..."
Dr Anderson pecked out the reference on his portable keyboard, and slowly read off: "Mark V penetrometers, Quantity three. Of course - no problem."
"And just what," said the Captain, "is a penetrometer?" Despite his concern, he had difficulty in suppressing a smile; it sounded a little obscene.
"Standard planetary sampling device. You drop it, and with any luck it will give you a core up to ten metres long - even in hard rock. Then it sends back a complete chemical analysis. The only safe way to study places like dayside Mercury - or Io, where we'll drop the first one."
"Dr Anderson," said the Captain, with great self-restraint, "you may be an excellent geologist, but you don't know much about celestial mechanics. You can't just drop things from orbit -"
The charge of ignorance was clearly unfounded, as the scientist's reaction proved.
"The idiots!" he said. "Of course, you should have been notified."
"Exactly. Solid fuel rockets are classified as "Hazardous Cargo". I want clearance from the underwriters, and your personal assurance that the safety systems are adequate; otherwise, they go overboard. Now, any other little surprises? Were you planning seismic surveys? I believe those usually involve explosives..."
A few hours later, the somewhat chastened scientist admitted that he had also found two bottles of elemental fluorine, used to power the lasers which could zap passing celestial bodies at thousand-kilometer ranges for spectrographic sampling. As pure fluorine was about the most vicious substance known to man, it was high on the list of prohibited materials - but, like the rockets which drove the penetrometers down to their targets, it was essential for the mission.