26 – Night Watch

   Only time is universal; night and day are merely quaint local customs, found on those planets which tidal forces have not yet robbed of their rotation. But however far they travel from their native world, human beings can never escape the diurnal rhythm, set ages ago by its cycle of light and darkness.
   So at 01.05, Universal Time, Second Officer Chang was alone on the bridge, while the ship was sleeping around him. There was no real need for him to be awake either, since Galaxy's electronic senses would detect any malfunction far sooner than he could possibly do. But a century of cybernetics had proved that human beings were still slightly better than machines at dealing with the unexpected; and sooner or later, the unexpected always happened.
   'Where's my coffee?' thought Chang grumpily. 'It's not like Rosie to be late.' He wondered if the steward had been affected by the same malaise that had overtaken both scientists and space crew, after the disasters of the last twenty-four hours.
   Following the failure of the first penetrometer, there had been a hasty conference to decide the next step. One unit was left; it had been intended for Callisto, but it could be used just as easily here.
   'And anyway,' Dr Anderson had argued, 'we've landed on Callisto – there's nothing there except assorted varieties of cracked ice.'
   There had been no disagreement. After a twelve-hour delay for modification and testing, Pen No. 3 was launched into the Europan cloudscape, following the invisible track of its precursor.
   This time, the ship's recorders did get some data – for about half a millisecond. The accelerometer on the probe, which was calibrated to operate up to 20,000 gee, gave one brief pulse before going off-scale. Everything must have been destroyed in very much less than the twinkling of an eye.
   After a second, and even gloomier, post-mortem, it was decided to report to Earth, and wait in high orbit round Europa for any further instructions, before proceeding to Callisto and the outer moons,
   'Sorry to be late, Sir,' said Rose McCullen (one would never guess from her name that she was slightly darker than the coffee she was carrying) 'but I must have set the alarm wrong.'
   'Lucky for us,' chuckled the Officer of the Watch, 'that you're not running the ship.'
   'I don't understand how anyone could run it,' answered Rose. 'It all looks so complicated.'
   'Oh, it's not as bad as it looks,' said Chang. 'And don't they give you basic space theory in your training course?'
   'Er – yes. But I never understood much of it. Orbits and all that nonsense.'
   Second Officer Chang was bored, and felt it would be a kindness to enlighten his audience. And although Rose was not exactly his type, she was undoubtedly attractive; a little effort now might be a worthwhile investment. It never occurred to him that, having performed her duty, Rose might like to go back to sleep.
   Twenty minutes later, Second Officer Chang waved at the navigation console and concluded expansively: 'So you see, it's really almost automatic. You only have to punch in a few numbers and the ship takes care of the rest.'
   Rose seemed to be getting tired; she kept looking at her watch.
   'I'm sorry,' said the suddenly contrite Chang. 'I shouldn't have kept you up.'
   'Oh no – it's extremely interesting. Please go on.'
   'Definitely not. Maybe some other time. Goodnight, Rosie – and thanks for the coffee.'
   'Goodnight, Sir.'
   Steward Third Class Rose McCullen glided (not too skilfully) towards the still open door. Chang did not bother to look back when he heard it close.
   It was thus a considerable shock when, a few seconds later, he was addressed by a completely unfamiliar female voice.
   'Mr Chang – don't bother to touch the alarm button – it's disconnected. Here are the landing coordinates. Take the ship down.'
   Slowly, wondering if he had somehow dozed off and was having a nightmare, Chang rotated his chair.
   The person who had been Rose McCullen was floating beside the oval hatchway, steadying herself by holding on to the locking lever of the door. Everything about her seemed to have changed; in a moment of time, their roles had been reversed. The shy steward – who had never before looked at him directly – was now regarding Chang with a cold, merciless stare that made him feel like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake. The small but deadly-looking gun nestling in her free hand seemed an unnecessary adornment; Chang had not the slightest doubt that she could very efficiently kill him without it.
   Nevertheless, both his self-respect and his professional honour demanded that he should not surrender without some sort of a struggle. At the very least, he might be able to gain time.
   'Rose,' he said – and now his lips had difficulty in forming a name which had become suddenly inappropriate – 'this is perfectly ridiculous. What I told you just now – it's simply not true. I couldn't possibly land the ship by myself. It would take hours to compute the correct orbit, and I'd need someone to help me. A co-pilot, at least.'
   The gun did not waver.
   'I'm not a fool, Mr Chang. This ship isn't energy-limited, like the old chemical rockets. The escape velocity of Europa is only three kilometres a second. Part of your training is an emergency landing with the main computer down. Now you can put it into practice: the window for an optimum touchdown at the coordinates I will give you opens in five minutes.'
   'That type of abort,' said Chang, now beginning to sweat profusely, 'has an estimated twenty-five per cent failure rate' – the true figure was ten per cent, but in the circumstances he felt that a little exaggeration was justified – 'and it's years since I checked out on it.'
   'In that case,' answered Rose McCullen, 'I'll have to eliminate you and ask the Captain to send me someone more qualified. Annoying, because we'll miss this window and have to wait a couple of hours for the next one. Four minutes left.'
   Second Officer Chang knew when he was beaten; but at least he had tried.
   'Let me have those coordinates,' he said.

27 – Rosie

   Captain Laplace woke instantly at the first gentle tapping, like a distant woodpecker, of the attitude control jets. For a moment he wondered if he was dreaming: no, the ship was definitely turning in space.
   Perhaps it was getting too hot on one side and the thermal control system was making some minor adjustments. That did happen occasionally, and was a black mark for the officer on duty, who should have noticed that the temperature envelope was being approached.
   He reached for the intercom button to call – who was it? – Mr Chang on the bridge. His hand never completed the movement.
   After days of weightlessness, even a tenth of a gravity is a shock. To the Captain it seemed like minutes, though it must have been only a few seconds, before he could unbuckle his restraining harness and struggle out of his bunk. This time, he found the button and jabbed it viciously. There was no reply.
   He tried to ignore the thuds and bumps of inadequately secured objects that had been taken unawares by the onset of gravity. Things seemed to go on falling for a long time, but presently the only abnormal sound was the muffled, far-off scream of the drive at full blast.
   He tore open the curtain of the cabin's little window, and looked out at the stars. He knew roughly where the ship's axis should have been pointing; even if he could only judge it to within thirty or forty degrees, that would allow him to distinguish between the two possible alternatives.
   Galaxy could be vectored either to gain, or to lose, orbital velocity. It was losing it – and therefore preparing to fall towards Europa.
   There was an insistent banging on the door, and the Captain realized that little more than a minute could really have passed. Second Officer Floyd and two other crew members were crowded in the narrow passageway.
   'The bridge is locked, Sir,' Floyd reported breathlessly. 'We can't get in – and Chang doesn't answer. We don't know what's happened.'
   'I'm afraid I do,' Captain Laplace answered, climbing into his shorts. 'Some madman was bound to try it sooner or later. We've been hijacked, and I know where. But I'm damned if I know why.'
   He glanced at his watch, and did a quick mental calculation.
   'At this thrust level, we'll have deorbited within fifteen minutes – make it ten for safety. Any way we can cut the drive without endangering the ship?'
   Second Officer Yu, Engineering, looked very unhappy, but volunteered a reluctant reply.
   'We could pull the circuit breakers in the pump motor lines, and cut off the propellant supply.'
   'Can we get at them?'
   'Yes – they're on Deck Three.'
   'Then let's go.'
   'Er – then the independent backup system would take over. For safety, that's behind a sealed bulkhead on Deck Five – we'd have to get a cutter – no, it couldn't be done in time.'

   Captain Laplace had been afraid of that. The men of genius who had designed Galaxy had tried to protect the ship from all plausible accidents. There was no way they could have safeguarded it against human malevolence.
   'Any alternatives?'
   'Not in the time available, I'm afraid.'
   'Then let's get to the bridge and see if we can talk to Chang – and whoever is with him.'
   And who could that be? he wondered. He refused to believe that it could be one of his regular crew. That left – of course, there was the answer! He could see it all. Monomaniac researcher tries to prove theory – experiments frustrated – decides that the quest for knowledge takes precedence over everything else.
   It was uncomfortably like one of those cheap 'mad scientist' melodramas, but it fitted the facts perfectly. He wondered if Dr Anderson had decided that this was the only road to a Nobel Prize.
   That theory was swiftly demolished when the breathless and dishevelled geologist arrived gasping:
   'For God's sake, Captain – what's happening? We're under full thrust! Are we going up – or down?'
   'Down,' answered Captain Laplace. 'In about ten minutes, we'll be in an orbit that will hit Europa. I can only hope that whoever's at the controls knows what he's doing.'
   Now they were at the bridge, facing the closed door. Not a sound came from the far side.
   Laplate rapped as loudly as he possibly could without bruising his knuckles.
   'This is the Captain! Let us in!'
   He felt rather foolish at giving an order which would certainly be ignored, but he hoped for at least some reaction. To his surprise, he got one.
   The external speaker hissed into life, and a voice said: 'Don't attempt anything foolish, Captain. I have a gun, and Mr Chang is obeying my orders.'
   'Who was that?' whispered one of the officers. 'It sounds like a woman!'
   'You're right,' said the Captain grimly. That certainly cut down the alternatives, but didn't help matters in any way.
   'What do you hope to do? You know you can't possibly get away with it!' he shouted, trying to sound masterful rather than plaintive.
   'We're landing on Europa. And if you want to take off again, don't try to stop me.'

   'Her room's completely clean,' Second Officer Chris Floyd reported thirty minutes later, when the thrust had been cut to zero and Galaxy was falling along the ellipse which would soon graze the atmosphere of Europa. They were now committed; although it would now be possible to immobilize the engines, it would be suicide to do so. They would be needed again to make a landing – although that could be merely a more protracted form of suicide.
   'Rosie McCullen! Who would have believed it! Do you suppose she's on drugs?'
   'No,' said Floyd. 'This has been very carefully planned. She must have a radio hidden somewhere in the ship. We should search for it.'
   'You sound like a damned cop.'
   'That will do, gentlemen,' said the Captain. Tempers were getting frayed, largely through sheer frustration and the total failure to establish any further contact with the barricaded bridge. He glanced at his watch.
   'Less than two hours before we enter atmosphere – what there is of it. I'll be in my cabin – it's just possible they may try to call me there. Mr Yu, please stand by the bridge and report any developments at once.'
   He had never felt so helpless in his life, but there were times when doing nothing was the only thing to do. As he left the officers' wardroom, he heard someone say wistfully: 'I could do with a bulb of coffee. Rosie made the best I've ever tasted.'
   Yes, thought the Captain grimly, she's certainly efficient. Whatever job she tackles, she'll do it thoroughly.

28 – Dialogue

   There was only one man aboard Galaxy who could regard the situation as anything but a total disaster. I may be about to die, Rolf van der Berg told himself; but at least I have a chance of scientific immortality. Though that might be poor consolation, it was more than anyone else on the ship could hope for.
   That Galaxy was heading for Mount Zeus he did not doubt for a moment; there was nothing else on Europa of any significance. Indeed, there was nothing remotely comparable on any planet.
   So his theory – and he had to admit that it was still a theory – was no longer a secret. How could it have leaked out?
   He trusted Uncle Paul implicitly, but he might have been indiscreet. More likely, someone had monitored his computers, perhaps as a matter of routine. If so, the old scientist could well be in danger; Rolf wondered if he could – or should – get a warning to him. He knew that the communications officer was trying to contact Ganymede via one of the emergency transmitters; an automatic beacon alert had already gone out, and the news would be hitting Earth any minute now. It had been on its way now for almost an hour...
   'Come in,' he said, at the quiet knock on his cabin door. 'Oh – hello, Chris. What can I do for you?'
   He was surprised to see Second Officer Chris Floyd, whom he knew no better than any of his other colleagues. If they landed safely on Europa, he thought gloomily, they might get to know each other far better than they wished.
   'Hello, Doctor. You're the only person who lives around here. I wondered if you could help me.'
   'I'm not sure how anyone can help anyone at the moment. What's the latest from the bridge?'
   'Nothing new: I've just left Yu and Gillings up there, trying to fix a mike on the door. But no-one inside seems to be talking; not surprising – Chang must have his hands full.'
   'Can he get us down safely?'
   'He's the best; if anyone can do it, he can. I'm more worried about getting off again.'
   'God – I'd not been looking that far ahead. I assumed that was no problem.'
   'It could be marginal. Remember, this ship is designed for orbital operations. We hadn't planned to put down on any major moon – though we had hoped to rendezvous with Ananke and Carme. So we could be stuck on Europa – especially if Chang has to waste propellant looking for a good landing site.'
   'Do we know where he is trying to land?' Rolf asked, trying not to sound more interested than might be reasonably expected. He must have failed, because Chris looked at him sharply.
   'There's no way we can tell at this stage, though we may get a better idea when he starts braking. But you know these moons; where do you think?'
   'There's only one interesting place. Mount Zeus.'
   'Why should anyone want to land there?'
   RoIf shrugged.
   'That was one of the things we'd hoped to find out. Cost us two expensive penetrometers.'
   'And it looks like costing a great deal more. Haven't you any ideas?'
   'You sound like a cop,' said van der Berg with a grin, not intending it in the least seriously.
   'Funny – that's the second time I've been told that in the last hour.'
   Instantly, there was a subtle change in the atmosphere of the cabin – almost as if the life-support system had readjusted itself.
   'Oh – I was just joking – are you?'
   'If I was, I wouldn't admit it, would I?'
   That was no answer, thought van der Berg; but on second thoughts, perhaps it was.
   He looked intently at the young officer, noticing – not for the first time – his striking resemblance to his famous grandfather. Someone had mentioned that Chris Floyd had only joined Galaxy on this mission, from another ship in the Tsung fleet – adding sarcastically that it was useful to have good connections in any business. But there had been no criticism of Floyd's ability; he was an excellent space officer. Those skills might qualify him for other part-time jobs as well; look at RosieMcCulIen – who had also, now he came to think of it, joined Galaxy just before this mission.
   Rolf van der Berg felt that he had become enmeshed in some vast and tenuous web of interplanetary intrigue; as a scientist, accustomed to getting – usually – straightforward answers to the questions he put to nature, he did not enjoy the situation.
   But he could hardly claim to be an innocent victim. He had tried to conceal the truth – or at least what he believed to be the truth. And now the consequences of that deceit had multiplied like the neutrons in a chain reaction; with results that might be equally disastrous.
   Which side was Chris Floyd on? How many sides were there? The Bund would certainly be involved, once the secret had leaked out. But there were splinter groups within the Bund itself, and groups opposing them; it was like a hall of mirrors.
   There was one point, however, on which he did feel reasonably certain. Chris Floyd, if only because of his connections, could be trusted. I'd put my money, thought van der Berg, on him being assigned to ASTROPOL for the duration of the mission – however long, or short, that might now be.
   'I'd like to help you, Chris,' he said slowly. 'As you probably suspect, I do have some theories. But they may still be utter nonsense.
   'In less than half an hour, we may know the truth. Until then, I prefer to say nothing.'
   And this is not, he told himself, merely ingrained Boer stubbornness. If he had been mistaken, he would prefer not to die among men who knew that he was the fool who had brought them to their doom.

29 – Descent

   Second Officer Chang had been wrestling with the problem ever since Galaxy had been successfully – to his surprise as much as his relief – injected into transfer orbit. For the next couple of hours she was in the hands of God, or at least Sir Isaac Newton; there was nothing to do but wait until the final braking and descent manoeuvre.
   He had briefly considered trying to fool Rosie by giving the ship a reverse vector at closest approach, and so taking it out into space again. It would then be back in a stable orbit, and a rescue could eventually be mounted from Ganymede. But there was a fundamental objection to this scheme: he would certainly not be alive to be rescued. Though Chang was no coward, he would prefer not to become a posthumous hero of the spaceways.
   In any event, his chances of surviving the next hour seemed remote. He had been ordered to take down, single-handed, a three-thousand tonner on totally unknown territory. This was not a feat he would care to attempt even on the familiar Moon.
   'How many minutes before you start braking?' asked Rosie. Perhaps it was more of an order than a question; she clearly understood the fundamentals of astronautics, and Chang abandoned his last wild fantasies of outwitting her.
   'Five,' he said reluctantly. 'Can I warn the rest of the ship to stand by?'
   'I'll do it. Give me the mike... THIS IS THE BRIDGE. WE START BRAKING IN FIVE MINUTES. REPEAT, FIVE MINUTES. OUT.'
   To the scientists and officers assembled in the wardroom, the message was fully expected. They had had one piece of luck; the external video monitors had not been switched off. Perhaps Rose had forgotten about them; it was more likely that she had not bothered. So now, as helpless spectators – quite literally, a captive audience – they could watch their unfolding doom.
   The cloudy crescent of Europa now filled the field of the rear-view camera. There was no break anywhere in the solid overcast of water vapour recondensing on its way back to nightside. That was not important, since the landing would be radar-controlled until the last moment. It would, however, prolong the agony of observers who had to rely on visible light,
   No-one stared more intently at the approaching world than the man who had studied it with such frustration for almost a decade. Rolf van der Berg, seated in one of the flimsy low-gravity chairs with the restraining belt lightly fastened, barely noticed the first onset of weight as braking commenced.
   In five seconds, they were up to full thrust. All the officers were doing rapid calculations on their comsets; without access to Navigation, there would be a lot of guesswork, and Captain Laplace waited for a consensus to emerge.
   'Eleven minutes,' he announced presently, 'assuming he doesn't reduce thrust level – he's at max now. And assuming he's going to hover at ten kilometres – just above the overcast – and then go straight down. That could take another five minutes.'
   It was unnecessary for him to add that the last second of those five minutes would be the most critical.
   Europa seemed determined to keep its secrets to the very end. When Galaxy was hovering motionless, just above the cloudscape, there was still no sign of the land – or sea – beneath. Then, for a few agonizing seconds, the screens became completely blank – except for a glimpse of the now extended, and very seldom used, landing gear. The noise of its emergence a few minutes earlier had caused a brief flurry of alarm among the passengers; now they could only hope that it would perform its duty.
   How thick is this damn cloud? van der Berg asked himself. Does it go all the way down -No, it was breaking, thinning out into shreds and wisps – and there was the new Europa, spread out, it seemed, only a few thousand metres below.
   It was indeed new; one did not have to be a geologist to see that. Four billion years ago, perhaps, the infant Earth had looked like this, as land and sea prepared to begin their endless conflict.
   Here, until fifty years ago, there had been neither land nor sea – only ice. But now the ice had melted on the Lucifer-facing hemisphere, the resulting water had boiled upwards – and been deposited in the permanent deep-freeze of nightside. The removal of billions of tons of liquid from one hemisphere to the other had thus exposed ancient seabeds that had never before known even the pale light of the far-distant Sun.
   Some day, perhaps, these contorted landscapes would be softened and tamed by a spreading blanket of vegetation; now they were barren lava flows and gently steaming mud flats, interrupted occasionally by masses of up-thrust rock with strangely slanting strata. This had clearly been an area of great tectonic disturbance, which was hardly surprising if it had seen the recent birth of a mountain the size of Everest.
   And there it was – looming up over the unnaturally close horizon. Rolf van der Berg felt a tightness in his chest, and a tingling of the flesh at the back of his neck. No longer through the remote impersonal senses of instruments, but with his own eyes, he was seeing the mountain of his dreams.
   As he well knew, it was in the approximate shape of a tetrahedron, tilted so that one face was almost vertical. (That would be a nice challenge to climbers, even in this gravity – especially as they couldn't drive pitons into it...) The summit was hidden in the clouds, and much of the gently-sloping face turned towards them was covered with snow.
   'Is that what all the fuss is about?' muttered someone in disgust. 'Looks like a perfectly ordinary mountain to me. I guess that once you've seen one -' He was 'shushed' angrily into silence.
   Galaxy was now drifting slowly towards Mount Zeus, as Chang searched for a good landing place. The ship had very little lateral control, as ninety per cent of the main thrust had to be used merely to support it. There was enough propellant to hover for perhaps five minutes; after that, he might still be able to land safely – but he could never take off again.
   Neil Armstrong had faced the same dilemma, almost a hundred years ago. But he had not been piloting with a gun aimed at his head.
   Yet for the last few minutes, Chang had totally forgotten both gun and Rosie. Every sense was focused on the job ahead; he was virtually part of the great machine he was controlling. The only human emotion left to him was not fear – but exhilaration. This was the job he had been trained to perform; this was the highlight of his professional career – even as it might be the finale.
   And that was what it looked like becoming. The foot of the mountain was now less than a kilometre away – and he had still found no landing site. The terrain was incredibly rugged, torn with canyons, littered with gigantic boulders. He had not seen a single horizontal area larger than a tennis court -and the red line on the propellant gauge was only thirty seconds away.
   But there, at last, was a smooth surface – much the flattest he'd seen – it was his only chance within the time frame.
   Delicately, he juggled the giant, unstable cylinder he was controlling towards the patch of horizontal ground – it seemed to be snow-covered – yes, it was – the blast was blowing the snow away – but what's underneath? – looks like ice – must be a frozen lake – how thick? – HOW THICK? -The five-hundred-ton hammer-blow of Galaxy's main jets hit the treacherously inviting surface. A pattern of radiating lines sped swiftly across it; the ice cracked, and great sheets started to overturn. Concentric waves of boiling water hurtled outwards as the fury of the drive blasted into the suddenly uncovered lake.
   Like the well-trained officer he was, Chang reacted automatically, without the fatal hesitations of thought. His left hand ripped open the SAFETY LOCK bar; his right grabbed the red lever it protected – and pulled it to the open position.
   The ABORT program, peacefully sleeping ever since Galaxy was launched, took over and hurled the ship back up into the sky.

30 – Galaxy Down

   In the wardroom, the sudden surge of full thrust came like a stay of execution. The horrified officers had seen the collapse of the chosen landing site, and knew that there was only one way of escape. Now that Chang had taken it, they once more permitted themselves the luxury of breath.
   But how long they could continue to enjoy that experience, no-one could guess. Only Chang knew whether the ship had enough propellant to reach a stable orbit; and even if it did, Captain Laplace thought gloomily, the lunatic with the gun might order him down again. Though he did not for a minute believe that she really was a lunatic; she knew exactly what she was doing.
   Suddenly, there was a change in thrust.
   'Number Four motor's just cut,' said an engineering officer. 'I'm not surprised – probably overheated. Not rated for so long at this level.'
   There was, of course, no sense of any directional change – the reduced thrust was still along the ship's axis – but the views on the monitor screens had tilted crazily. Galaxy was still ascending, but no longer vertically. She had become a ballistic missile, aimed at some unknown target on Europa.
   Once more, the thrust dropped abruptly; across the video monitors, the horizon became level again.
   'He's cut the opposite motor – only way to stop us cartwheeling – but can he maintain altitude – good man!'
   The watching scientists could not see what was good about it; the view on the monitors had disappeared completely, obscured by a blinding white fog.
   'He's dumping excess propellant – lightening the ship -'
   The thrust dwindled away to zero; the ship was in free fall. In a few seconds, it had dropped through the vast cloud of ice crystals created when its dumped propellant had exploded into space. And there beneath it, approaching at a leisurely one-eighth of a gravity acceleration, was Europa's central sea. At least Chang would not have to select a landing site; from now on, it would be standard operating procedure, familiar as a video game to millions who had never gone into space, and never would.
   All you had to do was to balance the thrust against gravity, so that the descending ship reached zero velocity at zero altitude. There was some margin for error, but not much, even for the water landings which the first American astronauts had preferred, and which Chang was now reluctantly emulating. If he made a mistake – and after the last few hours, he could scarcely be blamed – no home computer would say to him: 'Sorry – you've crashed. Would you like to try again? Answer YES/NO...'

   Second Officer Yu and his two companions, waiting with their improvised weapons outside the locked door of the bridge, had perhaps been given the toughest assignment of all. They had no monitor screens to tell them what was happening, and had to rely on messages from the wardroom. Nor had there been anything through the spy mike, which was hardly surprising. Chang and McCullen had very little time or need for conversation.
   The touchdown was superb, with hardly a jolt. Galaxy sank a few extra metres, then bobbed up again, to float vertically and – thanks to the weight of the engines – in the upright position.
   It was then that the listeners heard the first intelligible sounds through the spy mike.
   'You maniac, Rosie,' said Chang's voice, more in resigned exhaustion than anger. 'I hope you're satisfied. You've killed us all.'
   There was one pistol shot, then a long silence.
   Yu and his colleagues waited patiently, knowing that something was bound to happen soon. Then they heard the locking levers being unlatched, and gripped the spanners and metal bars they were carrying. She might get one of them, but not all -The door swung open, very slowly.
   'Sorry,' said Second Officer Chang. 'I must have passed out for a minute.'
   Then, like any reasonable man, he fainted again.

31 – The Sea of Galilee

   I can never understand how a man could become a doctor, Captain Laplace told himself. Or an undertaker, for that matter. They have some nasty jobs to do...
   'Well, did you find anything?'
   'No, Skipper. Of course, I don't have the right sort of equipment. There are some implants that you could only locate through a microscope – or so I'm told. They could only be very short range, though.'
   'Perhaps to a relay transmitter somewhere in the ship – Floyd's suggested we make a search. You took fingerprints and – any other idents?'
   'Yes – when we contact Ganymede, we'll beam them up, with her papers. But I doubt if we'll ever know who Rosie was, or who she was acting for. Or why, for God's sake.'
   'At least she showed some human instincts,' said Laplace thoughtfully. 'She must have known she'd failed, when Chang pulled the ABORT lever. She could have shot him then, instead of letting him land.'
   'Much good that will do us, I'm afraid. Let me tell you something that happened when Jenkins and I put the cadaver out through the refuse dump.'
   The doctor pursed his lips in a grimace of distaste.
   'You were right, of course – it was the only thing to do. Well, we didn't bother to attach any weights – it floated for a few minutes – we watched to see if it would clear the ship – and then...'
   The doctor seemed to be struggling for words.
   'What, dammit?'
   'Something came up out, of the water, Like a parrot beak, but about a hundred times bigger. It took – Rosie – with one snap, and disappeared. We have some impressive company here; even if we could breathe outside, I certainly wouldn't recommend swimming -'
   'Bridge to Captain,' said the officer on duty, 'Big disturbance in the water – camera three – I'll give you the picture.'
   'That's the thing I saw!' cried the doctor. He felt a sudden chill at the inevitable, ominous thought: I hope it's not back for more.
   Suddenly, a vast bulk broke through the surface of the ocean and arched into the sky. For a moment, the whole monstrous shape was suspended between air and water.
   The familiar can be as shocking as the strange – when it is in the wrong place. Both captain and doctor exclaimed simultaneously: 'It's a shark!'
   There was just time to notice a few subtle differences – in addition to the monstrous parrot-beak – before the giant crashed back into the sea. There was an extra pair of fins – and there appeared to be no gills. Nor were there any eyes, but on either side of the beak there were curious protuberances that might be some other sense organs.
   'Convergent evolution, of course,' said the doctor. 'Same problems, same solutions, on any planet. Look at Earth. Sharks, dolphins, ichthyosaurs – all oceanic predators must have the same basic design. That beak puzzles me, though -'
   'What's it doing now?'
   The creature had surfaced again, but now it was moving very slowly, as if exhausted after that one gigantic leap. In fact, it seemed to be in trouble – even in agony; it was beating its tail against the sea, without attempting to move in any definite direction.
   Suddenly, it vomited its last meal, turned belly up, and lay wallowing lifelessly in the gentle swell.
   'Oh my God,' whispered the Captain, his voice full of revulsion. 'I think I know what's happened.'
   'Totally alien biochemistries,' said the doctor; even he seemed shaken by the sight. 'Rosie's claimed one victim, after all.'

   The Sea of Galilee was, of course, named after the man who had discovered Europa – as he in turn had been named after a much smaller sea on another world.
   It was a very young sea, being less than fifty years old; and, like most new-born infants, could be quite boisterous. Although the Europan atmosphere was still too thin to generate real hurricanes, a steady wind blew from the surrounding land towards the tropical zone at the point above which Lucifer was stationary. Here, at the point of perpetual noon, the water was continually boiling – though at a temperature, in this thin atmosphere, barely hot enough to make a good cup of tea.
   Luckily, the steamy, turbulent region immediately beneath Lucifer was a thousand kilometres away; Galaxy had descended in a relatively calm area, less than a hundred kilometres from the nearest land. At peak velocity, she could cover that distance in a fraction of a second; but now, as she drifted beneath the low-hanging clouds of Europa's permanent overcast, land seemed as far-off as the remotest quasar. To make matters worse – if possible – the eternal off-shore wind was taking her further out to sea. And even if she could manage to ground herself on some virgin beach of this new world, she might be no better off than she was now.
   But she would be more comfortable; spaceships, though admirably watertight, are seldom seaworthy. Galaxy was floating in a vertical position, bobbing up and down with gentle but disturbing oscillations; half the crew was already sick.
   Captain Laplace's first action, after he had been through the damage reports, was to appeal for anyone with experience in handling boats – of any size or shape. It seemed reasonable to suppose that among thirty astronautical engineers and space scientists there should be a considerable amount of seafaring talent, and he immediately located five amateur sailors and even one professional – Purser Frank Lee who had started his career with the Tsung shipping lines and then switched to space.
   Although pursers were more accustomed to handling accounting machines (often, in Frank Lee's case, a two-hundred-year-old ivory abacus) than navigational instruments, they still had to pass exams in basic seamanship. Lee had never had a chance of testing his maritime skills; now, almost a billion kilometres from the South China Sea, his time had come.
   'We should flood the propellant tanks,' he told the Captain. 'Then we'll ride lower and won't be bobbing up and down so badly.'
   It seemed foolish to let even more water into the ship, and the Captain hesitated.
   'Suppose we run aground?'
   No one made the obvious comment 'What difference will it make?' Without any serious discussion, it had been assumed that they would be better off on land – if they could ever reach it.
   'We can always blow the tanks again. We'll have to do that anyway, when we reach shore, to get the ship into a horizontal position. Thank God we have power...'
   His voice trailed off; everyone knew what he meant. Without the auxiliary reactor which was now running the life-support systems, they would all be dead within hours. Now – barring a breakdown – the ship could sustain them indefinitely.
   Ultimately, of course, they would starve; they had just had dramatic proof that there was no nourishment, but only poison, in the seas of Europa.
   At least they had made contact with Ganymede, so that the entire human race now knew their predicament. The best brains in the Solar System would now be trying to save them. If they failed, the passengers and crew of Galaxy would have the consolation of dying in the full glare of publicity.

IV – AT THE WATER HOLE

32 – Diversion

   'The latest news,' said Captain Smith to his assembled passengers, 'is that Galaxy is afloat, and in fairly good condition. One crew member – a woman steward – has been killed – we don't know the details – but everyone else is safe.
   'The ship's systems are all working; there are a few leaks, but they've been controlled. Captain Laplace says there's no immediate danger, but the prevailing wind is driving them further away from the mainland, towards the centre of dayside. That's not a serious problem – there are several large islands they're virtually certain to reach first. At the moment they're ninety kilometres from the nearest land. They've seen some large marine animals, but they show no sign of hostility.
   'Barring further accidents, they should be able to survive for several months, until they run out of food – which of course is now being strictly rationed. But according to Captain Laplace, morale is still high.
   'Now, this is where we come in. If we return to Earth immediately, get refuelled and refitted, we can reach Europa in a retrograde, powered orbit in eighty-five days. Universe is the only ship currently commissioned that can land there and take off again with a reasonable payload. The Ganymede shuttles may be able to drop supplies, but that's all – though it may make the difference between life and death.
   'I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, that our visit has been cut short – but I think you'll agree that we've shown you everything we promised. And I'm sure you'll approve of our new mission – even though the chances of success are, frankly, rather slim. That's all for the moment. Dr Floyd, can I have a word with you?'
   As the others drifted slowly and thoughtfully from the main lounge – scene of so many less portentous briefings – the Captain scanned a clipboard full of messages. There were still occasions when words printed on pieces of paper were the most convenient medium of communication, but even here technology had made its mark. The sheets that the Captain was reading were made of the indefinitely reusable multifax material which had done so much to reduce the load on the humble wastepaper basket.
   'Heywood,' he said – now that the formalities were over – 'as you can guess, the circuits are burning up. And there's a lot going on that I don't understand.'
   'Ditto,' answered Floyd. 'Anything from Chris yet?'
   "No, but Ganymede's relayed your message; he should have had it by now. There's a priority override on private communications, as you can imagine – but of course your name overrode that.'
   'Thanks, Skipper. Anything I can do to help?'
   'Not really – I'll let you know.'
   It was almost the last time, for quite a while, that they would be on speaking terms with each other. Within a few hours Dr Heywood Floyd would become 'That crazy old fool!', and the short-lived 'Mutiny on the Universe' would have begun – led by the Captain.

   It was not actually Heywood Floyd's idea; he only wished it was.
   Second Officer Roy Jolson was 'Stars', the navigation officer; Floyd barely knew him by sight, and had never had occasion to say more than good morning to him. He was quite surprised, therefore, by the diffident knock on his cabin door.
   The astrogator was carrying a set of charts, and seemed a little ill at ease. He could not be overawed by Floyd's presence – everyone on board now took him for granted – so there must be some other reason.
   'Dr Floyd,' he began, in a tone of such urgent anxiety that he reminded his listener of a salesman whose entire future depends on making the next deal. 'I'd like your advice – and assistance.'
   'Of course – but what can I do?'
   Jolson unrolled the chart showing the position of all the planets inside the orbit of Lucifer.
   'Your old trick of coupling Leonov and Discovery, to escape from Jupiter before it blew up, gave me the idea.'
   'It wasn't mine. Walter Curnow thought of it.'
   'Oh – I never knew that. Of course, we don't have another ship to boost us here – but we have something much better.'
   'What do you mean?' asked Floyd, completely baffled.
   'Don't laugh. Why go back to Earth to take on propellant – when Old Faithful is blasting out tons every second, a couple of hundred metres away? If we tapped that, we could get to Europa not in three months – but in three weeks.'
   The concept was so obvious, yet so daring, that it took Floyd's breath away. He could see half a dozen objections instantly; but none of them seemed fatal.
   'What does the Captain think of the idea?'
   'I've not told him; that's why I need your help. I'd like you to check my calculations – then put the idea to him. He'd turn me down – I'm quite certain – and I don't blame him. If I was captain, I think I would too...'
   There was a long silence in the little cabin. Then Heywood Floyd said slowly: 'Let me give you all the reasons why it can't be done. Then you can tell me why I'm wrong.'

   Second Officer Jolson knew his commander; Captain Smith had never heard such a crazy suggestion in his life.
   His objections were all well-founded, and showed little, if any, trace of the notorious 'not invented here' syndrome.
   'Oh, it would work in theory,' he admitted. 'But think of the practical problems, man! How would you get the stuff into the tanks?'
   'I've talked to the engineers. We'd move the ship to the edge of the crater – it's quite safe to get within fifty metres. There's plumbing in the unfurnished section we can rip out – then we'd run a line to Old Faithful and wait until he spouts; you know how reliable and well-behaved he is.'

   'But our pumps can't operate in a near vacuum!'
   'We don't need them; we can rely on the geyser's own efflux velocity to give us an input of at least a hundred kilos a second. Old Faithful will do all the work.'
   'He'll just give ice crystals and steam, not liquid water.'
   'It will condense when it gets on board.'
   'You've really thought this out, haven't you?' said the Captain with grudging admiration. 'But I just don't believe it. Is the water pure enough, for one thing? What about contaminants – especially carbon particles?'
   Floyd could not help smiling. Captain Smith was developing an obsession about soot...
   'We can filter out large ones; the rest won't affect the reaction. Oh yes – the hydrogen isotope ratio here looks better than for Earth. You may even get some extra thrust.'
   'What do your colleagues think of the idea? If we head straight for Lucifer, it may be months before they can get home...
   'I've not spoken to them. But does it matter, when so many lives are at stake? We may reach Galaxy seventy days ahead of schedule! Seventy days! Think what could happen on Europa in that time!'
   'I'm perfectly aware of the time factor,' snapped the Captain. 'That applies to us as well. We may not have provisions for such an extended trip.'
   Now he's straining at gnats, thought Floyd – and he must know that I know it. Better be tactful...
   'An extra couple of weeks? I can't believe we have so narrow a margin. You've been feeding us too well, anyway. Do some of us good to be on short rations for a while.'
   The Captain managed a frosty smile.
   'You can tell that to Willis and Mihailovich. But I'm afraid the whole idea is insane.'
   'At least let us try it on the owners. I'd like to speak to Sir Lawrence.'
   'I can't stop you, of course,' said Captain Smith, in a tone that suggested he wished he could. 'But I know exactly what he'll say.'
   He was quite wrong.

   Sir Lawrence Tsung had not placed a bet for thirty years; it was no longer in keeping with his august position in the world of commerce. But as a young man he had often enjoyed a mild flutter at the Hong Kong Race Course, before a puritanical administration had closed it in a fit of public morality. It was typical of life, Sir Lawrence sometimes thought wistfully, that when he could bet he had no money – and now he couldn't, because the richest man in the world had to set a good example.
   And yet, as nobody knew better than he did, his whole business career had been one long gamble. He had done his utmost to control the odds, by gathering the best information and listening to the experts his hunches told him would give the wisest advice. He had usually pulled out in time when they were wrong; but there had always been an element of risk.
   Now, as he read the memorandum from Heywood Floyd, he felt again the old thrill he had not known since he had watched the horses thundering round into the last lap. Here was a gamble indeed – perhaps the last and greatest of his career – though he would never dare tell his Board of Directors. Still less the Lady Jasmine.
   'Bill,' he said, 'what do you think?'
   His son (steady and reliable, but lacking that vital spark which was perhaps no longer needed in this generation) gave him the answer he expected.
   'The theory is quite sound. Universe can do it – on paper. But we've lost one ship. We'll be risking another.'
   'She's going to Jupiter – Lucifer – anyway.'
   'Yes – but after a complete checkout in Earth orbit. And do you realize what this proposed direct mission will involve? She'll be smashing all speed records – doing over a thousand kilometres a second at turnaround!'
   It was the worst thing he could possibly have said; once again the thunder of hooves sounded in his father's ears.
   But Sir Lawrence merely answered: 'It won't do any harm for them to make some tests, though Captain Smith is fighting the idea tooth and nail. Even threatens to resign. Meanwhile, just check the position with Lloyd's – we may have to back down on the Galaxy claim.'
   Especially, he might have added, if we're going to throw Universe on to the table, as an even bigger chip.
   And he was worried about Captain Smith. Now that Laplace was stranded on Europa, he was the best commander he had left.

33 – Pit Stop

   'Sloppiest job I've seen since I left college,' grumbled the Chief Engineer. 'But it's the best we can do in the time.'
   The makeshift pipeline stretched across fifty metres of dazzling, chemical-encrusted rock to the now quiescent vent of Old Faithful, where it ended in a rectangular, downward-pointing funnel. The sun had just risen over the hills, and already the ground had begun to tremble slightly as the geyser's subterranean – or subhallean – reservoirs felt the first touch of warmth.
   Watching from the observation lounge, Heywood Floyd could hardly believe that so much had happened in a mere twenty-four hours. First of all, the ship had split into two rival factions – one led by the Captain, the other perforce headed by himself. They had been coldly polite to each other, and there had been no actual exchange of blows; but he had discovered that in certain quarters he now rejoiced in the nickname of 'Suicide' Floyd. It was not an honour that he particularly appreciated.
   Yet no-one could find anything fundamentally wrong with the Floyd-Jolson manoeuvre. (That name was also unfair: he had insisted that Jolson get all the credit, but no-one had listened. And Mihailovich had said: 'Aren't you prepared to share the blame?')
   The first test would be in twenty minutes, when Old Faithful, rather belatedly, greeted the dawn. But even if that worked, and the propellant tanks started to fill with sparkling pure water rather than the muddy slurry Captain Smith had predicted, the road to Europa was still not open.
   A minor, but not unimportant, factor was the wishes of the distinguished passengers. They had expected to be home within two weeks; now, to their surprise and in some cases consternation, they were faced with the prospect of a dangerous mission halfway across the Solar System – and, even if it succeeded, no firm date for a return to Earth.
   Willis was distraught; all his schedules would be totally wrecked. He drifted around muttering about lawsuits, but no-one expressed the slightest sympathy.
   Greenburg, on the other hand, was ecstatic; now he would really be in the space business again! And Mihailovich – who spent a lot of time noisily composing in his far from soundproof cabin – was almost equally delighted. He was sure that the diversion would inspire him to new heights of creativity.
   Maggie M was philosophical: 'If it can save a lot of lives,' she said, looking pointedly at Willis, 'how can anyone possibly object?'
   As for Yva Merlin, Floyd made a special effort to explain matters to her, and discovered that she understood the situation remarkably well. And it was Yva, to his utter astonishment, who asked the question to which no-one else seemed to have paid much attention: 'Suppose the Europans don't want us to land – even to rescue our friends?'
   Floyd looked at her in frank amazement; even now, he still found it difficult to accept her as a real human being, and never knew when she would come out with some brilliant insight or utter stupidity.
   'That's a very good question, Yva. Believe me, I'm working on it.'
   He was telling the truth; he could never lie to Yva Merlin. That, somehow, would be an act of sacrilege.

   The first wisps of vapour were appearing over the mouth of the geyser. They shot upwards and away in their unnatural vacuum trajectories, and evaporated swiftly in the fierce Sunlight.
   Old Faithful coughed again, and cleared its throat. A snowy-white – and surprisingly compact – column of ice crystals and water droplets climbed swiftly towards the sky. All one's terrestrial instincts expected it to topple and fall, but of course it did not. It continued onwards and upwards, spreading only slightly, until it merged into the vast, glowing envelope of the comet's still expanding coma. Floyd noted, with satisfaction, that the pipeline was beginning to shake as fluid rushed into it.
   Ten minutes later, there was a council of war on the bridge. Captain Smith, still in a huff, acknowledged Floyd's presence with a slight nod; his Number Two, a little embarrassed, did all the talking.
   'Well, it works, surprisingly well. At this rate, we can fill our tanks in twenty hours – though we may have to go out and anchor the pipe more securely.'
   'What about the dirt?' someone asked.
   The First Officer held up a transparent squeeze-bulb holding a colourless liquid.
   'The filters got rid of everything down to a few microns, To be on the safe side, we'll run through them twice, cycling from one tank to another. No swimming pool, I'm afraid, until we pass Mars.'
   That got a much needed laugh, and even the Captain relaxed a little.
   'We'll run up the engines, at minimum thrust, to check that there are no operational anomalies with Halley H20. If there are, we'll forget the whole idea, and head home on good old Moon water, fob Aristarchus.'
   There was one of those 'party silences' where everyone waits simultaneously for someone else to speak. Then Captain Smith broke the embarrassing hiatus.
   'As you all know,' he said, 'I'm very unhappy with the whole idea. In fact – ' he changed course abruptly; it was equally well-known that he had considered sending Sir Lawrence his resignation, though in the circumstances that would have been a somewhat pointless gesture.
   'But a couple of things have happened in the last few hours. The owner agrees with the project – if no fundamental objections emerge from our tests. And – this is the big surprise, and I don't know any more about it than you do – the World Space Council has not only okayed but requested that we make the diversion, underwriting any expenses incurred. Your guess is as good as mine...
   'But I still have one worry -' he looked doubtfully at the little bulb of water, which Heywood Floyd was now holding up to the light and shaking gently. 'I'm an engineer, not a damn chemist. This stuff looks clean – but what will it do to the tank linings?'
   Floyd never quite understood why he acted as he did; such rashness was completely uncharacteristic. Perhaps he was simply impatient with the whole debate, and wanted to get on with the job. Or perhaps he felt that the Captain needed a little stiffening of the moral fibre.
   With one quick movement, he flicked open the stopcock and squirted approximately 20cc of Halley's Comet down his throat.
   'There's your answer, Captain,' he said, when he had finished swallowing.

   'And that,' said the ship's doctor half an hour later, 'was one of the silliest exhibitions I've ever seen. Don't you know that there are cyanides and cyanogens and God knows what else in that stuff?'
   'Of course, I do,' laughed Floyd. 'I've seen the analyses – just a few parts in a million. Nothing to worry about, But I did have one surprise,' he added ruefully.
   'And what was that?'
   'If you could ship this stuff back to Earth, you could make a fortune selling it as Halley's Patent Purgative.'

34 – Car Wash

   Now that they were committed, the whole atmosphere aboard Universe had changed. There was no more argument; everyone was cooperating to the utmost, and very few people had much sleep for the next two rotations of the nucleus – a hundred hours of Earth time.
   The first Halley 'day' was devoted to a still rather cautious tapping of Old Faithful, but when the geyser subsided towards nightfall the technique had been thoroughly mastered. More than a thousand tons of water had been taken aboard; the next period of daylight would be ample for the rest.
   Heywood Floyd kept out of the Captain's way, not wishing to press his luck; in any event, Smith had a thousand details to attend to. But the calculation of the new orbit was not among them; that had been checked and rechecked on Earth.
   There was no doubt, now, that the concept was brilliant, and the savings even greater than Jolson had claimed. By refuelling on Halley, Universe had eliminated the two major orbit changes involved in the rendezvous with Earth; she could now go straight to her goal, under maximum acceleration, saving many weeks. Despite the possible risks, everyone now applauded the scheme.
   Well, almost everyone.
   On Earth, the swiftly organized 'Hands off Halley!' society was indignant. Its members (a mere 236, but they knew how to drum up publicity) did not consider the rifling of a celestial body justified, even to save lives. They refused to be placated even when it was pointed out that Universe was merely borrowing material that the comet was about to lose anyway. It was, they argued, the principle of the thing. Their angry communiqués gave much needed light relief aboard Universe.
   Cautious as ever, Captain Smith ran the first low-powered tests with one of the attitude-control thrusters; if this became unserviceable, the ship could manage without it, There were no anomalies; the engine behaved exactly as if it was running on the best distilled water from the lunar mines.
   Then he tested the central main engine, Number One; if that was damaged, there would be no loss of manoeuvrability – only of total thrust. The ship would still be fully controllable, but, with the four remaining outboards alone, peak acceleration would be down by twenty per cent.
   Again, there were no problems; even the sceptics started being polite to Heywood Floyd, and Second Officer Jolson was no longer a social outcast.
   The lift-off was scheduled late in the afternoon, just before Old Faithful was due to subside. (Would it still be there to greet the next visitors in seventy-six years' time? Floyd wondered. Perhaps; there were hints of its existence even back on the 1910 photographs.)
   There was no countdown, in the dramatic oldtime Cape Canaveral style. When he was quite satisfied that everything was shipshape, Captain Smith applied a mere five tons of thrust on Number One, and Universe drifted slowly upwards and away from the comet.
   The acceleration was modest, but the pyrotechnics were awe-inspiring – and, to most of the watchers, wholly unexpected. Until now, the jets from the main engines had been virtually invisible, being formed entirely of highly ionized oxygen and hydrogen. Even when – hundreds of kilometres away – the gases had cooled off enough to combine chemically, there was still nothing to be seen, because the reaction gave no light in the visible spectrum.
   But now, Universe was climbing away from Halley on a column of incandescence too brilliant for the eye to look upon; it seemed almost a solid pillar of flame. Where it hit the ground, rock exploded upwards and outwards; as it departed for ever, Universe was carving its signature, like cosmic graffiti, across the nucleus of Halley's Comet.

   Most of the passengers, accustomed to climbing spacewards with no visible means of support, reacted with considerable shock. Floyd waited for the inevitable explanation; one of his minor pleasures was catching Willis in some scientific error, but this very seldom happened. And even when it did, Willis always had some very plausible excuse.
   'Carbon,' he said. 'Incandescent carbon – exactly as in a candle flame – but slightly hotter.'
   'Slightly,' murmured Floyd.
   'We're no longer burning – if you'll excuse the word -, (Floyd shrugged his shoulders) 'pure water. Although it's been carefully filtered, there's a lot of colloidal carbon in it. As well as compounds that could only be removed by distillation.'
   'It's very impressive, but I'm a little worried,' said Greenburg. 'All that radiation – won't it affect the engines – and heat the ship badly?'
   It was a very good question, and it had caused some anxiety. Floyd waited for Willis to handle it; but that shrewd operator bounced the ball right back to him.
   'I'd prefer Dr Floyd to deal with that – after all, it was his idea.'
   'Jolson's, please. Good point, though. But it's no real problem; when we're under full thrust, all those fireworks will be a thousand kilometres behind us. We won't have to worry about them.'
   The ship was now hovering some two kilometres above the nucleus; had it not been for the glare of the exhaust, the whole sunlit face of the tiny world would have been spread out beneath. At this altitude – or distance – the column of Old Faithful had broadened slightly. It looked, Floyd suddenly recalled, like one of the giant fountains ornamenting Lake Geneva. He had not seen them for fifty years, and wondered if they still played there.
   Captain Smith was testing the controls, slowly rotating the ship, then pitching and yawing it along the Y and Z axes. Everything seemed to be functioning perfectly.
   'Mission time zero is ten minutes from now,' he announced. '0.1 gee for fifty hours; then 0.2 until turnaround – one hundred and fifty hours from now.' He paused to let that sink in; no other ship had ever attempted to maintain so high a continuous acceleration, for so long. If Universe was not able to brake properly, she would also enter the history books as the first manned interstellar voyager.
   The ship was now turning towards the horizontal – if that word could be used in this almost gravityless environment – and was pointing directly to the white column of mist and ice crystals still steadily spurting from the comet. Universe started to move towards it -
   'What's he doing?' said Mihailovich anxiously.
   Obviously anticipating such questions, the Captain spoke again. He seemed to have completely recovered his good humour, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice.
   'Just one little chore before we leave, Don't worry – I know exactly what I'm doing. And Number Two agrees with me – don't you?'
   'Yessir – though I thought you were joking at first.'
   'What is going on up on the bridge?' asked Willis, for once at a loss.
   Now the ship was starting a slow roll, while still moving at no more than a good walking speed towards the geyser. From this distance – now less than a hundred metres – it reminded Floyd still more closely of those far-off Geneva fountains.
   Surely he's not taking us into it – But he was. Universe vibrated gently as it nuzzled its way into the rising column of foam. It was still rolling very slowly, as if it was drilling its way into the giant geyser. The video monitors and observation windows showed only a milky blankness.
   The whole operation could not have lasted more than ten seconds; then they were out on the other side. There was a brief burst of spontaneous clapping from the officers on the bridge; but the passengers – even including Floyd – still felt somewhat put-upon.
   'Now we're ready to go,' said the Captain, in tones of great satisfaction. 'We have a nice, clean ship again.'

   During the next half-hour, more than ten thousand amateur observers on Earth and Moon reported that the comet had doubled its brightness. The Comet Watch Network broke down completely under the overload, and the professional astronomers were furious.
   But the public loved it, and a few days later Universe put on an even better show, a few hours before dawn.
   The ship, gaining speed by more than ten thousand kilometres an hour, every hour, was now far inside the orbit of Venus. It would get even closer to the sun before it made its perihelion passage – far more swiftly than any natural celestial body – and headed out towards Lucifer.
   As it passed between Earth and Sun, the thousand kilometre tail of incandescent carbon was easily visible as a fourth magnitude star, showing appreciable movement against the constellations of the morning sky in the course of a single hour. At the very beginning of its rescue mission, Universe would be seen by more human beings, at the same moment, than any artefact in the history of the world.

35 – Adrift

   The unexpected news that their sister ship Universe was on the way – and might arrive far sooner than anyone had dared to dream – had an effect upon the morale of Galaxy's crew that could only be called euphoric. The mere fact that they were drifting helplessly on a strange ocean, surrounded by unknown monsters, suddenly seemed of minor importance.
   As did the monsters themselves, though they made interesting appearances from time to time. The giant 'sharks' were sighted occasionally, but never came near the ship, even when garbage was dumped overboard. This was quite surprising; it strongly suggested that the great beasts – unlike their terrestrial counterparts – had a good system of communication. Perhaps they were more closely allied to dolphins than to sharks.
   There were many schools of smaller fish, which no-one would have given a second glance in a market on Earth. After several attempts, one of the officers – a keen angler – managed to catch one with an unbaited hook. He never brought it in through the airlock – the Captain would not have permitted it, anyway – but measured and photographed it carefully before returning it to the sea.
   The proud sportsman had to pay a price for his trophy, however. The partial-pressure spacesuit he had worn during the exercise had the characteristic 'rotten eggs' stink of hydrogen sulphide when he brought it back into the ship, and he became the butt of innumerable jokes. It was yet another reminder of an alien, and implacably hostile, biochemistry.
   Despite the pleas of the scientists, no further angling was allowed. They could watch and record, but not collect, And anyway, it was pointed out, they were planetary geologists, not naturalists. No-one had thought of bringing formalin – which probably would not work here in any event.
   Once, the ship drifted for several hours through floating mats or sheets of some bright green material. It formed ovals, about ten metres across, and all of approximately the same size, Galaxy ploughed through them without resistance, and they swiftly reformed behind her. It was guessed that they were colonial organisms of some kind.
   And one morning, the officer of the watch was startled when a periscope rose out of the water and he found himself staring into a mild, blue eye which, he said when he had recovered, looked like a sick cow's. It regarded him sadly for a few moments, without much apparent interest, then slowly returned to the ocean,
   Nothing seemed to move very fast here, and the reason was obvious. This was still a low-energy world – there was none of the free oxygen that allowed the animals of Earth to live by a series of continuous explosions, from the moment they started to breathe at birth. Only the 'shark' of that first encounter had shown any sign of violent activity – in its last, dying spasm.
   Perhaps that was good news for men. Even if they were encumbered with spacesuits, there was probably nothing on Europa that could catch them -even if it wanted to.

   Captain Laplace found wry amusement in handing over the operation of his ship to the purser; he wondered if this situation was unique, in the annals of space and sea.
   Not that there was a great deal that Mr Lee could do. Galaxy was floating vertically, one-third out of the water, heeling slightly before a wind that was driving it at a steady five knots. There were only a few leaks below the waterline, easily handled. Equally important, the hull was still airtight.
   Although most of the navigation equipment was useless, they knew exactly where they were. Ganymede gave them an accurate fix on their emergency beacon every hour, and if Galaxy kept to her present course she would make landfall on a large island within the next three days. If she missed that, she would head on out to the open sea, and eventually reach the tepidly boiling zone immediately underneath Lucifer. Though not necessarily catastrophic, that was a most unattractive prospect; Acting Captain Lee spent much of his time thinking of ways to avoid it.
   Sails – even if he had suitable material and rigging – would make very little difference to their course. He had lowered improvised sea-anchors down to five hundred metres, looking for currents that might be useful, and finding none. Nor had he found the bottom; it lay unknown kilometres further down.
   Perhaps that was just as well; it protected them from the submarine quakes that continually. racked this new ocean. Sometimes Galaxy would shake as if struck by a giant hammer, as a shockwave went racing by. In a few hours, a tsunami, dozens of metres high, would crash upon some Europan shore; but here in deep water the deadly waves were little more than ripples.
   Several times, sudden vortexes were observed at a distance; they looked quite dangerous – maelstroms that might even suck Galaxy down to unknown depths – but luckily they were too far off to do more than make the ship spin around a few times in the water.
   And just once, a huge bubble of gas rose and burst only a hundred metres away. It was most impressive, and everyone seconded the doctor's heartfelt comment: 'Thank God we can't smell it.'

   It is surprising how quickly the most bizarre situation can become routine. Within a few days, life aboard Galaxy had settled down to a steady routine, and Captain Laplace's main problem was keeping the crew occupied. There was nothing worse for morale than idleness, and he wondered how the skippers of the old windjammers had kept their men busy on those interminable voyages. They couldn't have spent all their time scrambling up the rigging or cleaning the decks.
   He had the opposite problem with the scientists. They were always proposing tests and experiments, which had to be carefully considered before they could be approved. And if he allowed it, they would have monopolized the ship's now very limited communications channels.
   The main antenna complex was now being battered around at the waterline, and Galaxy could no longer talk directly to Earth. Everything had to be relayed through Ganymede, on a bandwidth of a few miserable megahertz. A single live video channel pre-empted everything else, and he had to resist the clamour of the terrestrial networks. Not that they would have a great deal to show their audiences, except open sea, cramped ship interiors, and a crew which, though in good spirits, was becoming steadily more hirsute.
   An unusual amount of traffic seemed directed to Second Officer Floyd whose encrypted responses were so brief that they could not have contained much information. Laplace finally decided to have a talk to the young man.
   'Mr Floyd,' he said, in the privacy of his cabin. 'I'd appreciate it if you would enlighten me about your part-time occupation.'
   Floyd looked embarrassed, and clutched at the table as the ship rocked slightly in a sudden gust.
   'I wish I could, sir, but I'm not permitted.'
   'By whom, may I ask?'
   'Frankly, I'm not sure.'
   That was perfectly true. He suspected it was ASTROPOL, but the two quietly impressive gentlemen who had briefed him on Ganymede had unaccountably failed to provide this information.
   'As captain of this ship – especially in the present circumstances – I would like to know what's going on here. If we get out of this, I'm going to spend the next few years of my life at Courts of Enquiry. And you'll probably be doing the same.'
   Floyd managed a wry grin.
   'Hardly worth being rescued, is it, Sir? All I know is that some high-level agency expected trouble on this mission, but didn't know what form it would take. I was just told to keep my eyes open. I'm afraid I didn't do much good, but I imagine I was the only qualified person they could get hold of in time.'
   'I don't think you can blame yourself. Who would have imagined that Rosie -'
   The Captain paused, struck by a sudden thought.
   'Do you suspect anyone else?' He felt like adding 'Me, for instance?', but the situation was already sufficiently paranoiac.
   Floyd looked thoughtful, then apparently came to a decision.
   'Perhaps I should have spoken to you before, Sir, but I know how busy you've been. I'm sure Dr van der Berg is involved somehow. He's a Mede, of course; they're odd people, and I don't really understand them.' Or like them, he might have added. Too clannish – not really friendly to offworlders. Still, one could hardly blame them; all pioneers trying to tame a new wilderness were probably much the same.
   'Van der Berg – hmm. What about the other scientists?'
   'They've been checked, of course. All perfectly legitimate, and nothing unusual about any of them.'
   That was not altogether true. Dr Simpson had more wives than was strictly legal, at least at one time, and Dr Higgins had a large collection of most curious books. Second Officer Floyd was not quite sure why he had been told all this; perhaps his mentors merely wanted to impress him with their omniscience. He decided that working for ASTROPOL (or whoever it was) had some entertaining fringe benefits.
   'Very well,' said the Captain, dismissing the amateur agent. 'But please keep me informed if you discover anything – anything at all– that might affect the safety of the ship.'
   In the present circumstances, it was hard to imagine what that might be. Any further hazards seemed slightly superfluous.