36 – The Alien Shore

   Even twenty-four hours before they sighted the island, it was still not certain whether Galaxy would miss it and be blown on out into the emptiness of the central ocean. Her position, as observed by the Ganymede radar, was plotted on a large chart which everyone aboard examined anxiously several times a day.
   Even if the ship did reach land, her problems might be just beginning. She might be pounded to pieces on a rocky coast, rather than gently deposited on some conveniently shelving beach.
   Acting Captain Lee was keenly aware of all these possibilities. He had once been shipwrecked himself, in a cabin cruiser whose engines had failed at a critical moment, off the island of Bali. There had been little danger, though a good deal of drama, and he had no wish to repeat the experience – especially as there was no coastguard here to come to the rescue.
   There was a truly cosmic irony in their plight. Here they were, aboard one of the most advanced transportation devices ever made by man – capable of crossing the Solar System! – yet now they could not deflect it more than a few metres from its course. Nevertheless, they were not completely helpless; Lee still had a few cards to play.
   On this sharply curving world, the island was only five kilometres away when they first sighted it. To Lee's great relief, there were none of the cliffs he had feared; nor, on the other hand, was there any sign of the beach he had hoped for. The geologists had warned him that he was a few million years too early to find sand here; the mills of Europa, grinding slowly, had not yet had time to do their work.
   As soon as it was certain they would hit the land, Lee gave orders to pump out Galaxy's main tanks, which he had deliberately flooded soon after touchdown. Then followed a very uncomfortable few hours, during which at least a quarter of the crew took no further interest in the proceedings.
   Galaxy rose higher and higher in the water, oscillating more and more wildly – then tumbled with a mighty splash, to lie along the surface, like the corpse of a whale in the bad old days when the catcher-boats pumped them full of air to stop them sinking. When he saw how the ship was lying, Lee adjusted her buoyancy again, until she was slightly stern-down, and the forward bridge was just clear of the water.
   As he expected, Galaxy then swung broadside-on to the wind. Another quarter of the crew became incapacitated then, but Lee had enough helpers to get out the sea-anchor he had prepared for this final act. It was merely an improvised raft, made of empty boxes lashed together, but its drag caused the ship to point towards the approaching land.
   Now they could see that they were heading – with agonizing slowness – towards a narrow stretch of beach, covered with small boulders. If they could not have sand, this was the best alternative...
   The bridge was already over the beach when Galaxy grounded, and Lee played his last card. He had made only a single test-run, not daring to do more in case the abused machinery failed.
   For the last time, Galaxy extended her landing gear. There was a grinding and shuddering as the pads on the underside dug their way into the alien beach. Now she was securely anchored against the winds and waves of this tideless ocean.
   There was no doubt that Galaxy had found her final resting place – and, all too possibly, that of her crew.

V – THROUGH THE ASTEROIDS

37 – Star

   And now Universe was moving so swiftly that its orbit no longer even remotely resembled that of any natural object in the Solar System. Mercury, closest to the Sun, barely exceeds fifty kilometres a second at perihelion; Universe had reached twice that speed in the first day – and at only half the acceleration it would achieve when it was lighter by several thousand tons of water.
   For a few hours, as they passed inside its orbit, Venus was the brightest of all heavenly bodies, next to the Sun and Lucifer. Its tiny disc was just visible to the naked eye, but even the ship's most powerful telescopes showed no markings whatever. Venus guarded her secrets as jealously as Europa.
   By going still closer to the Sun – well inside the orbit of Mercury – Universe was not merely taking a short cut, but was also getting a free boost from the Sun's gravitational field. Because nature always balances her books, the Sun lost some velocity in the transaction; but the effect would not be measurable for a few thousand years.
   Captain Smith used the ship's perihelion passage to restore some of the prestige his foot-dragging had cost him.
   'Now you know,' he said, 'exactly why I flew the ship through Old Faithful. If we hadn't washed all that dirt off the hull, by this time we'd be badly overheating. In fact, I doubt if the thermal controls would have handled the load – it's already ten times Earth level.' Looking – through filters that were almost black – at the hideously swollen Sun, his passengers could easily believe him. They were all more than happy when it had shrunk back to normal size – and continued to dwindle astern as Universe sliced across the orbit of Mars, outward bound on the final leg of its mission.
   The 'Famous Five' had all adjusted, in their various ways, to the unexpected change in their lives. Mihailovich was composing copiously and noisily, and was seldom seen except when he emerged at meals, to tell outrageous stories and tease all available victims, especially Willis. Greenburg had elected himself, no-one dissenting, an honorary crew member, and spent much of his time on the bridge.
   Maggie M viewed the situation with rueful amusement.
   'Writers,' she remarked, 'are always saying what a lot of work they could do if they were only in some place with no interruptions – no engagements; lighthouses and prisons are their favourite examples. So I can't complain – except that my requests for research material keep getting delayed by high priority messages.'
   Even Victor Willis had now come to much the same conclusion; he too was busily at work on sundry long-range projects. And he had an additional reason to keep to his cabin. It would still be several weeks before he looked as if he had forgotten to shave, and months before he returned to his full glory.
   Yva Merlin spent hours every day in the entertainment centre, catching up – as she readily explained – with her favourite classics. It was fortunate that Universe's library and projection facilities had been installed in time for the voyage; though the collection was still relatively small, there was sufficient for several lifetimes of viewing.
   All the famous works of visual art were there, right back to the flickering dawn of the cinema. Yva knew most of them, and was happy to share her knowledge.
   Floyd, of course, enjoyed listening to her, because then she became alive – an ordinary human being, not an icon. He found it both sad and fascinating that only through an artificial universe of video images could she establish contact with the real world.
   One of the strangest experiences of Heywood Floyd's fairly eventful life was sitting in semi-darkness just behind Yva, somewhere outside the orbit of Mars, while they watched the original Gone with the Wind together. There were moments when he could see her famous profile silhouetted against that of Vivien Leigh, and could compare the two – though it was impossible to say that one actress was better than the other; both were sui generis.
   When the lights went up, he was astonished to see that Yva was crying. He took her hand and said tenderly: 'I cried too, when Bonny died.'
   Yva managed a faint smile.
   'I was really crying for Vivien,' she said. 'While we were shooting Two, I read a lot about her – she had such a tragic life. And talking about her, right out here between the planets, reminds me of something that Larry said when he brought the poor thing back from Ceylon after her nervous breakdown. He told his friends: "I've married a woman from outer space."
   Yva paused for a moment, and another tear trickled (rather theatrically, Floyd could not help thinking) down her cheek.
   'And here's something even stranger. She made her last movie exactly a hundred years ago – and do you know what it was?'
   'Go on – surprise me again.'
   'I expect it will surprise Maggie – if she's really writing the book she keeps threatening us with. Vivien's very last film was – Ship of Fools.'

38 – Icebergs of Space

   Now that they had so much unexpected time on their hands, Captain Smith had finally agreed to give Victor Willis the long-delayed interview which was part of his contract. Victor himself had kept putting it off, owing to what Mihailovich persisted in calling his 'amputation'. As it would be many months before he could regenerate his public image, he had finally decided to do the interview off-camera; the studio on Earth could fake him in later with library shots.
   They had been sitting in the Captain's still only partly furnished cabin, enjoying one of the excellent wines which apparently made up much of Victor's baggage allowance. As Universe would cut its drive and start coasting within the next few hours, this would be the last opportunity for several days. Weightless wine, Victor maintained, was an abomination; he refused to put any of his precious vintage into plastic squeezebulbs.
   'This is Victor Willis, aboard the spaceship Universe at 18.30 on Friday, 15 July 2061. Though we're not yet at the mid-point of our journey, we're already far beyond the orbit of Mars, and have almost reached our maximum velocity. Which is, Captain?'
   'One thousand and fifty kilometres a second.'
   'More than a thousand kilometres a second -almost four million kilometres an hour!'
   Victor Willis' surprise sounded perfectly genuine; no-one would have guessed that he knew the orbital parameters almost as well as did the Captain. But one of his strengths was his ability to put himself in the place of his viewers, and not only to anticipate their questions, but to arouse their interest.
   'That's right,' the Captain answered with quiet pride. 'We are travelling twice as fast as any human beings since the beginning of time.'
   That should have been one of my lines, thought Victor; he did not like his subject to get ahead of him. But, good professional that he was, he quickly adapted.
   He pretended to consult his famous little memo pad, with its sharply directional screen whose display only he could see.
   'Every twelve seconds, we're travelling the diameter of Earth. Yet it will still take us another ten days to reach Jupi – ah, Lucifer! That gives some idea of the scale of the Solar System.
   '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 kilometres.'
   '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 kilometres 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 18.00 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 kilometres, 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 thoughtfully, '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, hear's 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.
   But tonight, he had managed to get everything right; probably when weight returned, he would have difficulty in readjusting to that. He had lain awake for only a few minutes, recapitulating the latest discussion at dinner, and had then fallen asleep.
   In his dreams, he had continued the conversation around the table. There had been a few trifling changes, which he accepted without surprise. Willis, for example, had grown his beard back – though on only one side of his face. This, Floyd presumed, was in aid of some research project, though he found it difficult to imagine its purpose.
   In any event, he had his own worries. He was defending himself against the criticisms of Space Administrator Millson, who had somewhat surprisingly joined their little group. Floyd wondered how he had come aboard Universe (could he possibly have stowed away?). The fact that Millson had been dead for at least forty years seemed much less important.
   'Heywood,' his old enemy was saying, 'the White House is most upset.'
   'I can't imagine why.'
   'That radio message you've just sent to Europa. Did it have State Department clearance?'
   'I didn't think it was necessary. I merely asked permission to land.'
   'Ah – but that's it. Who did you ask? Do we recognize the government concerned? I'm afraid it's all very irregular...
   Millson faded away, still tut-tutting. I'm very glad this is only a dream, thought Floyd. Now what?
   Well, I might have expected it. Hello, old friend. You come in all sizes, don't you? Of course, even TMA 1 couldn't have squeezed into my cabin – and its Big Brother could easily have swallowed Universe in one gulp.
   The black monolith was standing – or floating – only two metres from his bunk. With an uncomfortable shock of recognition, Floyd realized that it was not only the same shape, but also the same size, as an ordinary tombstone. Although the resemblance had often been pointed out to him, until now the incongruity of scale had lessened the psychological impact. Now, for the first time, he felt the likeness was disquieting – even sinister. I know this is only a dream – but at my age, I don't want any reminders...
   Anyway – what are you doing here? Do you bring a message from Dave Bowman? Are you Dave Bowman?
   Well, I didn't really expect an answer; you weren't very talkative in the past, were you? But things always happened when you were around. Back in Tycho, sixty years ago, you sent that signal to Jupiter, to tell your makers that we'd dug you up. And look what you did to Jupiter, when we got there a dozen years later!
   What are you up to now?

VI – HAVEN

43 – Salvage

   The first task confronting Captain Laplace and his crew, once they had grown accustomed to being on terra firma, was to re-orient themselves. Everything on Galaxy was the wrong way round.
   Spaceships are designed for two modes of operation – either no gravity at all, or, when the engines are thrusting, an up-and-down direction along the axis. But now Galaxy was lying almost horizontally, and all the floors had become walls. It was exactly as if they were trying to live in a lighthouse that had toppled on to its side; every single piece of furniture had to be moved, and at least fifty per cent of the equipment was not functioning properly.
   Yet in some ways this was a blessing in disguise, and Captain Laplace made the most of it. The crew was so busy rearranging Galaxy's interior – giving priority to the plumbing – that he had few worries about morale. As long as the hull remained airtight, and the muon generators continued to supply power, they were in no immediate danger; they merely had to survive for twenty days, and salvation would come from the skies in the shape of Universe. No-one ever mentioned the possibility that the unknown powers that ruled Europa might object to a second landing. They had – as far as anyone knew – ignored the first; surely they could not interfere with a mission of mercy...
   Europa itself, however, was now less cooperative. While Galaxy had been adrift on the open sea, it had been virtually unaffected by the quakes which continually racked the little world. But now that the ship had become an all too permanent land structure, it was shaken every few hours by seismic disturbances. Had it touched down in the normal vertical position, by now it would certainly have been overturned.
   The quakes were unpleasant rather than dangerous, but they gave nightmares to anyone who had experienced Tokyo '33 or Los Angeles '45. It did not help much to know that they followed a completely predictable pattern, rising to a peak of violence and frequency every three and a half days when Io came swinging past on its inner orbit. Nor was it much consolation to know that Europa's own gravitational tides were inflicting at least equal damage on Io.
   After six days of gruelling work, Captain Laplace was satisfied that Galaxy was as near shipshape as was possible in the circumstances. He declared a holiday – which most of the crew spent sleeping – and then drew up a schedule for their second week on the satellite.
   The scientists, of course, wanted to explore the new world they had so unexpectedly entered. According to the radar maps that Ganymede had transmitted to them, the island was fifteen kilometres long and five wide; its maximum elevation was only a hundred metres – not high enough, someone had gloomily predicted, to avoid a really bad tsunami.
   It was hard to imagine a more dismal and forbidding place; half a century of exposure to Europa's feeble winds and rains had done nothing to break up the pillow lava which covered half its surface, or to soften the outcropping of granite that protruded through the rivers of frozen rock. But it was their home now, and they had to find a name for it.
   Gloomy, downbeat suggestions like Hades, Inferno, Hell, Purgatory... were firmly vetoed by the Captain; he wanted something cheerful. One surprising and quixotic tribute to a brave enemy was seriously considered before being rejected thirty-two to ten, with five abstentions: the island would not be called 'Roseland'..
   In the end, 'Haven' won unanimously.

44 – Endurance

   'History never repeats itself – but historical situations recur.'
   As he made his daily report to Ganymede, Captain Laplace kept thinking of the phrase. It had been quoted by Margaret M'Bala – now approaching at almost a thousand kilometres every second – in a message of encouragement from Universe which he had been very happy to relay to his fellow castaways.
   'Please tell Miss M'Bala that her little history lesson was extremely good for morale; she couldn't have thought of anything better to send us.
   'Despite the inconvenience of having our walls and floors switched around, we're living in luxury compared to those old polar explorers. Some of us had heard of Ernest Shackleton, but we had no idea of the Endurance saga. To have been trapped on ice floes for over a year – then to spend the Antarctic winter in a cave – then to cross a thousand kilometres of sea in an open boat and to climb a range of unmapped mountains to reach the nearest human settlement!
   'And yet that was only the beginning. What we find incredible – and inspiring – is that Shackleton went back four times to rescue his men on that little island – and saved every one of them! You can guess what that story's done to our spirits – I hope you can fax this book to us in your next transmission – we're all anxious to read it.
   'And what would he have thought of that! Yes, we're infinitely better off than any of those old-time explorers. It's almost impossible to believe that, until well into the last century, they were completely cut off from the rest of the human race, once they'd gone over the horizon. We should be ashamed at grumbling because light isn't fast enough and we can't talk to our friends in real time – or that it takes a couple of hours to get replies from Earth... They had no contact for months – almost years! Again, Miss M'Bala – our sincerest thanks.
   'Of course, all Earth explorers did have one considerable advantage over us; at least they could breathe the air. Our science team has been clamouring to go outside, and we've modified four spacesuits for EVAs of up to six hours. At this atmospheric pressure they won't need full suits – a waist seal is good enough – and I'm allowing two men to go out at a time, as long as they stay within sight of the ship.
   'Finally, here's today's weather report. Pressure two hundred and fifty bars, temperature steady at twenty-five degrees, wind gusting at up to thirty klicks from the west, usual hundred per cent overcast, quakes between one and three on open-ended Richter...
   'You know, I never did like the sound of that "open-ended" – especially now that Io's coming into conjunction again.

45 – Mission

   When people asked to see him together, it usually meant trouble, or at least some difficult decision. Captain Laplace had noticed that Floyd and van der Berg were spending a lot of time in earnest discussions, often with Second Officer Chang, and it was easy to guess what they were talking about. Yet their proposal still took him by surprise.
   'You want to go to Mount Zeus! How – in an open boat? Has that Shackleton book gone to your head?'
   Floyd looked slightly embarrassed; the Captain was right on target. South had been an inspiration, in more ways than one.
   'Even if we could build a boat, Sir, it would take much too long... especially now that Universe looks like reaching us within ten days.'
   'And I'm not sure,' added van der Berg, 'that I'd care to sail on this "Sea of Galilee"; not all its inhabitants may have got the message that we're inedible.'
   'So that leaves only one alternative, doesn't it? I'm sceptical, but I'm willing to be convinced. Go on...
   'We've discussed it with Mr Chang, and he confirms that it can be done. Mount Zeus is only three hundred kilometres away; the shuttle can fly there in less than an hour.'
   'And find a place to land? As you doubtless recall, Mr Chang wasn't very successful with Galaxy.'
   'No problem, Sir, The William Tsung's only a hundredth of our mass; even that ice could probably have supported it. We've been over the video records, and found a dozen good landing sites.'
   'Besides,' said van der Berg, 'the pilot won't have a pistol pointed at him. That could help.'
   'I'm sure it will. But the big problem is at this end. How are you going to get the shuttle out of its garage? Can you rig a crane? Even in this gravity, it would be quite a load.'
   'No need to, Sir. Mr Chang can fly it out.'
   There was a prolonged silence while Captain Laplace contemplated, obviously without much enthusiasm, the idea of rocket motors firing inside his ship. The small shuttle William Tsung, more familiarly known as Bill Tee, was designed purely for orbital operations; normally, it would be pushed gently out of its 'garage', and the engines would not operate until it was well away from the mother ship.
   'Obviously you've worked all this out,' said the Captain grudgingly, 'but what about the angle of take-off? Don't tell me you want to roll Galaxy over so that Bill Tee can pop straight up? The garage is half-way down one side; lucky it wasn't underneath when we grounded.'
   'The take-off will have to be at sixty degrees to the horizontal; the lateral thrusters can handle it.'
   'If Mr Chang says so, I'll certainly believe him. But what will the firing do to the ship?'
   'Well, it will wreck the garage interior – but it will never be used again, anyway. And the bulkheads are designed for accidental explosions, so there's no danger of damage to the rest of the ship. We'll have fire-fighting crews standing by, just in case.'
   It was a brilliant concept – no doubt of that. If it worked, the mission would not be a total failure. During the last week, Captain Laplace had given scarcely a moment's thought to the mystery of Mount Zeus, which had brought them to this predicament: only survival had mattered. But now there was hope, and leisure to think ahead. It would be worth taking some risks, to find why this little world was the focus of so much intrigue.