The Titan Probe

by Morris, Brandon Q.

  “Here we see a few popular targets. Maybe the names will mean something to you.”

  “Sagittarius A*,” nerd-boy said. “The black hole,” and then the boy clicked on that option. Robert looked out the window. The dish was slowly moving toward a new position.

  “Now we have to wait a while.”

  Three minutes later, an old-fashioned printer started to rattle and finally spat out a documented printed in grayscale.

  “The astronomers usually sat in a different room, where they analyzed the data. This here is only a crude summary. But look, these lines here. This is the black hole.”

  The lanky girl also wanted to select a target. She clicked on ‘Titan.’ The antenna started moving.

  Once, 41 years ago, Robert sat here—he clearly remembered it. They had spent the night here because there was a lot of snow and wind, and the decisive signal from the Huygens probe was expected to arrive at 5:18 local time. They set up a phone conference with other observatories and the ESA Mission Control in Darmstadt. Everyone waited for their boss, Sami Asmar, to give the long-awaited answer. He took his time, though. Robert, who back then had been a 27-year-old doctoral candidate, already recognized the signal. It was there, clearly visible at 2040 megahertz, but Asmar remained calm, drummed a finger against the tabletop, and said nothing. A minute later he picked up the handset of the phone, so he could be heard clearly, and finally announced, “I can see the signal sent by the probe. Three refresh cycles by now. It is real.”

  The school class stared at the printer, which started to give off rattling sounds. Robert felt the excitement from back then resonating at this moment. The printout displaying the Titan spectrum was longer than was usual during these tours and fell to the floor before Robert could grab it. The girl bent down quickly and picked up the sheet for him. Robert gave it a cursory glance. He had seen thousands of such spectra, and expected to see a chaotic spectrum without clearly visible lines. Robert actually saw the hills and valleys attributable to various processes in Saturn’s atmosphere. There was also a clear, fine line at 2040 megahertz. He stood there gaping. What he saw just now could not possibly be.

  “Mister?”

  The girl noticed something was wrong. What should he tell her? It must be some kind of glitch. No man-made probe used this radio frequency these days. Back then, they had plenty of problems finding radio telescopes which could tune their receivers up to this wavelength. He needed to sit down. No, it simply can’t be, he thought.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “it’s just my age.”

  “What about the recording?”

  “Oh, yes, the recording.”

  “What does it show? Any signals by extraterrestrials?” The girl raised her eyebrows, turned the sheet toward her, and pointed at the line at 2040 MHz. Her face bore the basic skepticism of a teenager, but also hope. She certainly is going to become a scientist, Robert thought. Then he remembered her question. He scratched his head.

  “Oh, no, it is probably only a lightning strike. Titan has a very dense atmosphere, where sometimes thunderstorms occur.”

  “And does it rain then, too?”

  “Yes, liquid methane. The stuff cows fart.”

  The girl laughed, and the others did so as well. Robert almost believed a bit in his own theory. In spite of it, he was going to return to the control room after work and check it out.

  December 27, 2046, Enceladus

  Marchenko lifted his left arm and activated the display. In the darkness it worked like a flashlight. He looked around. The blue glow of the screen showed him metal walls and a room measuring maybe two by eight meters, resembling a section of a tunnel. He was standing near one end of Valkyrie. Farther ahead he saw chairs, and tables holding monitors. He tried to remember what he learned about Valkyrie during training.

  Marchenko was inside some kind of metal pipe. Behind the wall to his left there were energy converters that turned the laser light, arriving via the optical cable, into electricity and heat. Then there was all the technology that humans needed to survive. At the other end, there were the drill jets that were able to melt the ice on Enceladus with hot steam, and also served as propulsion components in the depths of the ocean. He had entered Valkyrie in the habitable section in between, from where the two-person crew steered it. Francesca must have sat at the very front.

  He listened, but could not hear anything. Sure, he thought, and looked at the screen. Inside, there was a vacuum as on the surface—at least almost—since a small part of the atmosphere had initially precipitated on the walls and was now evaporating. It was warmer than outside, only minus 100 degrees instead of minus 200, perhaps due to the remaining heat of the engines. It had only been two days since his new girlfriend—Francesca, the Italian pilot—and Martin, the German astronaut, had left Valkyrie and started their march toward the lander.

  How can I turn on this vehicle again, so that it fills with air? wondered Marchenko. They learned in the Antarctic how to maneuver Valkyrie through a mixture of ice and water, and how to use its sensors correctly. Yet each time he had entered Valkyrie as an ASCAN, or Astronaut Candidate, the lights were already blinking on the walls and the air conditioning was providing fresh air. He tried to recall the start of Valkyrie he had witnessed from orbit ten days ago. The AI must have activated the systems. This did not help him. Or would it?

  “Watson, turn on the light.”

  It remained dark. Is there a main switch somewhere? Marchenko looked at the display. He still had oxygen for almost an hour. Two days ago, Valkyrie was up and running. There must be a way to reactivate it. What was the last thing Francesca and Martin did? Since she was the pilot, it was certain Francesca was the last to leave Valkyrie. He switched on the helmet lamp and walked forward. He could not see anything on the deactivated monitors. Should I check the SuitPorts? The exit was behind a flat door, more of a hatch. There was not much space there. A SuitPort was practical, making an airlock unnecessary. Marchenko still remembered the training session. An astronaut did not have to enter an airlock, but would step directly into the pressurized suit. It sounded simple in theory, but in reality it was as tricky as putting on a whole-body glove. Once you succeeded in doing it, you closed the connection and could work outside.

  Marchenko checked what the two astronauts had left behind. The outer openings of the two SuitPorts had been closed correctly, but not the inner ones. Normally, the astronaut remaining on board handled this task. At both SuitPort openings, Marchenko moved the levers that closed the inner openings. He felt a glass panel slide into place.

  “Got you,” he said out loud, because shortly afterward three yellow lights started blinking below the SuitPorts. Activity, that’s what he had been waiting for. The system must have interpreted the opened connections as a serious error and shut itself off. Now, after everything was all right again and the system automatically restarted, Marchenko triumphantly pounded his left hand against the wall. Then he leaned his back against it. He needed a short rest.

  From the corner of his eye he saw vapor float through Valkyrie. The consoles also came to life. Their little lamps lit the haze like in a disco on Earth. Fine snow settled on his arm. The life-support system was obviously trying to create a breathable atmosphere again. As long as it was cold, the carbon dioxide would freeze out of it. He had to be a little patient. Soon afterward, the snow simply disappeared again, which looked eerie.

  Marchenko used his arm display to track the rising oxygen content. At 14 percent he took off his helmet. The ice-cold air hit his face with full force. He caught his breath for a moment. Minus 40 degrees was what the display indicated. The air was noticeably thin, like he had once experienced back in the Pamir Mountains. He took a deep breath and felt the air flowing through his windpipe and into his lungs. It smelled wonderful, very healthy, like after a thunderstorm at home. He knew this was ozone, which was created when the air was recycled. Actually, the air on board was probably not very fresh anymore, since it must have passed through the lu
ngs of Francesca and Martin several times. Marchenko smiled. He now could breathe the same air that had kept Francesca alive.

  One less problem. In his mind he checked off the list. He was not safe yet. He needed three resources: oxygen, food, and energy. Number one seemed to be available, at least for the time being. He would have to check how large the on-board O2 supply actually was. If enough energy was available, Valkyrie would be able to create oxygen from water. The food problem was not urgent because Martin and Francesca’s excursion was supposed to have lasted much longer, so the vehicle should contain supplies for several weeks. In the long run, this might become his biggest problem, though. Neither the ocean nor the icy surface of Enceladus provided any food. This was definitely a reason he needed to call for help. From Valkyrie he could reach a spaceship in orbit—if there was one there—but not Earth. And what about an energy supply? If he wanted to use the radio, drive the vehicle, or produce oxygen, he needed electricity. Normally, Valkyrie was provided with energy by a laser, but the cable had been torn off, and the laser source on board the spaceship was probably on its return journey to Earth.

  Marchenko shook his head.

  “Calm down, Mitya,” he said out loud.

  His words sounded strange. He was no longer used to hearing himself speak in a larger room. Marchenko looked at the temperature gauge: above zero degrees. This meant he could finally get out of his spacesuit. On his own, and with an aching arm, it was not an easy task. He was sweating and gasping by the time he was finished. Then he walked barefoot across the cabin. First he went into the sanitation module, where he finally got rid of the soiled diaper, and enjoyed a hot shower. He definitely should save energy, but if the supply was so low that the shower was too much, he probably would not survive the next few days anyway. Due to the low gravity, the water did not splatter against his body in small drops, but rather, sloshed in huge spheres slowly against his skin, slower than waves on a tropical beach, before it split in seeming slow motion.

  He shivered when he left the shower. The air still had not reached 12 degrees. He searched the cabinets for some fresh clothing. There must be clothes here for the entire crew. And he actually found a tracksuit bearing the label ‘Marchenko’ and a Russian flag, as well as underwear, socks, and sneakers that fit him. While he was at it he inspected the food supplies and was satisfied. At first glance, the food should suffice for three or four weeks, and he probably could stretch it further.

  Now for his arm. He took a look at it. It did not hurt as long as he let it hang loosely. His x-ray machine was back on ILSE. He touched the bone with his left hand. He did not feel anything, but as soon as he moved the joint, the pain returned. Was it a sprain? He gave himself a shot of painkiller from the medicine cabinet.

  Now he could move on to the critical part. He activated one of the consoles. He was going to get the required information via the command line interface. Watson, the artificial intelligence, would need the main server, and that required a lot of energy. He believed he still should be able to manage a bit of mental arithmetic. He first displayed the current energy usage, and then he compared it with the remaining energy in the batteries. The result was devastating. It did not improve significantly when he played around with some of the parameters. Even if, for example, he went without heating and lived off canned food by the light of his arm display, the batteries would be drained inside of two days. Sending an immediate distress call at full power would dramatically speed up his demise. How likely was it that ILSE could get here within 36 hours to pick him up? Almost impossible. Marchenko gnashed his teeth.

  “Mitya, you know what to do.”

  Yes, he was right, damn it. He must find a solution. He would find a solution.

  December 27, 2046, Earth

  It was already dark when Robert left the visitor center and walked back over to the Jansky Lab. The wind had increased over the past several hours, blowing fine snowflakes all over. He pulled his coat closer around him, though it hardly helped. His eyes started to water, and his nose was running. If only he had brought along a scarf and a cap! The school class had already left the observatory in the early afternoon. From that point on, he had spent the hours sitting in the break room and pondering. Preoccupied, he had repeatedly rejected the coffee Mary had offered to him. His mind was awhirl because of the printout of the Titan radio spectrum. This constantly brought up memories of a time when he still thought about this career and imagined becoming a top researcher at some renowned institution. Nothing had come of this, and what was worse, he eventually lost his son because of it. It had all been in vain.

  It had taken him a decade, but he finally accepted it. His books became his home, his friends, and his family. They did not place any demands on him, and when he did not feel like finishing one of his books, it was not insulted if he preferred another one. He was doing well, he thought, but the discovery waiting for him in the control room might open up old wounds. He was afraid of this, and for a moment he had even considered ignoring the printout, going home to continue reading his book in his bathtub. His palms started to get sweaty when he thought about what he had decided to do.

  Then he met an old acquaintance, his once-upon-a-time major driving factor: curiosity. He had banned it for decades because he blamed curiosity for ruining his relationship with his son. Now it was back, and it felt good. It forced him out into the cold and to the Jansky Lab, where it probably wasn’t much warmer. He must find out if what he had seen was only an artifact. Since the Observatory was no longer operated as a research center, no one checked the area in which radio transmissions were off limits. Robert could not think of any licensed technology that used radio frequencies around 2040 MHz, but even back then they were sometimes fooled by badly shielded satellite receiver systems. Maybe some illegal camper had ended up in the off-limits area.

  The dark building of the Jansky Lab loomed up ahead of him. It looked deserted, though this was not completely true. Sometimes young astronomers rented space for several weeks, because they could not get observation time as cheaply elsewhere. While there were considerably larger and more sensitive instruments available by now, the time slots there were in high demand, and a person had no chance of getting permission without excellent references. This evening, though, all the windows were dark. Robert was going to be all alone in this huge building, but he wasn’t afraid of it. He knew the path to the control room so well he did not even have to switch the lights on.

  While the computer was booting, Robert studied the printout he had made earlier that afternoon. The measurements were unmistakable. He immediately recognized the radio spectrum of Saturn’s moon Titan. Back forty years ago they did a number of dry runs so they would make no mistakes in the decisive minutes when the Huygens probe landed. And then there was the narrow line at 2040 MHz. That was the channel on which Huygens had once confirmed, ‘I am here and am functioning as planned.’ It was a pure status signal that could only be received by the largest radio telescopes of those days. The data transfer was achieved over other channels and used the mother probe Cassini as a relay.

  Huygens worked for a few hours—a pleasant surprise—until the probe ran out of energy, as designed. Since then, no one had heard from it. Why should they? The probe was considered dead. It was absolutely impossible for Huygens to have reported in again. This was the reason Robert was here. He had to find the error, and had already come up with a strategy. He started the control software, but this time it was not the simplified version he always showed visitors. He still knew all the necessary parameters by heart. First he would have to calibrate the radio telescope with the aid of known sources. Perhaps some part had lost its alignment. A heavy bird sitting too long on a receiver mast might have been enough to cause it.

  But that was not the reason. The signal was still there, immovable at 2040 MHz. He checked the area around Titan. No signal. Saturn roared in the radio spectrum, a typical gas giant. In its cloud layer enormous lightning bolts flashed, but everything was qui
et at 2040 MHz. Robert calculated the transmission power necessary to let a signal of this strength reach Earth. The value fit the Huygens lander at a distance of more than a billion kilometers. Planting such a weak signal from a source on Earth could not happen accidentally. If this was the case, he was being fooled by other radio astronomers who knew exactly what they were doing. People who knew him were aware he liked to show Titan to visitors. It could be a plausible explanation, but he could not imagine who would have the time, opportunity, and motivation to play such a trick on him.

  It was no use. He had to convey this possible discovery, but he needed a second radio telescope to confirm the discovery was not a glitch. Robert sat upright and wiped the sweat from his high forehead. The left side of his chest ached. Who was the right person to call? He could not wait too long, since he did not know how long the signal would continue to be there. What would happen if he had actually discovered something? He had to admit he was afraid of the consequences. If he was at NASA and heard about such a signal, he would of course try to find its source. And if a spaceship happened to be in the vicinity, he would ask it to take a little detour. It wouldn’t matter if the crew just survived a near-catastrophe, or if his son Martin, whom he had once betrayed for the sake of science when Martin was still a kid, was a member of the crew.

  Robert sighed out loud. A strange silence seemed to have fallen over the room, as if all the instruments were waiting for his momentous decision. He pulled himself together and picked up the phone, but then he quickly put the handset down again. First he would try his old friend Chris, who had ended up at the Parkes Observatory in Australia. The radio telescope back then had been one of those listening to Huygens, so it definitely could be tuned to 2040 MHz. If he went through normal channels, Robert would stand no chance. He would have to register the requested observation time online and then wait for several weeks. Chris worked in the control room of the Parkes Observatory, or at least he had done so two years ago.