by Ben Bova
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To Spider Robinson:
friend, fellow writer, troubadour
Know myself? If I knew myself I’d run away!
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
BOOK ONE
THE WHORE
ORBITAL STATION HAVEN
There were thirty of them, eleven women and nineteen men, their ages ranging from late teens to approaching senility, standing wide-eyed, gaping at the trees and shrubs and—beyond the Glassteel dome above them—the blue-gray clouds of the planet Uranus.
Pointing toward the bland-looking planet, their group leader said sternly, “That world’s name is pronounced ‘YOU-ra-nus.’” His craggy face dead serious, he went on, “I don’t wanna hear any wiseguys call it ‘Your-ANUS.’ Unnerstand me?”
The thirty newbies nodded and mumbled assent.
His ham-sized fists planted on his hips, Quincy O’Donnell nodded back at his new charges. “All right, then,” he said, the flat twang of his native Boston still unmistakable in his creaky tenor voice, “let’s get on with it. The minister is waitin’ to greet you.”
They were standing in the garden, a wide swath of Earthly greenery planted and lovingly tended by the inhabitants of Haven, the spindly ring-shaped space station swinging in orbit around the huge planet Uranus. In the distance, they could see several towers rising high above their level. And overhead there was more real estate: green empty acres, small clusters of towns that looked sparkling new, untouched as yet.
A whole new world, built inside the ring of metal and plastic that encircled them.
Not one of the dozen newcomers moved a centimeter. They were all gaping at the habitat spreading as far as the eye could see, even above their heads. They stared wide-eyed, frozen in wonderment.
It’s hitting them, O’Donnell said to himself. For the first time, the reality of it is making itself felt. You’re a long way from Earth, he told them silently. And there’s no goin’ back. This is your new home. Permanently.
“All right now, that’s enough of sightseein’. Let’s get moving.”
They stirred, reluctantly. But they moved in response to his command. Good. They’ll learn to obey orders, they will. Or suffer for their sins.
O’Donnell turned and led the newbies along the winding brick path that led through the profuse foliage to the waiting auditorium. Thirty more poor souls, he said to himself. Thirty more lost waifs searchin’ for paradise. Well, maybe they’ll find it here. If not here, I don’t know where on God’s green Earth they’ll find a place to rest their poor bones.
Then he reminded himself that they weren’t on God’s green Earth, not anymore. They were damned near three billion kilometers from Earth, out at the ass end of the solar system, swinging endlessly around the planet Uranus.
O’Donnell clenched his teeth tightly. There you go again, Quincy old boy, swearin’ like you haven’t been taught better. Remember to include that sin in your next confession.
“C’mon,” he shouted. “The minister is waitin’ for yez.”
DATA BANK
Uranus is the third largest of the solar system’s eight planets, orbiting beyond beringed Saturn, out in the cold and lonely darkness of the Sun’s most distant children.
More than four times larger than Earth, Uranus orbits nearly three billion kilometers from the Sun. Uranus’s year is slightly more than eighty-four Earth years. It spins around its axis every seventeen hours and four minutes.
While the planet’s mass is 14.5 times more than Earth’s, its density is merely 1.3 times greater than that of water. Its atmosphere—at least the uppermost part of it—is composed mainly of hydrogen and helium, the two lightest elements, with significant amounts of methane and ammonia. The temperature of its cloud tops is truly frigid: more than 197 degrees below zero Celsius.
Uranus is weird. The other planets of the solar system have axial tilts ranging from Jupiter’s 3.1 degrees to 26.7 degrees for Saturn. Earth’s axis is tipped 23.4 degrees, a tilt that produces its seasons.
Uranus, though, is tilted 97.9 degrees from vertical. Its north pole points toward the Sun for part of its year, while half a Uranian year later (some forty-two Earth years) its south pole points Sunward. And unlike all the other planets, Uranus spins from east to west, retrograde, in astronomical parlance.
Uranus has rings circling over its equator. Thin, dark rings of meteoric bits of rock and metal, barely visible except on those rare occasions when they happen to catch a glint of sunlight.
Curious scientists from Earth sent dozens of unmanned probes into orbit around Uranus, and deep into the placid blue-gray clouds that cover it from pole to pole. They were only partially successful in unveiling the planet’s secrets. Something collided with Uranus early in the solar system’s history, the scientists reasoned, banging its axial tilt so far from vertical. Something apparently sterilized the planet-wide ocean that lies beneath Uranus’s methane and ammonia clouds. Unlike the oceans of Jupiter and Saturn, and even the more-distant Neptune, the ocean of Uranus is dead: no living creature has been found there, not even single-celled protoplasms.
Interest in Uranus faltered in the face of such discouraging discoveries. A sterile planet, dead, lifeless. Scientific probes were sent elsewhere. Uranus was a dead end, literally.
Until the self-styled Reverend Kyle Umber conceived his plan of building a haven for Earth’s poor, disenfranchised, forgotten men and women, in orbit around the planet Uranus.
KYLE UMBER
Quincy O’Donnell led his thirty foundlings along the bricked path that led toward the auditorium. That’s how he thought of his charges: foundlings, orphans, the “wretched refuse” of their native Earth, poor, ignorant, hopeless.
But Reverend Umber will give them hope, give them learning, give them a reason to live and to praise God. O’Donnell had seen it happen to earlier arrivals at this mission station set in deep space.
Thanks to optical recognition technology the auditorium doors swung open automatically as O’Donnell led his little troop toward them. The thirty followed O’Donnell inside, goggling at the lofty ceiling, the broad expanse of pews, row after row of benches and—up atop the stage—a row of high-backed wooden chairs that looked stiff, stern, uncomfortable.
All empty. The vast, high-ceilinged auditorium was empty except for their little group. Unadorned. No pictures on the blank walls. No statues or images of any sort on the empty stage before them. Their footsteps echoed off the metal walls. They were awed into silence.
O’Donnell sat them in the front row of seats, grinning inwardly at their wide-eyed stares. The auditorium was bare, undecorated, windowless, yet it still astounded each one of them into silence.
For several moments, they sat before the r
aised stage, glancing around uneasily, unsure of what they were about to face.
Then the Reverend Kyle Umber came walking silently, smilingly, out of the right wing of the stage. He seemed to glow against the shadows behind him. Dressed in a simple suit of pure white, Umber looked down at the new arrivals with a smile that lit up his entire face.
It was an ordinary sort of face, roundish, with healthy pink cheeks and a full crop of reddish-brown hair swept back from his forehead and falling to his shoulders. Umber was short, thickset, with heavyish arms and legs beneath his immaculate white jacket and trousers.
He walked to the edge of the stage and—as several of the newcomers rose to their feet in automatic reflex—he hopped off the edge of the stage and landed like a well-trained acrobat on the balls of his feet exactly in front of the newbies.
A wide smile on his ruddy face, Kyle Umber spread his arms and said, “Welcome to Haven. Welcome to your new home.”
The people who had gotten up hesitated a moment, then crumpled back into their seats, almost shamefaced. Quincy O’Donnell—who had seen the minister’s hijinks before—remained standing in the aisle, arms folded across his broad chest, resisting the urge to applaud.
Umber said, in a soft, intimate voice, “I hope you’ll forgive my dramatics. I get a kick out of making that little jump. To me, it sort of illustrates the much bigger jump each of you has made—the jump from teeming, overcrowded, decaying Earth to the new paradise we are working to create here at Haven.”
A few of the new arrivals chuckled appreciatively.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I established this refuge, this sanctuary nearly three billion kilometers away from Earth. The reason is simple: I wanted to create a haven far from Earth and its troubles, a refuge where men and women like yourselves could find peace, and love, and a meaningful life.
“Haven is that place. It is a new world, a world that you will help to build, literally, with your own hands and hearts and skills. A refuge where you can live in dignity and harmony, far from the evils and temptations of Earth. Here in Haven you will build a new world. On Earth you were considered the worst samples of humankind. Here in Haven you will become the best examples of human capabilities. Together, you and I, we will create the best out of the worst.
“Haven is the place where the human race will be reborn, clean, new, strong and free. And you will be reborn as well—clean, new, strong and free.”
Absolute silence through the vast, echoing auditorium. The newcomers were totally fixated on the Reverend Kyle Umber.
“If you are ignorant, we will teach you. If you have skills or knowledge, we will put them to use in building this new world. Put your past behind you! A new life is opening for you, God is giving you a new chance to live the life He wants you to live.”
“Amen!” shouted one of the women.
Smiling, Umber nodded and said, “Amen indeed. We have a stupendous task before us. We will build a new world here, literally. We will—together, you, me and all of us—we will extend and enlarge Haven so that we can accept as many of Earth’s forgotten millions as possible.
“We will build new habitats, new man-made worlds that will house and protect and educate all who come here seeking shelter and wisdom and safety. We will endure hardships and dangers. We will conquer fear and hate. We will create a true human paradise here in the darkness, so far from the lifegiving Sun. We will triumph over ignorance and poverty and hatred.
“Together, you and I and the others, together we will prevail. We will triumph.”
The thirty newcomers rose to their feet as a single entity and cheered lustily. The sound of their enthusiasm echoed throughout the vast, nearly empty auditorium.
Kyle Umber bowed his head in silent acknowledgement of their approval. He stood silent and unmoving until the newbies sat back in their chairs.
Raising his head to look at them again, his smile benign, his eyes aglow, Umber went on, “This is a monumental task we have set for ourselves. It will not be accomplished easily or quickly. But we will prevail!”
Again the thirty jumped to their feet, clapping their hands lustily. Quincy O’Donnell, still standing in the aisle at the end of the row, smiled inwardly. He had seen this performance before. The minister always stirred the newbies with his vision.
As the newcomers settled back into their seats again, Umber half turned back toward the stage and said, “Now I want you to meet the person who has made all this possible: Evan Waxman.”
EVAN WAXMAN
From the same right wing of the stage stepped a tall, lean, elegant man, stylish despite the casual pearl-gray slacks and untucked light yellow shirt he wore. Smiling at the newcomers, he went to the corner of the stage and came down the steps there in an easy, loose-limbed gait.
“This is Evan Waxman.” Umber introduced him. “Our benefactor and great good friend.”
Waxman was a full head taller than Umber, his chiseled features handsome, confident. His hair was dark and cut short; his skin pale, ashen. He waved one hand carelessly at the newbies and smiled at them with dazzling teeth.
“Hello everybody,” he said in a clear deep voice. “Good to meet you.”
Umber reached up to pat Waxman’s shoulder. “Mr. Waxman is really the founder of our feast. He has spent a good part of his family’s fortune to construct Haven out here in the wilderness. The debt we owe him can never be repaid—in money.”
Waxman bowed his head humbly, then spoke up. “What I have donated to Reverend Umber’s cause is only money. I was glad to do it. Reverend Umber has shown me that there are much more important things than mere wealth, things like loyalty, and generosity, and a vision for the future.”
“And a few billion international dollars to donate,” Umber added, with a happy smile.
“That’s merely money,” Waxman repeated, “money that I am glad to give, money that is being turned into this sanctuary, this retreat where you and he and I—together—can create a refuge where we can build new lives for ourselves, where we can learn to live in peace and harmony.”
One of the newcomers—thin, frail, dark of skin and eye—raised a questioning hand.
Waxman nodded to him.
The newbie slowly got to his feet, glanced shyly around at his companions, then asked, “Is Haven strictly a Christian endeavor, or is it truly open to people of all faiths?”
Waxman turned toward Umber, whose smiling face grew quite serious.
“We believe that God is served by all faiths. People from every corner of the Earth try to worship God in the ways that make sense to them. Here in Haven we have no specific denomination of worship. All are free to worship God in his or her own way.”
And he called out, “Roman Catholic decor, please.”
Suddenly the auditorium was transformed. The stage became an altar with a three-story-high crucifix hanging behind it. Windows topped by pointed arches appeared along the side walls, each showing a magnificent stained-glass image of a Biblical scene.
The newbies gasped in awe.
Umber called, “Lutheran decor, please.”
Instantly the dramatic pictures and images disappeared, replaced by quietly dignified simplicity.
Smiling broadly, Umber called, “Thank you. End presentation.”
The auditorium returned to its original bare simplicity.
“We have decor schemes for more than forty different religious affiliations, including Moslem, Hindu, even Baha’i.”
“What about agnostics?” asked the questioner. “Or outright atheists?”
Umber’s smile widened, gentle, understanding. “Whatever your faith—or lack of it—you will be welcome in Haven. After all, the God who created the universe knows what is in your heart. His vision is all-encompassing.”
“I’d like to add something to that,” Waxman said, his brows knitting slightly. “I am an agnostic. The religion that my parents followed—the religion I was indoctrinated with as a child—that religion taught that faith is a gift,
given freely by God.” With a shrug of his shoulders, Waxman went on, “Well, I never received that gift. I wish I had, but somehow it’s eluded me. Yet here I am, working shoulder to shoulder with Reverend Umber to help build Haven.”
“You say ‘to help build Haven,’” one of the other men called, from his seat. “How large do you intend to make this habitat?”
Umber spread his arms. “As large as we can. And we intend to build more habitats, to house more immigrants. Haven II is already under construction next to us. We intend to take all those who seek shelter and solace and peace into our community. There will never be an end to this endeavor; we will keep growing as long as we need to.”
“Where’s the money going to come from?”
“From generous patrons such as Mr. Waxman, here,” Umber replied. “And from others like him. God will provide, never fear.”
RAVEN MARCHESI
Sitting on the aisle seat of the auditorium’s front row—next to Quincy O’Donnell standing out in the aisle—Raven Marchesi watched and listened intently to Kyle Umber and Evan Waxman.
They’re good salesmen, she thought. Smooth and slick. Promising heaven and peace and joy. But what’s it going to cost us?
Raven always worried about the costs of life, from the time she’d been six years old in the decaying slums of Naples, within sight of the smoldering old Mt. Vesuvius, looming over her.
Her home—such as it was—had been buried in Vesuvius’s latest eruption. No one came to her neighborhood to warn the people to get out. Most of them were buried when the skies rained white-hot ashes and choking gas.
But Raven had noticed the exodus of private cars and hired buses from the high-rent condominiums on the edge of her rundown district; she followed barefoot the evacuation trail of her wealthier neighbors. She had no parents to guide her; her only warning of the coming eruption was the evacuation by the rich.
