by Ben Bova
A trio of what had been fins floated closer. Suddenly they began to shudder; the shaking grew more and more violent.
“The waves they send through the water when they bud like that is what attracts the sharks,” Archer said.
They watched for more than an hour as the individual bits fissioned, dividing into two. And then began to unite again, to reassemble.
“Endosymbiosis,” Deirdre murmured.
She stared at the screen, fascinated, as the hundreds of separate units slowly linked together into two complete leviathans and finally swam off side by side into the murky distance. The screen went blank.
“That was a lucky one,” Archer said, sitting up straighter in his chair. “No sharks found them.”
“That’s how they reproduce,” Deirdre said.
“But how do they accomplish it?” Archer asked, staring intently at the empty screen. “How do they know when to dissociate? How do the separate units know how to get together to form a new animal? Do both of the new ones share the knowledge, the memories of the original?”
She shook her head. “I still don’t see how studying Volvox could help you. They’re so different.…”
With a smile that was almost shy, Archer admitted, “Well, now we come to my ulterior motive for picking you.”
“Your ulterior motive?” Deirdre asked.
“You have something of a reputation in Chrysalis II as a visual artist.”
She felt her jaw drop. “Visual artist? You mean those little murals I’ve painted?”
“And the digital imagery you’ve created,” Archer said. “I’ve seen those, too. You’re quite good.”
Confused, Deirdre asked, “You want me to decorate the station?”
“No, no.” Archer laughed. Hunching closer to her, he said, “You see, the leviathans apparently communicate in visual imagery. I thought a woman with your talents for visual imagery might be helpful to us.”
With that, Archer picked up the remote control again. The wall screens on both sides of the office suddenly were filled with images of the leviathans flashing colors at one another: cool green, bright yellow, intense red. It was like being in the dolphin tank again, Deirdre thought. They were surrounded by the immense leviathans, swimming placidly in Jupiter’s ocean, flashing colored lights back and forth.
“That’s how they communicate?” she heard herself ask as she stared at the screens.
Archer said, “It seems obvious. They’re not simply making displays. They’re communicating. Intelligent communications. The way we use speech, they use visual imagery.”
“And you want me to study their imagery and see if I can make any sense out of it,” she said, her eyes still fastened on the screens.
“That would be a good beginning,” Archer said. “We’ve recorded hundreds of hours’ worth of their imagery.”
Deirdre murmured, “You know that I’ve been working with Dr. Corvus and the dolphins. He wants to use DBS equipment to make contact with the leviathans.”
“I didn’t realize you were working with him,” Archer admitted. With a slight shrug, he added, “Well, that’s another avenue of approach to the problem.”
Deirdre saw the burning eagerness on his bearded face. He wants to understand those gigantic creatures, she recognized. He’s dying to know, she thought. And he’s willing to risk lives to find out. He’s willing to send people down into that alien ocean to find out, no matter how dangerous it is.
DINNER
Deirdre hesitated, then plunged, “I don’t know if I can do that for you, Dr. Archer.”
With a visible effort, the station director blanked the wall screens and turned to Deirdre. Smiling gently, he said, “Well, you think about it, Ms. Ambrose. It’s very important to us, to our understanding of these alien creatures. To our ability to make meaningful contact with an intelligent extraterrestrial species.”
“You think they’re intelligent?”
“I’m certain of it.”
Deirdre’s mind was spinning. Intelligent. Communicate through visual images. He wants me to go down into the ocean.
“And don’t forget about little Volvox,” Archer added, less intensely. “Any ideas or information will be welcome. We’re pretty desperate for new ideas.”
“I’ll try,” she said, pulling herself to her feet.
Archer stood up, too. As he walked to the door with her he said, “I’m giving a little dinner this evening for the new arrivals. Nineteen hundred hours, in conference room C. I hope you haven’t already made other arrangements.”
Knowing that an invitation from the station director, even a casual one, was more like a command, Deirdre replied, “I’d be happy to come.”
“Good,” he said as he slid open the door to the passageway. “Nineteen hundred. Mrs. Westfall will be joining us, too.”
* * *
When Deirdre got back to her own compartment there was a message from Andy Corvus waiting.
“Hi there, Dee,” he said, his slightly mismatched face grinning boyishly from the wall screen. “We’re all invited to dinner with the station director tonight. Can I pick you up around eighteen forty-five?”
She returned his call immediately. Andy wasn’t in his quarters, so she left a message.
Precisely at eighteen forty-five she heard a rap on her door. Still wearing the flowered dress, she slid the door back and saw that Andy was accompanied by Yeager and Dorn. Yeager had obviously shaved; he smelled of cologne.
“The three musketeers,” she said, smiling brightly at them.
Yeager elbowed Corvus aside and offered his arm to her. “Then you must be the Queen of France,” he said grandly.
She politely stepped past Yeager and slipped her arm around Corvus’s. “Andy asked me first,” she said sweetly to Yeager.
“Yeah,” he grumbled, “but I’m better-looking.”
Dorn said, “And more modest, too.”
They all laughed, linked arms, and strode along the passageway toward conference room C.
It was a small room, almost intimate, its oblong central table set for eight. Grant Archer was already standing at the side table set up on the far end of the room with an array of bottles and glasses and a large silvery bucket of ice.
“The newbies!” Archer called out to them. “Welcome.”
He introduced the buxom dark-haired woman beside him as his wife, Marjorie. Deirdre quickly learned that she was a biochemist.
“Are you working on the leviathans?” Deirdre asked as she poured herself a glass of fruit juice.
Marjorie smiled tolerantly. “We’re all working on the leviathans, whether we want to or not.”
Deirdre felt her brows go up. But before she could think of anything to say, the double doors slid open and Katherine Westfall swept in, accompanied by a beefy-looking young man in a sky blue blazer and tight slacks. A boy toy! Deirdre said to herself. He was good-looking, in a muscular bodyguard way. At least he’s not that zombie I met earlier, Deirdre thought.
Archer went the length of the room to welcome Mrs. Westfall and her escort, then introduced them to each of the others. The boy toy claimed to be an accountant; he looked more like a security guard to Deirdre. Westfall gave no hint that she’d already met Deirdre.
“We don’t normally serve alcoholic drinks here,” Archer said, once he had led Mrs. Westfall to the makeshift bar, “but in honor of your presence, we’ve figured out how to make a dry martini.” He poured a clear liquid into a stemmed, wide-brimmed glass and handed it to her. “I hope it meets with your approval.”
“I’m sure it will,” Westfall said, the corners of her lips curving ever so slightly. She sipped, then pronounced, “Perfect! How did you ever do it?”
Archer looked almost sheepish. “Well, the head of our food service group claims that he once tended bar in Sydney, Australia. I’m not certain that I believe him, but Red is a very resourceful person.”
“He certainly knows how to mix a martini,” Westfall said. But Deirdre noticed
she didn’t take another sip.
“Speak of the devil,” said Marjorie, as the double doors opened and a short, wiry red-haired man with a bushy red mustache and a bristling skull-hugging crew cut entered, leading a quartet of serving robots, their flat tops laden with covered dishes.
“Rodney Devlin,” Archer announced. “Our chief cook and bartender.”
Devlin was wearing a sparkling white chef’s jacket and a big grin on his lantern-jawed face. He made a little bow as the robots rolled along the side wall like a quartet of well-trained waiters, then stopped in unison.
“Greetings and salutations, folks,” said Devlin. “Who’s for steak and who’s for fish? It’s all soy-based, o’course, but I think I got the flavors right.”
* * *
Devlin disappeared once everyone sat at the table and began eating. By the time the diners were picking desserts off the robots that maneuvered slowly around the table, Archer said, “I’m looking forward to working with all of you and learning more about the leviathans.”
Andy Corvus, halfway down the table, replied, “I’m looking forward to making contact with the beasts.”
“Contact?” Marjorie Archer asked.
With his usual vigorous nod, Andy explained, “If they’re intelligent, we should be able to communicate with them.”
“If they’re intelligent,” Mrs. Westfall said.
“I’m sure that they are,” said Grant Archer.
“How so?” Westfall asked. Her voice was soft, but everyone turned toward her.
“Because they communicate with each other,” Archer replied. “They flash signals back and forth. They have language—”
“Flashing lights don’t necessarily mean language,” Westfall objected. “Fish in Earth’s oceans make luminescent glows and they’re certainly not intelligent.”
“The leviathans are,” Archer insisted. “I’m sure of it.”
Westfall smiled thinly, but said nothing.
PLANS
“Well,” said Yeager, loudly enough to make all heads along the table turn toward him, “I’m here to see that you can send a team of people down into that ocean with the leviathans, whether they’re intelligent or not.”
Westfall raised a brow. “Really?”
Archer cleared his throat, then started to explain, “I was going to tell you about that tomorrow, when we go through the station’s newest wheel.”
“The area that’s dedicated to studying the leviathans,” Westfall said. It was not a question.
“The area that’s dedicated to studying the planet Jupiter, including its indigenous life-forms,” Archer replied evenly.
“And you intend to send a human team into the ocean?”
“Yes, I do.”
“There hasn’t been a human probe into the ocean in twenty years,” Westfall said. “Not since you yourself went down there.”
“I’m quite aware of that.”
“You’ll need IAA approval for such a dangerous mission. I doubt that you’ll get it.”
Archer seemed to square his shoulders without moving from his chair at the head of the table. Deirdre noticed that his wife slid her hand over his.
“As I read the regulations,” Archer said, forcing a smile for Mrs. Westfall, “IAA approval is necessary for funding allocations, not for approving specific missions.”
“For such a dangerous mission—”
“It won’t be all that dangerous,” Yeager said.
Deirdre turned toward the engineer, who was sitting on her right. Everyone else looked at him, too.
“Not dangerous?” Westfall asked, clearly disbelieving him.
Yeager spread his hands grandly. “No more dangerous than working out on the surface of Europa. Or Io, with those volcanoes spouting off.”
“But you’ll have to dive hundreds of kilometers deep into that ocean. The pressures—”
“No problem,” said Yeager.
“But the earlier missions all suffered terrible damage. Casualties. People died!”
Yeager gave her a condescending grin. “The earlier missions were sent out before we had a firm understanding of just what the conditions are down there. We knew the pressure would be tremendous, but how tremendous? We didn’t have any firm numbers. You can’t design without firm numbers to work with.”
Still looking incredulous, Westfall said, “You’re saying that—”
“I’m saying that the past twenty years’ worth of uncrewed missions into the ocean have given us enough data about the pressures and other conditions down at that level so that we can design a vessel that can safely carry people there.”
Dorn spoke up. “Those pressures were calculated long before the first human mission went into the ocean, weren’t they?”
“Sure they were,” Yeager agreed. “But those calculations were based on theoretical work. Models that made a lot of assumptions. There wasn’t any actual data. Now we have real data and we know to several decimal places what the conditions are.” Before anyone could respond, the engineer went on, “And when you know what you’re working against you can design a vessel that will work in those conditions. Work just fine.”
Westfall turned to Grant Archer. “So you’ve built such a vessel, haven’t you?”
“It’s waiting for its final checkout,” Archer said. “It’s co-orbiting with this station. I’ll show it to you tomorrow.”
“I didn’t see it in the virtual reality tour you gave me,” Westfall said. Her voice was not accusing, not sharp, but Deirdre could hear the icy distrust in her tone.
For a couple of heartbeats Archer said nothing. Then, “No, the vessel hasn’t been included in the VR tour. Not yet.”
Deirdre imagined she could see the wheels spinning inside Westfall’s perfectly coiffed head.
At last Westfall said, “As a member of the IAA’s governing council, I could get the council to issue an order forbidding a human mission into the ocean.”
Taut-faced, Archer replied, “You couldn’t get the council to act before the mission is launched.”
Anger flared on Westfall’s face for an instant, but she immediately suppressed it. “I think you underestimate the speed with which the council can act—when properly motivated.”
Archer glanced at his wife, sitting beside him, then returned his focus to Westfall. “Mrs. Westfall,” he said with deliberate formality, “I intend to send that vessel into the ocean of Jupiter. You can fire me from my post afterward, but that’s what I intend to do.”
“I won’t allow it,” Westfall said.
Andy Corvus piped up. “Hey, wait a minute. I’ve got to get down into that ocean. I’ve got to make contact with those critters.”
“You’ve got to?” Westfall practically sneered the words.
“That’s right,” Corvus snapped back at her. “I’ve got to. I’m a neurophysiologist. I believe I can make a meaningful communications contact with an alien life-form. I might be wrong about that, but I’ll never know unless I get the chance to try.”
Marjorie Archer asked softly, “But why do you say you’ve got to do that?”
Corvus turned toward her. “You’re a scientist. You know why.”
“Please, tell me,” Westfall said.
Andy ran a hand through his thick red mop before saying, “I’m a scientist. I do science. That’s my life. Michelangelo carved statues. Beethoven wrote symphonies. I do science. If you prevent me from doing it, it’s like … well, it’s like chopping off my hands. You haven’t killed me, exactly, but you’ve put an end to my life.”
Westfall shook her head slightly.
Deirdre said, “It would be as if someone prevented you from doing the work you love. Stopped you from being who you are, turned you into a hollow shell.”
Looking slowly from face to face, Westfall asked, “Is that the way all of you feel? You’re all scientists, do all of you—”
“I’m an engineer,” Yeager interrupted. “But, yeah, that’s what it’s all about. Birds gotta fly, fish
gotta swim, and once you get hooked into this kind of research, you’ve got to do it. Or life becomes meaningless.”
Westfall turned to Dorn. “You’re not a scientist, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” said the cyborg. Then he added, “Scientists are curious people. I’m merely a curiosity.”
Archer tapped a fork against his water glass and everyone turned toward him. “I didn’t intend for this dinner to turn into a confrontation.” With a grin, he added, “Or a symposium on the philosophy of science.”
Westfall allowed herself a slight smile.
Archer continued, “Tomorrow, Mrs. Westfall, I’d like to show you what we’re doing in our studies of Jupiter and its life-forms. Show you how far we’ve come—and how very far we still have to go.”
Westfall nodded regally. “Until tomorrow, then.”
CONTROL CENTER
Deirdre was awakened by the insistent buzzing of the phone. She sat up in bed, rubbed her eyes, and asked the communications system’s computer, “Who’s calling?”
G. MAXWELL YEAGER appeared on the screen above her desk. Deirdre saw that the time was only 0600.
“Voice only,” she commanded the phone.
“Dee!” Yeager’s voice sounded urgently. “You awake?”
“I am now, Max.”
“C’mon, get dressed and meet me in the galley. We’ll grab some breakfast and then go down to the third wheel and inspect Faraday before Archer brings Westfall down there.”
“I can’t,” she said, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “I have to be at the clinic at eleven hundred hours,” she said.
“I’ll have you back before then, don’t worry.”
“Who’s Faraday?” Deirdre asked.
“Not who. What. My ship. The baby that’s going to take Andy down to the leviathans.”
“Why do you want me to—”
“I’ve gotta give her the once-over before Westfall sees her,” Yeager explained, “and I’d really like you to see her.”
