by Ben Bova
“No,” Grant replied, shaking his head. “I just did the job that needed to be done.”
“You betrayed us!” Hideshi snapped.
“I shared new knowledge with the rest of the human race. How can that be a betrayal?”
In those frenzied moments when he didn’t know if the ship would make it or plunge back into Jupiter in a fiery death ride, Grant had programmed the capsules to broadcast their data on the widest bandwidth possible. He had remembered Dr. Wo’s words: Then we beam the information back to Earth. To the headquarters of the International Astronautical Authority, to the scientific offices of the United Nations, to all the news networks, to every university. Simultaneously. We make our announcement so loud, so wide, that it cannot possibly be overlooked or suppressed.
That’s what Grant had done: beamed every bit of data they had collected to every available antenna on Earth.
“There are three shiploads of news media people on their way to this station,” Beech said, almost snarling his words. “Every scientist in the solar system wants to come here, to study your godless whales, to make a mockery of the truth faith, to—”
“What makes you think the Jovians are godless?” Grant interrupted.
He spoke quietly, but his words stopped Beech in midsentence.
“Don’t you think that God created them, just as He created us?” Grant asked.
Beech glowered at him, speechless.
“When we were down in that ocean, crippled and sinking, I prayed to God for help. One of those creatures lifted us on its back and carried us upward. It answered my prayer.”
“That’s blasphemy,” hissed the young man behind Beech, his voice hollow, his eyes staring at Grant.
“No,” Grant replied. “God worked through that giant Jovian creature. That’s all I’m trying to say.”
Beech pointed at Grant with a long, accusing finger. “You will say nothing about this to anyone. You will not speak to any of the news reporters. You will be held incommunicado until we decide what to do with you.”
He turned on his heel and stamped away, followed by Hideshi and the slim young man, all of them walking in military lockstep.
Grant swung his legs off the bed and pulled back the partition separating him from Karlstad. Egon was sitting up in his bed, a palmcomp and headset resting on the sheets. He looked normal, no obvious signs of injury.
“Incommunicado,” Grant said. “I guess they’re pretty upset about what I did.”
Karlstad grinned at him. “If he thinks he can keep the reporters away from you, he’s living in dreamland.”
“You think so?”
Chuckling, Karlstad nodded. “You’re going to be the news media’s darling, kid. The brilliant young scientist who saved his fellow crew members deep in the boiling sea of Jupiter. It’ll be great!”
“Fellow crew members,” Grant repeated. “What happened to them? Zeb? Lane?”
“Lainie’s okay.”
“But she collapsed.”
“They haven’t found any permanent physical trauma. They’re keeping her in the women’s ward for observation.” He tapped a knuckle against the wall behind the head of his bed.
“And Zeb?”
Karlstad’s face turned more serious. “Bleeding in his lungs. Tissue must’ve been ruptured by the pressure.”
“Is he all right?”
“They stabilized him and shipped him to Selene. He should pull through, they think.”
“And what about Krebs?”
Egon laughed again. “That old bird’s too tough to keep down. She got a concussion from slamming into the bulkhead. She’s in the women’s ward, too, but she’s already busy helping Old Woeful to write reports back to the IAA.”
“How long have we been here?” Grant wondered.
“Three days. Like Christ rising from the sepulcher, you’ve come back to consciousness three days after going under.”
Grant frowned at Karlstad’s derisive impiety.
“For what it’s worth,” Egon continued, “neither of us suffered any major trauma, aside from having our hearing temporarily blotted out.”
Grant still heard that annoying metallic ringing echo to each word Karlstad spoke. Maybe my hearing is permanently damaged, he thought. That’s not so bad, considering what might have happened.
“If we’re okay, then why are they keeping us here?”
“Two reasons. The medics want to make sure we get a complete rest. And your friend Beech wants us kept away from the rest of the station personnel.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Grant said.
“Tell that to your Mr. Beech. None of us is allowed to speak to the news media. By the time the reporters get here, Beech will probably have us shipped off the station. He wants us under wraps. Permanently.”
“But you said—”
“The reporters will find you, Grant. No matter where Beech puts you, they’ll ferret you out. Trust me, I know how they work.”
Grant sank back onto his upraised bed, thinking hard. They can’t keep the news secret. I blared it out to the whole world. But Beech and his team can punish us, all of us. He was furious with me, and he’s going to do his damnedest to prevent us from seeing the media in person. I hope Egon’s right. It’s not going to be easy for any of us, though.
He spent the rest of the day catching up on the messages that had accumulated. There were half a dozen from Marjorie and almost as many from his parents.
He stared at Marjorie’s face in the tiny screen of the palmcomp one of the nurses had lent him. She was smiling radiantly at him.
“I’m so proud of you, Grant,” Marjorie said in the headset’s earphone. “You’ve made an enormous discovery and you saved the lives of your crew…”
She’s acting as if I did it all by myself, Grant thought. He found that he didn’t mind that at all. In fact, he basked in the warmth of her smiling admiration.
“I love you, Grant darling,” his wife said. “And I miss you terribly. I hope you can come home soon. Sooner. Soonest.”
Grant adjusted the microphone of the palmcomp’s headset so close to his lips that they almost touched it, then whispered a long, rambling, heartfelt message to Marjorie, telling her how he yearned to be with her, how he would take the first vessel heading Earthward as soon as the authorities gave him permission to leave But when he tried to transmit the message, the screen glared: ACCESS TO UPLINK DENIED. NO OUTGOING MESSAGES PERMITTED.
Incommunicado. Maybe the news media would be able to get to him, once they arrived at the station, Grant thought, but probably Beech and his people will have moved us by then. It’s not going to be as easy as Egon thinks.
There were more messages, Grant found, hundreds of messages from total strangers that radiated hatred and fury at his “godless humanist blasphemy.” None of them were from people he actually knew; all strangers, most of them did not even speak their names. More than one contained a death threat. “It is the duty of God’s disciples to strike you dead,” said one particularly chilling ascetic-looking young man.
There was also a long list of incoming messages from the news media—but the messages themselves were all blanked out, censored, except for the name and affiliation of the sender.
Startled by the hate mail, smoldering at the censorship, Grant composed a long and upbeat message for his parents, keeping it totally personal, assuring them that he was fine, carefully avoiding any hint of scientific information. Still, when he commanded the palmcomp to transmit, the screen again answered: ACCESS TO UPLINK DENIED.
If I ever get back to Earth, he began to realize, it will probably be Siberia—if some Zealot fanatic doesn’t kill me first.
Karlstad seemed unworried, though, confident that the news media would find a way past the New Morality’s stone walls. Grant was not so certain. He tried to put in a call to Dr. Wo, but even that access was denied him.
I’m a prisoner here, he told himself. Egon and I are being held prisoners. But what about Zeb? Once he’
s up and around at Selene he can tell everyone about what we did. Unless he dies there. Unless some Zealot gets to him in the lunar hospital.
The hours dragged by. Grant felt strong enough to get up and go back to his own quarters, but the nurse on duty told him that he was to remain in the infirmary. Grant at least got to walk the length of the ward, noticing that his and Karlstad’s were the only beds occupied. Through the window in the infirmary door he could see two hefty security guards outside in the corridor.
We’re in prison.
Sleep would not come that night. Grant lay in his bed, wide awake, wondering what would happen to him. The New Morality was deciding his fate. Ellis Beech was determining the course of his life.
He had to get away, had to break out of this trap. But how?
It was almost 6 a.m. when someone entered the still-darkened infirmary. More than one person, Grant realized, listening to their footsteps approaching his bed.
Assassins? Grant’s heart clutched in his chest. He was completely defenseless. There was no place to hide in the infirmary; he couldn’t even run away, there was only the one entrance to the ward.
It was two men, walking quietly past the empty beds, guided by the pencil-beam of a small flashlight.
“Which one?” he heard a man whisper.
A hesitation. Grant slipped out of bed, fists balled at his sides, legs trembling. Despite his fear he felt slightly ridiculous, ready to fight for his life in a flimsy knee-length, open-back hospital gown.
“Archer… here’s his bed.”
They were two security guards, in uniform. They played the beam of light along Grant’s bed, then swung it to catch him standing there.
“You’re awake. Good. Come with us.”
“Where?” Grant asked.
“Dr. Wo wants to see you.”
“Now? At this hour?”
“Now. At this hour. Come on, he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
FAREWELL
Grant threw a robe over his hospital gown and followed the two guards out into the dimly lit corridor. It was still nighttime throughout the station. “Dawn” was at seven, when the lights in all the public spaces turned up to their daytime brightness. The corridor was empty; no one else was in sight.
“This way,” said one of the guards. They were both bigger than Grant, hard with muscle, unsmiling.
“Dr. Wo’s office is down the other way,” Grant said.
“He’s not in his office. Come on.”
With growing trepidation, Grant went along with them. He couldn’t think of anything else to do. His legs felt rubbery, not entirely under his control. The biochips, he told himself. I can’t even walk well; if I tried to run I’d probably fall on my face. Besides, where could I run to? If these two are Zealot assassins, he reasoned, they would’ve killed me in my bed. And Egon, too.
Still, he didn’t feel reassured by his attempt at logic. Killers aren’t always rational, he knew.
With growing desperation he tried to think of some way out of this, some tactic to save his life. Nothing. He followed meekly, frightened but uncertain of what lay ahead, unsure of what he could do, what he should do, to save his life. This must be how the Jews felt during the Holocaust, he thought. Who can help me? Where can I run to?
At last they reached the heavy metal hatch that sealed off the aquarium. As one of the guards opened it, Grant asked the other, “Are you going to drown me?”
The guard’s granite face broke into a sardonic smile. “I thought you could breathe underwater.”
They gestured him through the hatch, then led Grant down the long row of thick windows, the lights from the fish tanks playing fitfully along the narrow passageway. The hard metal floor felt cold to Grant’s bare feet. The fish seemed to be watching, big-eyed, their mouths working silently. The dolphins glided along in their tanks, smiling as ever.
Sheena! Grant realized. They’re taking me to Sheena’s pen. She’ll tear me apart and it will look like an accident.
His mind was racing. Maybe I can get Sheena to help me. If only I could show her that I’m her friend … if only she could overlook that one time I hurt her.
Something was blocking the passageway near the gorilla’s pen. Grant saw that it was Dr. Wo in his powered chair. The guards stopped a respectful twenty meters from the station director. Grant walked the final steps alone, shakily.
Dr. Wo looked up at Grant from his chair, a strange little half smile on his lips. “Mr. Archer, the medical doctors tell me that you are fully recovered from your injuries.”
Grant nodded, awash with relief that he wasn’t about to be murdered.
“I am leaving the station tomorrow. I have been replaced as director here.”
“Leaving?” Grant blurted. “They’ve kicked you out?”
Wo actually grinned at him. “They have kicked me upstairs. It is a compromise worked out between the New Morality and the IAA. I will go to the IAA center in Zurich and assume the directorship of the entire astrobiology program.”
“But the work here … the Jovians …”
“That is for you to continue. And Dr. Muzorawa, when he returns.”
“He’ll be returning?”
“Once he has recovered, yes. I have nominated him to be my successor. Both the IAA and the various religious factions have agreed. But he will not participate in any future missions into the ocean.”
Grant thought that over for a few seconds. Zeb’s coming back. He’ll be the station director. And I’m expected to continue the studies of the Jovians.
He said slowly, “Then the New Morality hasn’t totally gutted our work.”
“How could they? The entire world is watching us now, thanks to you. Some are fearful, many are curious. You have opened a new chapter in human history, Mr. Archer.”
“Not me. I didn’t—”
“You had the presence of mind to broadcast Zheng He’s findings to the entire world. No one could keep our discoveries secret once those data capsules began singing their song.”
Grant’s legs felt too weak to hold him up. He leaned his back against the cold metal wall and slid down to a sitting position.
“The religious fanatics are very angry with you, Mr. Archer,” said Wo. “The Zealots want to kill you.”
“What good would that do them?”
“Not much, but they are furious and frustrated. An evil combination.”
Grant suddenly remembered, “They killed Irene Pascal, didn’t they?”
Wo’s expression hardened. “Dr. Pascal’s death was an accident. An inadvertent suicide.”
“No,” said Grant.
“Yes,” Wo insisted. “She took an overly large dose of amphetamines, which led to her death in the high-pressure environment aboard Zheng He. ”
“Irene didn’t take the drugs knowingly,” Grant said.
“A board of inquiry has examined the incident. They have made their decision. The case is closed.”
“It wasn’t an incident,” Grant snapped. “It was a murder!”
Wo’s voice took on a steely edge. “No, Mr. Archer. Let it rest.”
“But I know—”
“The case is closed!”
For a long moment the two men stared at each other, eyes locked. Grant could not fathom what was going on in Wo’s mind. But he knew his own thoughts: It may be over for you and your board of inquiry, he said silently, but it’s not over for me. I know Irene was murdered and I know who did it.
“The IAA has appointed Dr. Indra Chandrasekhar as interim director here.”
Grant stirred out of his inner turmoil. “Chandrasekhar? I don’t know her.”
“Your recognition is not a prerequisite for the position,” said Wo, smiling thinly.
Grant made no reply.
“She has been heading the studies of the Galilean moons. A very good leader. She comes from a long line of excellent scientists.”
“She’ll be in charge until Zeb returns?”
“Yes, and you will di
rect the studies of the Jovian creatures that you found in the ocean,” Wo said, his smile widening. Then he added, “Whether they are intelligent or not.”
“They’re intelligent. I’m convinced of that.”
“Good! Now all you have to do is prove it so completely that the rest of the world will believe it.”
“Including the New Morality?”
Wo laughed. “The New Morality, the Holy Disciples, the Light of Allah … even the Zealots.”
Grant nodded, accepting the challenge. The first thing I’ll have to do is go over the data we recorded. We can slow down the visual imagery so we can see the pictures the whales are flashing to each other. We’ve got to repair Zheng He or maybe build a new vessel…
Dr. Wo broke into his train of thoughts. “It will be necessary for you to remain here.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“You have earned a release from your Public Service obligation, of course. You could go back to Earth if you wish.”
“But the work is being done here.”
“Exactly. And—frankly—you are much safer here than on Earth, where some Zealot fanatic can murder you.”
There’s a Zealot fanatic here on this station, Grant thought. At least one. And I know who it is.
“Beech is keeping me incommunicado,” Grant said. “Egon and the women, too. I can’t even get a message out to my wife.”
Dr. Wo nodded knowingly. “I have seen to it that you can have the freedom of the station. You needn’t be confined to the infirmary. As for messages home…” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I’m afraid Mr. Beech has the upper hand in the communications department.”
Grant stared at the older man. It’s a struggle, he realized. A battle between Wo and Beech. Neither side has a completely free hand. And I’m caught in the middle of their power struggle.
Dr. Wo intruded on his thoughts. “Very well, then, Mr. Archer. There is one last farewell for you to make.”
“Farewell?” Grant asked.
Wo gestured toward Sheena’s darkened pen.
“Sheena’s leaving?”
