by Ben Bova
Almost smiling, the investigator said gently, “That’s our job, sir.”
So Tray swiftly recounted the events of the Athena’s ill-fated mission into Jupiter’s ocean.
“Lieutenant Sheshardi couldn’t find out why the controls jammed,” he concluded. “And then, when he was in his escape suit and heading for the surface with the rest of us, he was electrocuted by the Jovian predator.”
“And the failure of Jordan Kell’s escape suit?” asked the chief investigator. “What can you tell us about that?”
“Very little,” Tray admitted. “He suddenly told us that his suit was filling with water. It must have been very cold … freezing…”
Silence filled the tiny room. After nearly a minute, the chief investigator turned to Para. “Have you anything to add to this testimony?”
“I’m afraid not,” Para replied. “But my diagnostic system has recorded everything I witnessed. You are free to examine it.”
“We already have,” said the judge on Tray’s left.
Silence again. The three investigators sat like statues, all staring at Tray.
That’s it? he asked himself. I tell them what they already know and that’s all there is to their investigation?
The chief interrogator stirred to life. “You may go, Mr. Williamson. You also, Para.”
“That’s it?” Tray asked aloud. “That’s your whole investigation?”
The chief folded it hands on the top of the curving banc in a very humanlike gesture. “We have the monitoring records from Jove’s Messenger. If we need more from you we will summon you, Mr. Williamson.”
Flustered, feeling anger simmering inside him, Tray said, “I have a statement to make. I want to add it to my testimony.”
STATEMENT
“A statement?” asked the chief investigator.
“Yes,” said Tray. “A statement about my own observations of the Athena’s destruction and my conclusions about what caused it.”
The chief examiner glanced at its colleagues to its left and right, then nodded benignly at Tray. “Very well. We will hear your statement and add it to the proceedings of this investigation.”
Tray suddenly felt unprepared, at a loss. He told himself silently, This is what happens when you let your emotions outrun your intelligence. But, glancing at the three androids staring down at him, he realized that he had no option but to go ahead.
You’ve stuck your neck out, he told himself. Now let’s see if you get your head chopped off.
“Mr. Williamson?” the chief investigator prompted.
Tray swallowed once, then said, “Athena was sabotaged. That’s the only conclusion that I can draw from what happened to us.”
“Sabotaged?”
“I don’t know how they did it, but I know why. The vessel was sabotaged in order to kill Jordan Kell.”
The three androids went absolutely still, as if someone had flicked a switch that turned them off.
Looking up at them from beneath frowning brows, Tray added, “The vessel’s maintenance records will show that there was nothing wrong with it. Everything checks out perfectly. Yet Lieutenant Sheshardi was unable to raise it to the ocean’s surface when the time came for us to leave the ocean.”
The chief investigator leaned forward slightly in his seat. “But Athena has sunk too deep into the Jovian ocean for anyone to retrieve and examine it.”
Tray nodded vigorously. “They buried the evidence.”
“What evidence?” demanded the investigator on Tray’s left. “We have no evidence; whatever evidence there could possibly be is all at the bottom of the ocean.”
“That’s my point,” said Tray.
“That isn’t a valid point,” the investigator said flatly. “Lack of evidence is not evidence.”
“Then there’s the question of Mr. Kell’s emergency suit,” Tray plunged ahead. “Of the five suits, only his failed. Why?”
The investigator shook its head. “The next thing you’ll be telling us is that the predator that electrocuted Lieutenant Sheshardi was part of the plot, too.”
“No,” Tray replied. “That was a random act. The beast might have killed any one of us.”
“Let me understand you, Mr. Williamson,” said the chief investigator. “You are saying that the Athena vessel, and Councilman Kell’s emergency suit, were both deliberately sabotaged?”
“And Mr. Kell was murdered. Yes.”
The investigators fell silent again for several moments. Then, “And who do you blame for this crime?”
“Captain Tsavo must have been involved. And he was working for President Balsam.”
Androids are not built to display shock or surprise. But for several long moments the tiny hearing chamber was absolutely still.
Tray glanced over his shoulder at Para, standing behind him. Like the three investigators up on the banc, Para maintained complete silence.
At last the chief investigator said, in a hollowed voice, “That is an extraordinary accusation, Mr. Williamson.”
“Especially when you have absolutely no evidence to back it,” said the android on Tray’s right.
“Jordan Kell’s death should not be swept under the rug,” Tray replied.
“There is no rug,” said the investigator on Tray’s left. “Or, rather, the rug has sunk to the bottom of the Jovian ocean.”
“If I may interject,” Para said, taking a step forward to stand beside Tray. “The evidence of sabotage, if there is any, can be found in the wreckage of the Athena module.”
“Which is at the bottom of the ocean,” the investigator repeated.
“Not yet,” said Para. “According to my calculations the wreckage should reach a neutral buoyancy point at approximately seven hundred kilometers below the ocean’s surface.”
“Far deeper than any of our submersibles have gone,” said the chief investigator.
“Not entirely true,” countered Para. “The experimental research submersible Jupiter Oceanus has reached almost that depth in its trial runs.”
The chief investigator focused on Para. “It is beyond the authority of this board of inquiry to commandeer the services of an experimental research vessel.”
“Who has such authority?” Tray asked.
“The Interplanetary Council’s research board,” said the android. Then it added, “Which is chaired by Council president Harold Balsam.”
AFTERMATH
“Heads they win, tails I lose,” Tray grumbled as he and Para sat in the corridor outside the hearing room.
He was waiting for Loris, who was giving her testimony to the board of android investigators. She had arrived at the hearing room alone; Mance Bricknell was nowhere in sight.
The corridor was empty except for Tray and Para, a long, dreary tunnel dug into the lunar subsoil generations ago as Selene expanded its habitat. Empty of other people, Tray thought, but he could see tiny red lights up near the curved ceiling: surveillance cameras, watching eternally.
“How long has she been in there?” Tray asked.
Para replied, “Twenty-six minutes and fourteen seconds.”
“What’s taking them so long? Loris doesn’t have anything to tell them that they haven’t already heard.”
The android was sitting beside Tray on the bare metal bench outside the hearing room. “They want to hear her version of what happened, to see if there are any major differences with your testimony, or places where your stories contradict one another.”
“See if one of us is lying,” Tray said.
“Or mistaken,” said Para.
Looking down the long, slightly curving corridor, Tray saw someone approaching. He quickly recognized the figure as Mance Bricknell, decked out in a bright green jacket and darker green slacks.
Bricknell came up to them and, unbidden, sat beside Tray.
“How did it go?” he asked, in a low, subdued voice.
Tray shrugged. “They didn’t have much to ask about.”
Bricknell nodded sharply.
“No records from Athena. All the evidence sank with the ship.”
“Not entirely true,” Para corrected. “My systems recorded everything I witnessed.”
“Oh!” Bricknell seemed surprised at that. “I had forgotten you’re a walking, talking info cache.”
With as much of a smile as it was capable of making, Para said, “That capability was built into me. I have no control over it.”
Bricknell nodded, then asked, “How long are they going to keep her in there? I’m scheduled to see them at one p.m. I’ll be missing my lunch—”
He stopped short as the door of the hearing room opened and Loris stepped into the corridor. She was wearing a slim sheath of pale rose that exquisitely set off her dark hair, which tumbled down one shoulder.
Both men and the android jumped to their feet.
“How did it go?” Mance and Tray asked in unison.
Loris smiled tentatively. “It wasn’t very bad, really. I didn’t have much to tell them that they didn’t already know. They asked me about Captain Tsavo, though. I’m not sure why.”
Tray’s ears perked up. “Tsavo? What did they want to know?”
Loris shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, if he involved himself in checking out Athena’s systems, technical matters like that. I told them I had no idea.”
“Why would they ask that?” Bricknell wondered aloud.
Tray said, “Because I told them that I think Tsavo had Athena sabotaged.”
“What?” Bricknell yelped.
Loris asked, “Why would he—”
“To murder Jordan Kell.”
For a long moment the four of them fell absolutely silent, even Para.
Then the speaker grill next to the hearing room’s door announced, “Mance Bricknell, we are ready to hear your testimony.”
But Bricknell was staring at Tray. “You must be insane.”
“It’s the only explanation I can think of that fits the facts,” Tray said, his eyes on Loris.
“You’re crazy!” Bricknell snapped.
“Can you think of a better explanation?” Tray challenged.
Bricknell shook his head. “Crazy,” he muttered as he went to the hearing room door and slid it open. Before he entered the chamber he looked back at Tray. “You’re going straight back to the insane asylum, Williamson. Straight back.”
LUNCHEON
“And you told the investigators what you thought?” Loris asked.
Tray nodded.
The two of them were sitting at a tiny table set out among the flowering shrubs of one of the restaurants in Selene’s Grand Plaza. In the distance Tray could see tourists soaring through the air on their rented wings, and the massive concrete curve of the outdoor theater rising above the greenery.
There were no insect pests among the bushes, only yellowjacket bees busily flitting among the flowers. Tray watched them going about their ancient business, mindlessly purposeful.
Loris stirred him from his brief reverie. “But you haven’t any evidence,” she said.
If Tray’s rash accusation troubled her, it hadn’t affected her appetite. Loris had gone through a sizable salad, a plump little soyburger, and was now gulping down a slice of blueberry pie.
Tray had barely touched his lunch. He explained his suspicions of Captain Tsavo and President Balsam, slowly, painfully, not certain of how Loris would react to him.
“I know Balsam is like one of your family—”
“Because of politics,” Loris interrupted. “Personally, I think he’s a big pile of blubber.”
Before he could stop himself, Tray pointed out, “But you were willing to go to bed with him.”
Loris took in a breath of air, then smiled at Tray.
“Politics makes strange bedfellows,” she quoted.
Tray shook his head.
“Suppose your suspicions are right,” Loris theorized. “What can you do about it?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“Well, I can do something,” Loris said, smiling at him. “Or, rather, my father can.”
“Do you think…”
Loris was already planning. “The first thing we’ve got to do is get you to Normandy, to my father’s chateau. You’ll be safe there.”
Tray had already received an official notice telling him that he was being sent back to the hospital facility that had been his home since returning from the Saviour catastrophe.
“I’m supposed to go back to the hospital,” he told Loris.
“Yes,” she said, her expression grim. “Back to the hospital, where they can keep you sedated or maybe induce a paralytic stroke.”
Tray felt his jaw drop open.
Leaning across the little table toward him, Loris said, “If they murdered Jordan Kell they’re not going to stop at silencing you.”
“Then you’re in danger, too,” Tray realized.
“They wouldn’t dare touch the daughter of a councilman.”
“Loris, they murdered the former chairman of the Council!”
That stopped her. Loris stared at him, wordless.
“I can’t have you risking your life.”
“It’s too late for that,” she replied. “We’re both marked people. Together with Para. Maybe Mance too just to make certain.”
“You think they’d go that far?”
Loris stared at him, her luminous blue eyes focused on his light blue ones. “Tray, if they’ve murdered Jordan Kell, killing us isn’t going to be out of the question.”
Tray felt his heart sink. “This is all my fault.”
Reaching for his hand, Loris countered, “No, it’s their fault. And we’ve got to find a way to stop them.”
He shook his head. “I don’t see how.”
“The first thing is to get you down to Normandy, to my father’s chateau.”
“I don’t see how…”
“I do.” Loris broke into an impish grin. “You’ll go in a diplomatic pouch.”
* * *
Tray returned to his quarters, where Para was waiting for him patiently. Another message from Selene’s transportation center was flashing on the room’s wall screen:
YOU ARE SCHEDULED TO DEPART SELENE TOMORROW ON THE NOON SHUTTLE TO THE L-1 TRANSFER STATION. FROM THERE YOU WILL BE BOARDED UPON APPROPRIATE TRANSPORTATION FOR YOUR RETURN TO EARTH.
Return to Earth, Tray thought. Return to the hospital complex. Return to imprisonment.
He looked up at Para. “What’s going to happen to you when we get back Earthside?”
“If my service to you is concluded I will be reprogrammed for another patient. Or terminated.”
“Terminated?”
“Destroyed,” said the android, emotionlessly. “Taken apart. Perhaps rebuilt into a newer machine.”
“Destroyed?” Tray barked. “Taken apart? Because of me?”
“It won’t be your fault,” Para replied. “Besides, you’ll have enough troubles of your own. You won’t have to worry about me.”
“The hell I won’t! You’re going with me to Loris’s father’s place in Normandy.”
Para did not argue.
* * *
The look on the face of the immigration officer would have been funny if it weren’t so critically important.
Loris, Tray, and Para stood before the man—a stubby, dark-haired bureaucrat in a well-worn, almost shabby, blue uniform. His round face looked bland, except for the thick mustache adorning his upper lip.
Frowning at Loris, he asked again, “This”—he jabbed a thumb at Tray—“this person is to be considered a diplomatic package?”
Loris smiled sweetly. “Yes. My father, Councilman De Mayne, is anxiously awaiting his arrival in Normandy.”
The immigration official cocked a disbelieving eye at Tray, then stepped up to Para.
“And this … this machine also?”
Loris’s smile didn’t fade by as much as a millimeter. Pointing to the bureaucrat’s computer screen, she said, “It also. It’s all in the forms that my father’
s staff filled out.”
Mumbling to himself, the official stepped back to the computer screen and rattled off some words in French.
The screen blinked once, then displayed, APPROVED.
Loris’s smile widened. She blinked her eyes at the official and said, “Très merci, monsieur.”
The little man put on an obviously forced smile and muttered, “Enjoy your flight.”
LEAVING SELENE
“Rank hath its privileges,” Loris said as she slid into the window seat of the rocketplane.
Tray nodded and sat beside her. Para took a seat behind them.
They were scheduled to take this shuttle from Selene’s spaceport to the space station hovering at the L-1 libration point, 57,600 kilometers above the Earth-facing surface of the Moon. From there they would transfer to a diplomatic courier spacecraft sent to meet them and bring them to the De Mayne estate in Normandy.
Loris raised the seat arm between them. “It’s cozier this way,” she said, smiling.
Tray smiled back at her. “I wonder how Mance is getting back.”
“Regular commercial flight,” said Loris. “Don’t worry about Mance; he’ll be fine. He always makes the best of any situation.”
Not this situation, Tray thought. Nearly half a million kilometers from here to Earth, without Mance in between us.
The shuttle’s round, windowless passenger compartment was more than half full: men, women, even children leaving the Moon and returning to Earth. Many of them looked like tourists to Tray, decked in bright slacks or skirts, blouses and tops bearing images of the lunar landscape and the imprint of Selene’s tourist department.
“Vacationing on the Moon,” Tray muttered. “Hope they had fun.”
“I’m sure they did,” said Loris.
“DEPARTURE IN ONE MINUTE, the overhead speakers announced. “PLEASE MAKE CERTAIN YOUR SAFETY HARNESSES ARE FASTENED.”
Tray quickly checked the straps that went across his chest and lap, then looked at Loris. She was properly buckled in, too.
“DEPARTURE IN THIRTY SECONDS,” the speakers declared. “TWENTY-NINE … TWENTY-EIGHT…”
Many of the passengers took up the count. Tray heard low adult voices among the youngsters’ high thin ones.
