by Ben Bova
No, not his death, Tray reminded himself.
His murder.
ACCEPTANCE SPEECH
The Interplanetary Council’s assembly hall was a magnificent piece of architecture, with a high vaulted ceiling and long arched windows that let the afternoon sunshine brighten the rows and rows of comfortably padded chairs that lined the chamber.
Despite his efforts to stay calm, to remain cool and collected, Tray could feel perspiration trickling down his ribs as he sat between Loris and Baron De Mayne, several rows back from the stage and the speaker’s podium. Para had been seated at the rear of the vast hall, together with the other nonhuman intelligences.
Wish he were here, with me, Tray said to himself. It doesn’t seem right to make him sit all the way back there.
The hall was filled to capacity. Council members sat up front. Behind them were guests, honored visitors, and finally the androids and robots. At the rear of the long, narrow hall were two levels of balconies, completely filled with ordinary citizens who had come to witness this opening session, with all its pomp and color.
The highlight of the ceremonies was the eulogy for Jordan Kell, and then Tray’s induction as a new member of the Council.
President Balsam was personally delivering the eulogy for Kell, piling on one laudatory roll of rhetoric after another. Tray sat listening stonily, thinking that Kell’s murderer looked as if he actually enjoyed being so devious. The audience sat in hushed respect, hardly moving through Balsam’s long-winded clichés.
At last Balsam finished. The entire massive throng rose to its feet as he stepped down from the podium and walked solemnly, head bowed as if in contemplation, back to his seat at the rear of the stage. No applause, not even a cough: hardly a sound broke the respectful silence.
As the Council’s meeting coordinator stepped up to the podium that Balsam had just vacated, Tray realized his lips were dry, his throat felt like an arid wasteland.
Nerves, he told himself. Turning in his seat, he picked out Para, sitting far to the rear. The android was focused on the coordinator. Tray thought, It must be good to have no emotions, to see things as they are, not warped by your inner fears or desires.
The coordinator began to introduce him. “Now we will hear from the newest and youngest member of the Council. Mr. Trayvon Williamson has been appointed to fill the term of the late Jordan Kell. Mr. Williamson is an American—”
Tray zoned out. He could feel his pulse rate climbing. He settled back in his seat and glanced at Loris, who looked just as tense, just as anxious as he was.
“… Mr. Williamson,” the coordinator finished, turning his smiling face in Tray’s direction.
For an instant, Tray was not certain that he could stand up. But he steeled himself and rose slowly to his feet, then strode to the steps of the stage and up to the speaker’s podium. Polite applause rippled through the huge audience.
Gripping the edges of the green marble podium, Tray heard Para’s voice in his built-in communicator coaching, “President Balsam, Coordinator Chang…”
He repeated the words mechanically as he stared out at the vast sea of faces looking at him. I don’t belong here! he thought. But then he focused on Loris, who was smiling warmly at him. He spoke to her.
“It is a great honor, and a tremendous responsibility, to stand here in place of the late Jordan Kell. He was a great man, and the work of this Interplanetary Council was his lifelong passion.
“He died in the ocean of Jupiter, pursuing his lifelong interest in the discovery of possibly intelligent creatures living on other worlds.”
Tray hesitated, then plunged, “I am here before you today to ask that you honor Councilman Kell’s lifetime of work, his vision of the human race’s expansion through the solar system and beyond.
“But more than that, I am here to request that this Council initiate an investigation into the cause of Councilman Kell’s death.
“He died in the depths of Jupiter’s ocean when his survival suit failed. The submersible that he and others—including me—were in failed catastrophically and we were forced to don the survival suits and return to the surface of the ocean…”
Calmly, with a deliberate, iron-willed statement of the facts as he knew them, Tray explained the accident that had killed Jordan Kell. He was tempted to raise the question of whether it had been an accident or a deliberate murder, but he forced himself to keep that question out of his speech.
“I feel that we should do everything in our power to learn how the mission into Jupiter’s ocean turned into a death trap. We owe that much, at the very least, to the memory of a great man.
“Thank you.”
His innards fluttering, Tray turned away from the podium, walked to the steps at the edge of the stage, and returned to his seat.
All in absolute silence.
* * *
The Council meeting ended quickly after Tray’s speech. He, Loris, De Mayne, and Para made their way through the departing throng toward the minibus that the Council had provided to haul the baron’s rolling therapeutic chair together with the rest of them. No one said a word to them as they got laboriously into the bus and rode back to the airport.
“That went over like a lead balloon,” Tray groused as they wove through Copenhagen’s narrow streets.
Para offered, “Apparently the crowd didn’t applaud Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, either. They were too moved.”
Tray h’mmpfed. “Not much consolation, Para.”
De Mayne spoke up. “No, I think your speech hit just the right note. I am certain that we can get the Council to authorize a special committee to investigate the accident.”
“Good,” said Tray, without a hint of enthusiasm.
“And what happens,” Loris asked, “if this committee finds no evidence of sabotage? Nothing that points to President Balsam’s involvement?”
De Mayne shrugged elaborately. “We must make certain that such evidence is found. Or, at the very least, that enough uncertainty is discovered to make Balsam’s rear end very hot and uncomfortable.”
MANCE BRICKNELL
For the next several days Tray stayed at De Mayne’s chateau, following the Council’s debate about appointing an investigative committee.
There seemed to be no real opposition to the idea. Council members on both sides of the political aisle agreed that Jordan Kell’s death should be investigated. Council president Balsam even agreed to have the submersible Jupiter Oceanus detached from its research schedule and assigned to a full-time search for the remains of the Athena module, deep in the Jovian ocean.
The submersible was manned by a crew of three, Tray learned. Radio and even laser communications were blocked quite effectively by the ammoniated waters of the Jovian ocean; human guidance of the submersible required a human crew aboard it.
“It goes well,” De Mayne said on the third morning after their return from Copenhagen. “The committee has been appointed and now they are hiring a scientific team to conduct the investigation.”
The baron and Tray were having breakfast together on a patio next to the chateau’s grim, gray wall. Para sat at the table with them, silently recording their conversation.
Tray glanced at the generous dish of eggs and ham that had been set before him. He found he had no appetite. The baron was nibbling at a buttered croissant as he spoke.
“By the beginning of next week the investigation can begin,” said De Mayne, happily chewing away. “Something of a speed record for the Council.”
“But by then Athena’s wreckage may be too deep for even the submersible to reach,” Tray replied.
Turning to the android, the baron asked, “Para, what do you say?”
“It is difficult to make a reasonable assessment,” Para replied. “The Athena module should be floating at its neutral buoyancy level, but that might be several hundred meters below the operating limits of Jupiter Oceanus.”
“Pah!” De Mayne snapped. “The scientists always build generous sa
fety factors into their calculations. They’re very protective of their precious toys.”
“There will be three human beings in that precious toy,” Tray pointed out.
“And several robots,” added Para.
“I say the submersible can reach the wreckage,” the baron insisted, “if there are capable men operating it.”
Tray wanted to reply, but hesitated. Don’t aggravate him, he told himself. He’s going to be your father-in-law. Then he added, I hope.
The bracelet on De Mayne’s right wrist began pulsing a bright green light.
“Yes?” said the baron to thin air.
“A call for Councilman Williamson, sir,” said a firm baritone voice from the bracelet.
Tray wondered why his own inbuilt communicator hadn’t picked up the call. He said, “I’ll take it.”
“The call is deemed private, for Councilman Williamson only.”
Tray pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “Pardon me,” he said to De Mayne. “I’ll stroll out into the garden, if you don’t mind.”
De Mayne waved a hand. “Go right ahead.”
Tray started along the cobblestone path that meandered through the bright blooms of the garden.
“Who’s calling?” he asked.
The phone’s voice in his head answered, “Dr. Mance Bricknell.”
Striding between tall azalea bushes, Tray covered up his surprise by saying, “I’m alone now. Please put him on.”
Suddenly Mance Bricknell’s lean, angular form took shape on the path in front of Tray.
“Hello, Mance,” said Tray.
“Hello.” Bricknell’s voice, and expression, seemed sullen, almost hostile.
“We haven’t heard from you for a while.”
“No,” said Bricknell. “You’ve been too busy playing councilman … and wooing Loris.”
Despite himself, Tray broke into a thin smile.
“She seems quite happy to be wooed, as you put it.”
“We can talk about that some other time,” Bricknell said stiffly. “What I called to tell you is that I’ve been asked to testify to the investigative committee the Council has appointed.”
“That’s good,” said Tray, genuinely pleased.
“And so have you, Loris, and your android.”
“Para?”
“Yes. You’ll get your formal subpoenas from the Council before the day is out.”
“That’s good,” Tray repeated.
“It’s going to be an interesting hearing,” Bricknell said.
“What about the Jupiter Oceanus?” Tray asked. “Has the Council ordered it to search for the remains of Athena?”
“Not yet. Apparently the scientific committee that controls the submersible’s research program is resisting the request to send it hunting for Athena’s wreckage. They think it’s too dangerous to send the sub down that deep.”
“But that’s the only way we could possibly find evidence of sabotage,” Tray said, alarmed.
“Tell that to the science committee,” said Bricknell.
And his image flicked into nothingness.
* * *
De Mayne listened to Tray’s report of Bricknell’s news with a downcast expression.
“It is an old tactic,” he said, once Tray had finished. “You can determine the committee’s findings by picking the people you assign to be on the committee.”
They were sitting in Baron De Mayne’s study, a smallish, comfortably furnished room nestled into a corner of the chateau’s walls. Loris sat in an upholstered armchair beside her father’s mobile medical chair. Tray sat tensely in a sling chair, facing them both. Para stood at Tray’s right.
“What can we do about it?” Tray asked.
De Mayne hunched his thin shoulders. “Not very much, I fear. Balsam is dictating the membership of the investigative committee. They will not be unbiased, I can assure you.”
Loris said, “If we can’t reach Athena, can’t study it to find possible evidence of sabotage…” Her voice trailed off.
Tray finished her thought, “Then we’re wasting our time … ours, the committee’s, everybody’s.”
But De Mayne, curiously, was smiling. “Perhaps not, mon ami. Perhaps not.”
“What’s going on in your mind, Papa?” Loris asked.
“Do you know who designed Jupiter Oceanus?” the baron asked.
“Cousteau?”
“Of course. Harlan Cousteau.”
Tray blinked, confused. “Who is Harlan Cousteau?”
“Perhaps he is the answer to our prayers,” said De Mayne.
THE WILD MAN
“Cousteau designed Jupiter Oceanus?” Tray asked.
Smiling even more broadly from his medical chair, De Mayne explained, “He is descended from the most famous family in the field of oceanography. His great-great-many more greats grandfather invented the aqualung, hundreds of years ago. The family has persisted in underwater exploration, although Harlan himself has spent more time building ocean-bottom tourist centers than anything else. Yet, in his spare time, he designed Jupiter Oceanus.”
Somewhat confused, Tray said, “I don’t see what that has to do—”
De Mayne interrupted, “If Cousteau offers to pilot the submersible himself, no committee in the solar system could refuse him.”
“But he’s an old man,” Loris objected. “Well past one hundred.”
“But still active,” said the baron. “Still pushing the envelope, as the aircraft designers say. Just a month ago he won a lawsuit against the Interplanetary Safety Board, which wanted to bar him from future ocean exploration because of his age.”
“And you think—”
“If he offers to pilot Jupiter Oceanus, Balsam could not refuse him.”
“But would he offer to do it?” Tray asked.
His smile showing sparkling teeth, De Mayne said, “Let us ask him to dinner and see what he has to say.”
“Would he accept an invitation?” Tray asked. “I mean, out of the blue, like this?”
De Mayne’s smile vanished. “I am the Baron De Mayne. One does not decline a dinner invitation from me.”
Tray felt his brows hike skyward. But he said no more.
* * *
That evening Tray and Para retired to their suite beneath the chateau’s roof and Tray looked up the biography of Harlan Cousteau.
De Mayne’s description of the man seemed to be accurate. Cousteau was an undersea explorer, a designer of submersibles, and an entrepreneur who had accumulated a sizable fortune designing and building sea-bottom tourist resorts.
His image surprised Tray. Expecting a typically small, slim Frenchman he saw a near-giant of a man, square of face, broad of shoulders, topped by a thatch of unmanageable reddish-blond hair. The biography noted that his father, small and slim as his forebears, had married a Swedish woman built like a Valkyrie, strong and generous of figure. Cousteau’s face was ruggedly handsome, and he seemed always to be smiling.
Tray looked forward to meeting him.
* * *
“And you must be Trayvon Williamson,” said Harlan Cousteau.
Tray, Loris, Baron De Mayne, and Para were in the chateau’s foyer, greeting Cousteau. He was a large man, burly and tall, smiling happily. He looked no older than the baron, with sparkling blue eyes and gleaming white teeth set in a weathered, suntanned face.
“Please call me Tray.”
“Fine. And you may call me Professor Cousteau.”
For an instant all conversation stopped. The little group froze, surprised, uncertain.
Then Cousteau broke into a hoarse laughter. “That was a joke. A poor one, I grant you, but then I’m a scientist and an entrepreneur, not a professional comedian.”
Tray noticed a slight accent on the word professional.
From his wheelchair the baron led them through the castle’s corridors, pointing out the family portraits hanging on the walls. Cousteau nodded solemnly at each picture, even pointing to one that included a
n ancestor of his among a group of notables.
“Black sheep of the family,” Cousteau confided. “Couldn’t swim.”
De Mayne chuckled, Loris looked puzled, and Tray wondered what kind of man they had pinned their hopes on.
DINNER
Cousteau grew more serious once they sat down for dinner.
“I take the failure of Athena as a personal affront,” he said grimly as the little group tackled their main course of duck à l’orange. “She should not have failed, not if she was properly maintained.”
Looking up from his plate, Tray asked, “Could it have been sabotage?”
Cousteau’s brow furrowed. “Sabotage? But why? Who would so such a thing?”
De Mayne said, “Why? To assassinate Jordan Kell, of course.”
“No!”
“Yes,” De Mayne insisted.
Cousteau half-whispered, “But that would mean…”
“That would mean that certain people in high office killed Jordan Kell to remove him as the leader of the Council’s opposition.”
“Opposition to President Balsam?”
“Who else?”
“Monstrous!”
Tray broke in. “We don’t have evidence to support our belief, but we’re hoping that your vessel, Jupiter Oceanus, may be able to recover the Athena module.”
“I see,” said Cousteau.
Loris asked, “Will you help us?”
“I?” Cousteau gasped. “You expect me to command the submersible and search for Athena’s wreckage?”
“We were hoping…” Tray’s voice faltered.
Cousteau fell silent. He saw that the others’ eyes were focused squarely on him. Even Para’s.
Then his rugged tanned face broke into a huge grin. “Why not? I will return to the sea … and my physician will have a stroke!”
