The Ganymede Club

by Charles Sheffield

  Bat was constructing the query when an attention light flashed on his console. A Mellifera probe had returned, and it was indicating success. The first one back usually found the shortest path to the data destination, but Bat made himself wait in delicious anticipation for another five minutes, until four more were in the hive.

  Access to the Hidalgo data base could be found— where?

  Bat examined the node sequences determined by the Mellifera modules, at first with delight and then with dismay. All five questing programs agreed that a copy of the Hidalgo data files was kept on Callisto. But incredibly, the files were not on-line. In order to examine them, it would be necessary to go to Callisto in person.

  That confirmed Bat's worst suspicions of Callisto, a hick world with a total IQ less than Bat's own. What sort of morons kept data bases without access?

  He felt his frustration grow. Callisto was where Sonnenberg had supposedly made his home after he left Hidalgo. All investigation paths seemed to lead there. In solar system terms Callisto was almost in Bat's own backyard—just the next moon out from Ganymede. As far as he was concerned, it might as well have been in a different galaxy. He never ventured as far as the surface of Ganymede, and the prospect of going beyond it appalled him.

  His irritation lasted for only a second or two. Another Puzzle Network dictum: Every well-posed problem has a solution. In this case Bat realized that the solution was obvious: Spook Belman.

  Spook loved the idea of charging off all over Ganymede, grubbing into old files and examining tattered war relics. He had more energy than sense. Surely he would view the prospect of a trip to Callisto with great enthusiasm.

  Bat reached for the phone. It was the middle of the Ganymede night—but what better time to be sure that Spook was home, alone, and available to talk?

  13

  The cartographers of the solar system had pegged Helene as a dead, quiet rock fragment of little interest to anyone. Probably it had once been a comet, swinging in close to the Sun and then far out again, until on one approach it had come too close to Saturn and been captured by the planet's gravitational field. That had happened millions of years ago, long enough for Helene to find its way to L-4, a low point in the Saturn/Dione gravity-potential well. It remained there still, in stable orbit. The little world's low density was consistent with a captured comet, most of whose volatiles had survived the approaches to the Sun and were still trapped inside it.

  That capture by Saturn was the end point of Helene's history. The worldlet was known to be quiet, dead, and dull. The Ganymede Club, the group of apparent eccentrics who had taken a lease on Helene in the 2040s, had done nothing in thirty years to change its external appearance or reported status. But the cartographers would have received a big surprise if they had been able to pay a visit to the interior.

  A dozen concealed shafts had been sunk into one side of the little moon. Below the surface plates that concealed them, a group of special-purpose Von Neumanns was constantly at work. They were installing drive units whose dilute exhausts were designed to be indistinguishable in composition from the solar wind. Around the drive shafts, but well separated from them, stood the original Helene tunnels. Numerous and interconnected, they produced a deep interior riddled with holes, like a great chunk of termite-infested wood. At the surface those tunnels were dark and frozen, but spreading across their mouths, a few hundred meters down, were thin membranes of a white rubbery material. It remained tough and flexible, although the local temperature was hundreds of degrees below freezing.

  Jeffrey Cayuga had parked the Weland in contact with the surface of Helene. It was held there by superconducting magnets. Only a huge force would wrench it free.

  He descended the closest tunnel, dropping steadily until he came to the membrane. It was not necessary to slice through it. A tug detached part of the tunnel wall and made a slit wide enough for him to slide past. He was still wearing his suit. Once on the other side of the membrane, he unlocked the seals and lifted his helmet.

  The head that emerged was hairless, with sagging cheeks cratered and fissured by deep lines in pockmarked and withered skin. As the helmet came off in a puff of freezing air, Cayuga gasped and shivered. His body drifted slowly forward and down.

  The interior below the membrane was forty degrees warmer than above, but its cold, hard vacuum would kill an unprotected human within a couple of minutes.

  Cayuga indeed seemed to be dying. His eyes were wide open and his rigid body went floating helplessly toward the tunnel wall. That wall was no longer a featureless crust of rock. It was pleated and striated, and within the numerous cracks and pouches lurked a pale blue phosphorescence. As soon as Cayuga's body touched the wall, glowing strands of blue reached out from the crannies to envelop him.

  Then there was no movement for four days, until at last a cloud of blue-white vapor puffed without warning from the corpse's open mouth. Staring eyes blinked, slowly and then faster. The broad chest shivered. A few seconds later Cayuga's hands began to twitch and clench and moved up to place his helmet back into position. There was a clicking of seals. The suit began to fill with air.

  Cayuga sneezed, once and then twice more. There was another long pause, until his suited figure began to move upward. Out again on the frozen surface of Helene, he began his inspection. He visited each of the drive installations, determining how close they were to completion. Another two days passed before he was ready to return to the waiting ship.

  An hour later, the Weland left. Helene became once more the silent and unpopulated world known to the solar system's official cartographers.

  * * *

  Lola was at an all-time, rock-bottom low.

  The day had started with the sort of patient that she wanted to kick around the office. It was a man, twenty years older than she, who said he needed a haldane's help because his life was "unfulfilled" and his talents were not appreciated. Before the end of the first session, Lola, without the aid of any psychotropic drugs, knew exactly what he was: he was a lazy, incompetent, greedy whiner who all his life had taken from anyone who would give—family, lovers, government, and former friends. Now he was expecting to take her time and was clearly not proposing to pay for it.

  When she suggested, after listening to his maundering complaints for most of the morning, that she couldn't do a damn thing for him because he was the cause of his own problems, he became furious. She hadn't heard the last of this, he said, as he stormed out. Bitch—he was going to report her. She would lose her haldane license.

  That was the beginning. Then came news that the next patient would not be arriving for his second session, because he had committed suicide. The person who called Lola clearly blamed her for that. He asked her, bitingly, if she had billed the dead man for "previous services."

  She had, she replied, and she had not been paid a cent. It was pretty clear that she would not be.

  The whole experience did not make a person ecstatic to be a haldane. You might perform miracles occasionally, but people expected them of haldanes all the time.

  Which brought her to Bryce Sonnenberg and her third appointment of the day. They previously had been through a long, intense session that had left both of them exhausted and soaked in sweat. The difference was that after it, Bryce could go away and recuperate, while Lola must sit in her office and live through the whole thing a second time, and then maybe a third time, to see if she had missed anything.

  She was already feeling tired, but she called up the background files for Bryce's sessions in case she needed them during the review. That led to another irritation. She had set up file protection so that no data could be changed, and so that if anyone else asked for one of those files, she would know about it. Someone had. The flags showed that someone had been in the system since her previous session, four days ago.

  Spook. It had to be. She always locked her office doors, inner and outer, but he could get in from their connecting apartment. He had been told the ground rules under which he and
Bat must operate, and he was ignoring them.

  She tried to call him, tried everywhere he was likely to be, to tell him in person what she thought of him. No good. He had vanished without a trace. He must have known that she would come after him and he had gone on a walkabout, rambling the byways of Ganymede, where he knew that Lola would never be able to follow.

  Well, his escape was only temporary. He'd be back sometime, looking for food, like the greedy pig that he was. Then he would get it—and she was not referring to food.

  Lola slipped off her shoes, removed her stockings, loosened her belt, and took the slides from her long brown hair. She was grimly settling down to review the day's work with Bryce Sonnenberg when the inner office door behind her opened. She was more annoyed than worried. Nobody but Spook came in without knocking on the outer door.

  She swung round in her chair. "You revolting little crawler!" she started. She found herself staring at the surprised face of Conner Preston. "Oh. I'm sorry. I thought—"

  "That I was your brother," said Preston. "I know. I'm quite familiar with the way that siblings talk to each other."

  "You should have knocked."

  "I did knock. And I called. Your line was perpetually busy."

  "I was trying to find Spook."

  "To tell him what you thought of him? I'm sorry, I'm interrupting, aren't I?"

  "No, you're not." Lola glared at the file on her display. She didn't want to go through that harrowing session with Bryce Sonnenberg all over again. It could wait until tomorrow. So could her fight with Spook. What she needed tonight was a meal, a drink, and an hour or two of relaxation. She turned back to Conner Preston. "What do you want?"

  "It depends what mood you're in. If you're feeling as grim and bitchy as you sound, nothing. On the other hand—" He held up two small gilt cards. "Today is the fortieth anniversary of the first human expedition leaving Earth orbit for the exploration of Saturn. It's a small and exclusive party, no riffraff. Unless of course you happen to be media, who are all riffraff, as you were kind enough to point out to me the other night. But we have to be invited, scum that we are, because if we don't report it, an event didn't happen."

  "I'm not media."

  "This card and badge says you are, if I say you are. If you say you are, too, who's going to argue? Want to come?"

  "Like this?" Lola pushed her hair back from her face and glanced down at her bare feet.

  "You look just fine to me." He sounded as though he meant it, too. "But I'm willing to give you fifteen minutes."

  "Ten. Just wait here." Lola hurried from the office to the apartment and into her bedroom. Haldanes were the ones who were supposed to read minds, but Conner Preston might as well have been reading hers. A party was exactly what she wanted. Make that needed—she had been working too hard for too long.

  She did an instant change to a dark-blue formal outfit that she knew suited her coloring, decided to keep her hair down, and was ready to go in nine minutes. That gave her enough time to confirm that Spook was not back and post a threatening note on his door: "You'd better have a good explanation or you're a dead jerk." That was weak, but she didn't have time for anything fancy.

  When she returned to the office, Conner was sitting in her chair, lolling back and staring idly at the screen. "You look absolutely wonderful," he said, as he turned. "Don't you have to store this away before we leave?" He nodded at the display.

  "It's already filed." She moved to his side. "But it ought not to be left where people can see it—he's one of my patients. He might not care, but I do. Not that anyone could get in here to see it anyway."

  Conner showed no great interest, but he deliberately turned his head away as she gave the command to clear the file from memory and from the display.

  "He must be really rich," he said. "Every media type I know could do to be worked over by a haldane, but we're all too poor."

  "That doesn't stop some people. I had a man in just this morning who expected free treatment." Lola led the way out, carefully locking the doors. It had surely been Spook sneaking around in her files, but just in case she didn't want to make it easy for anyone else. "As for you needing a haldane, you seem fine. I don't know what you think I might do for you."

  "I'd find something." There was a hint in his voice that said his remark was intended to be taken two ways, and he tucked her arm in his as he led the way along the corridor. She noticed how at ease he now seemed in Ganymede gravity, and how confidently he navigated the system of elevators, escalators, dropchutes, and slideways.

  "Necessary professional skill," he said when she remarked on it. "They send me somewhere and expect me to hit the ground running. I have to be in a particular place at the right time, and it's no good saying that I got lost on the way there. Give me another few weeks and I'll take you places you've never been before."

  He was already doing that. They had traveled three or four kilometers on a top-speed slideway, to a development beyond Moira Cavern that Lola knew only by reputation. It was First Family country, just a few levels down from the frozen Ganymede surface where the Von Neumanns had created the first habitats. The lifestyle here was now unimaginably different from that of those primitive early days, and the modern decor reeked of wealth. However, money alone was not enough to get you living space in this section. You needed to prove that your family presence on Ganymede went back to the 2030s, when the original settlers had arrived.

  "We're going to get thrown out, you know," Lola said, as she noticed ahead of them the biggest pair of doors that she had ever seen, painted in white and gold. "As soon as I open my mouth, they'll realize I have an Earth accent. They'll ask me when I arrived on Ganymede, and that will be it."

  "Not a chance." Conner Preston led the way confidently forward, and the doors swung open. "You're not here as a guest or as an equal. You're here as media. You don't speak, you listen and record. You don't expect to be admired—or even to admire, because your opinions don't count. Think of us the way they do, as flesh-and-blood service machines, or some sort of invisible vermin. Then you'll be fine. Come on, let's go in."

  A small party, he had said. But Conner's idea of "small" was not the same as Lola's. There had to be a couple of hundred people inside, in one lofty chamber almost as high as it was wide. Small knots of people were standing talking to each other, while others formed lines at two great tables that ran down the middle of the room. Lola saw them look at her and Conner Preston, register the gilt media badges, and ostentatiously continue their conversations. If they gave the occasional sideways glance, it was only to make sure that their presence was being noted.

  Conner was right. Media people were here to observe rather than to be observed. Lola walked forward to the tables, where a dozen serving machines were rapidly filling orders. The food on other people's plates looked absolutely wonderful. She was starting to give her own order when Conner laid his hand on her arm.

  "What's wrong?" She paused. After a few seconds of programed waiting, the machine turned away to serve another woman in a dark-blue dress (similar in color, Lola noticed, to her own, and far more expensive).

  "This table is the special food," Conner said softly. "It's for the regular guests. Media food will be at the back."

  "Oh. I'm sorry." Lola was beginning to move away from the table when she caught the look on his face—and realized that two people no more than twenty feet away were wearing gilt badges and holding drinks and loaded plates of food. "Conner Preston, you are rotten."

  "I am, aren't I?" He took her arm again and led her back to the table. "You don't know much about media people. If my friends didn't have a shot at the best food and drink, they'd never come to parties like this. It's one of the job perks. Order anything you like—or, better still, sit down at the side table there and let me order for you. I know the best stuff at events like this, things that plebs like us never normally get to taste or even to see. I'll bring you your food, and while we're eating, I'll point out the high and mighty."

/>   "Government people?"

  "Not tonight. The top dogs here are people whose families had something to do with the original Saturn expedition of 2032. They may look the same as the rest, but they're not."

  Lola sat down as directed and allowed herself to relax for what felt like the first time in years. Maybe it was. Since the day that she and Spook had left Earth, she had been required to make every decision, major and minor. It was such a pleasure to let her mind float free and, for just one night, allow someone else to take over worrying about everything.

  He returned with too much food, then went back to bring them two carafes of wine. While he talked, she ate a great deal, drank even more, and listened in silence. It was wonderful; he didn't expect her to say anything, only to follow his little gestures so that she knew which people he was talking about.

  "That's one of them," Conner said softly with his mouth close to her ear—though there was so much noise in the room now that he could have shouted. "He's a descendant of the original Saturn team. His name is Ignatz Dahlquist, and his great-uncle was anengineer on the Marklake." He was indicating a pale, thin-faced man in his early twenties. "He's talking to another one, Lenny Costas. A relative of Luke Costas, the Marklake's chief engineer. And see her?"

  Lola followed his gesture and found herself looking at a small, dark-haired woman about forty years old, with delicate features and a slim, elegant body.

  "She's beautiful. I wish I looked like that." The wine was getting to her; she could feel its warmth in her belly.

  "You look a lot better than that, Lola Belman. But don't distract me. That's Alicia Rios. One of her aunts was on the first expedition."

  A cat may look at a king. But it seemed to Lola that Alicia Rios was staring right back at her, showing more than casual interest. In fact, the woman began walking toward them. She slowed as she came up to their table and looked down. Lola, seated, found herself gazing up into cool, dark eyes. For a long silent moment it seemed as though Alicia Rios were going to speak; then she nodded and moved on past.