Saturn gt-12

by Ben Bova

  Eberly saw a stumpy, slightly plump woman with spiky red hair pushing her way to the front of the crowd.

  “You can’t siphon off the ring particles!” she shouted as the people moved away to clear a path for her. “You’ll ruin the rings! You’ll destroy them!”

  Holding up a hand for silence, Eberly said dryly, “It seems we’ve reached the question-and-answer part of this evening’s rally.”

  Once she got to the front of the crowd, at the edge of the platform, Wunderly hesitated. Suddenly she looked embarrassed, unsure of herself. She glanced around, her cheeks reddening.

  Eberly smiled down at her. “If the other candidates don’t mind, I’d like to invite this young woman up here to the podium to state her views.”

  The audience applauded: lukewarm, but applause nonetheless. Eberly glanced at Urbain and Timoshenko, sitting behind him. Urbain looked uncertain, almost confused. Timoshenko sat with his arms crossed over his chest, an expression somewhere between boredom and disgust on his dark face.

  “Come on up,” Eberly beckoned. “Come up here and state your views so that everyone can hear you.”

  Wunderly hung back for a couple of heartbeats, then — her lips set in a determined grim line — she climbed the platform stairs and strode to the podium.

  As Eberly clipped a spare microphone to the lapel of her tunic, she said earnestly, “You can’t mine the rings—”

  Eberly stopped her with a single upraised finger. “Just a moment. Tell us your name first, if you please. And your affiliation.”

  She swallowed once, then looked out at the audience and said, “Dr. Nadia Wunderly. I’m with the Planetary Sciences group.”

  “A scientist.” I thought so, Eberly said to himself. Here’s my chance to show the voters how self-centered the scientists are, how righteous they are, not caring an iota about the rest of us.

  “That’s right, I’m a planetary scientist. And you can’t start mining the rings. You’ll destroy them. I know they look big, but if you put all of the ring particles together they’d only form a body of ice that’s no more than a hundred kilometers across.”

  Turning to Urbain, Eberly said, “Would you care to join this discussion, Dr. Urbain?”

  The Quebecois got up from his chair and approached the platform, while Timoshenko sat unmoving, his arms still folded across his chest, his face still scowling.

  “The rings are fragile,” Wunderly said earnestly. “If you start stealing tons of particles from them you might break them up.”

  Eberly asked, “Dr. Urbain, is that true?”

  Urbain’s face clouded momentarily. Then, with a little tug at his beard, he replied, “Yes, of course, if you continue to remove particles from the rings, at some point you will destabilize them. That is obvious.”

  “How many tons of ice particles can we remove without destabilizing the rings?”

  Urbain looked at Wunderly, then gave a Gallic shrug. “That is unknown.”

  “I could calculate it,” Wunderly said.

  “How many tons of ice are there in the rings?” Eberly probed.

  Before Urbain could answer, Wunderly said, “A little over five times ten to the seventeenth metric tons.”

  “Five times…” Eberly made a puzzled face. “That sounds like a lot, to me.”

  Urbain said, “It is five with seventeen zeroes after it.”

  “Five hundred thousand million million tons,” said Wunderly.

  Eberly pretended to be amazed. “And you’re worried about our snitching a few hundred tons per year?”

  A few snickering laughs rose from the crowd.

  “But we don’t know what effect that would have on the ring dynamics,” Wunderly said, almost pleading.

  Urbain added more forcefully, “You say a few hundred tons per year, but that number will grow.”

  “Yes, but there’s five hundred thousand million million tons available,” said Eberly.

  Nostrils flaring, Urbain said, “And once all of Canada was covered with trees. Where are they now? Once the oceans of Earth were filled with fish. Now even the plankton are dying. Once the jungles of Africa were home to the great apes. Today the only chimpanzees or gorillas in existence live in zoos.”

  Turning to the audience, Eberly said in his strongest, most authoritative voice, “You can see why scientists must not be allowed to run this habitat. They care more for apes than they do for people. They want to keep five hundred thousand million million tons of water ice out of our hands, when just a tiny amount of that water could make all of us wealthy.”

  Wunderly burst, “But we don’t know enough about the rings! At some point you could upset the ring dynamics so badly that they’ll all go crashing down into the planet!”

  “And what would happen to any organisms living beneath the clouds?” Urbain added. “It would be an environmental catastrophe beyond imagining. Planetary genocide!”

  Eberly shook his head. “By taking a hundred tons or so, out of five hundred thousand million million?”

  “Yes,” Urbain snapped. “I will not allow it. The International Astronautical Authority will not allow it.”

  “And how will they stop us?” Eberly snapped back. “We’re an independent entity. We don’t have to follow the dictates of the IAA or any other Earthbound authority.”

  Turning again to the audience, he said, “I will establish our government as independent of all Earthbound restrictions. Just like Selene. Just like the mining communities in the Asteroid Belt. We will be our own masters! I promise you!”

  The audience roared its approval. Urbain shook his head in bafflement. Tears sprang to Wunderly’s eyes.

  PROFESSOR WILMOT’S QUARTERS

  Instead of his usual evening’s entertainment, Wilmot watched the final rally. Eberly’s a rabble-rouser, nothing less, he thought. Mining the rings and making everyone rich. What an extraordinary idea. Ecologically unwise, perhaps, but the short-term gains will wipe out any fears of long-term problems.

  The scientists are unhappy, of course. But what can they do? Eberly’s got this election sewed up. Timoshenko’s people will vote their pocketbooks and go for Eberly. So will a good many of the scientists, I wager.

  He leaned back in his comfortable upholstered chair and watched the crowd boil up onto the platform and carry Eberly off on their shoulders, leaving Urbain, Timoshenko, and that pathetic little red-haired woman standing there like forlorn children.

  Holly knew there was no exit from the utilities tunnel that opened directly into the apartment building where Professor Wilmot lived. Since she’d gone into hiding she’d been able to sneak into office buildings in the dead of night and use their lavatory facilities. She had even gone clothes shopping in the main warehouse without being detected. But now she would have to risk coming up into the village and scurrying along the streets of Athens in full view of the surveillance cameras atop the light poles.

  How can I do that without being seen? she asked herself as she made her way along the tunnel. I need a disguise.

  Or a diversion, she realized. She stopped and sat on the floor, thinking hard.

  Tavalera walked for kilometers along the main utility tunnel running from Athens out under the orchards and farms and all the way to the endcap. No sign of Holly.

  He passed a sturdy little maintenance robot swiveling back and forth across a small patch of the metal flooring, its vacuum cleaner buzzing angrily.

  Tavalera stopped and watched the squat, square-shaped robot. From his weeks spent with the Maintenance Department, Tavalera knew that the robots patrolled these tunnels, programmed to clean any dust or leaks they found, or to call for human help if they came across something beyond their limited means of handling. There was some kind of crud at this one spot, Tavalera reasoned. He couldn’t see any dirt or an oil smear. Could it have been crumbs? Could Holly have been eating here?

  He looked up and down the tunnel. The robot, satisfied that the area was now clean, trundled off toward the endcap, deftly ma
neuvering around Tavalera, its sensors alert for anything amiss.

  “Holly!” Tavalera yelled, hoping she was close enough to hear him. No answer except the echo of his own voice bouncing down the tunnel.

  Sitting side by side, Cardenas and Gaeta watched the rally, too, from the enforced confinement of her apartment.

  “Mine the rings?” Cardenas gasped at the idea. “Nadia’s going to have a stroke over that.”

  Gaeta made a grudging grunt. “I dunno. Maybe he’s onto something. Ten to the seventeenth is a big number.”

  “But still…” Cardenas murmured.

  “You know what the going price is for a ton of water?”

  “I know it’s more precious than gold,” said Cardenas, “but that’s because the price of gold has collapsed since the rock rats started mining the asteroids.”

  “Mining the rings.” Gaeta scratched at his jaw. “Might be a workable idea.”

  “What are we going to do about Holly?” Cardenas asked, her voice suddenly sharp.

  Gaeta said, “There’s not much we can do, is there? We’re stuck here.”

  “For the time being.”

  “So?”

  “There’s the phone,” Cardenas said.

  “Who do you want to call?”

  “Who can help us? And help Holly?”

  “Quien sabe?”

  “What about Professor Wilmot?”

  “He wasn’t at the rally,” said Gaeta.

  “So he’s probably at home.”

  Cardenas told the phone to call the professor. No image formed, but Wilmot’s cultured voice said, “I cannot speak with you at the moment. Please leave a message.”

  Before Gaeta could say anything, Cardenas said, “Professor, this is Kris Cardenas. I’m concerned about Holly Lane. I’ve taken the liberty of accessing her dossier from the Earthside files, and it doesn’t match the dossier that Eberly claims is hers. There’s no record of mental illness or emotional instability. Something is definitely wrong here, and I’d like to discuss it with you as soon as possible.”

  Once the phone light winked out, Gaeta said, “That’s assuming Eberly lets us out of here.”

  Cardenas replied tightly, “He can’t keep us under lock and key forever.”

  “Well, he’s got us under lock and key right now.”

  “What can we do about it?” she wondered aloud.

  Gaeta reached for her. “Well, you know what they say.”

  She let him pull her into his arms. “No, what do they say?”

  Grinning, “When they hand you a lemon, make lemonade.”

  She thought about the bugs that Eberly’s people must have planted in the apartment. “They’ve probably got cameras watching us.”

  He grinned wickedly. “So let’s give ’em something to see.”

  Cardenas shook her head. “Oh no. But we could stay under the blanket. I doubt that they’ve got infrared sensors planted.”

  Holly came up in the administration building and slipped along its empty corridors to her own office. There was no window in her cubicle so she went to Morgenthau’s office and looked out at the street. Empty. Everybody’s either at the rally or at home watching the rally, she thought. She hoped.

  But there are security goons watching the surveillance cameras. Worse, there are computers programmed to report any anomalies that the cameras pick up, she knew. I bet my description is on their list of anomalies. People can be distracted or lazy or even bribed; the warping computers never blink.

  What I need is a distraction. It won’t fool the computers but it’ll keep the security people busy.

  A distraction.

  Holly closed her eyes, picturing the schematics of the habitat’s safety systems that she had memorized. For several minutes she sat at Morgenthau’s desk, her face twisted into a grimace of concentration. Then at last she smiled. She activated Morgenthau’s desk computer and, recalling the access code for the fire safety system, began instructing the computer to create a diversion for her.

  Tavalera trudged wearily back along the tunnel he had come down. At least he was pretty certain it was the same tunnel. He had taken a couple of turns out near the endcap, where several tunnels joined together.

  No sign of Holly. Maybe those security goons got her. He felt anger welling up inside him — anger and frustration and fear, mixed and churning inside his guts. And the sullen ache in his side where they had whacked him with their batons.

  The bastards, he thought. Holly never hurt anybody. Why are they out to get her? Where could she be? Is she safe? Have they got her? Where could she be?

  He stopped walking and looked around the dimly lit tunnel. Pipes and electrical conduits ran along the overhead and both walls.

  “Christ,” he muttered, “where the hell am I?”

  Monitoring the security cameras was easy duty. Gee Archer had his back to the double row of surveillance screens as he tapped a stylus against his teeth, planning his next move.

  “You sleeping?” asked Yoko Chiyoda, grinning impishly.

  “Thinking,” said Archer.

  “It’s hard to tell the difference.”

  She was a big woman, with a blocky torso and thick limbs well muscled from years of martial arts training. Archer was slim, almost delicate, with slicked-back blond hair and soft hazel eyes. The tabletop screen between them showed the battle dispositions of the Russian and Japanese fleets at the Tsushima Straits in May 1905. Just to devil Archer, she had taken the Russian side, and was beating him soundly nevertheless.

  “Gimme a minute,” Archer mumbled.

  “You’ve already had—”

  Several things happened at once. The sprinklers set in the ceiling began spraying them with water. The intercom loudspeakers blared, “FIRE. EVACUATE THE BUILDING AT ONCE.” Archer jumped to his feet, banging his shin painfully against the play table. Chiyoda sputtered as she got up, blinking against the spray of ice-cold water drenching her. She grabbed Archer’s hand and dragged him limping toward the door.

  Unseen behind them, one of the surveillance screens showed a lone woman walking swiftly along the empty street in Athens that led from the administration building to the complex of apartment buildings further up the hill. The security computer’s synthesized voice was saying, “Ninety-three percent match between the person in camera view and the fugitive Holly Lane. Notify security headquarters at once to take appropriate steps to apprehend the fugitive Holly Lane. She is wanted for questioning…”

  But neither Archer nor Chiyoda heard the security computer. They were already halfway out of the building, drenched, rushing blindly to escape the fire that did not exist, except in the circuits of the safety computer.

  Computers are so smart, Holly thought, and so dumb. A human person would’ve looked to see if there really was a fire in the building. But give a computer the right set of instructions and it’ll act as if a fire had truly broken out.

  She grinned as she skipped up the steps in front of the apartment building and tapped out its security code. The door sighed open and she stepped in, out of range of the surveillance cameras at last, and hurried up the stairs to the second level, where Wilmot’s apartment was.

  And ran almost into the arms of the two security officers standing in the corridor outside Wilmot’s door.

  “Nobody’s allowed to see Professor Wilmot,” said the first one.

  “But I—”

  “Hey!” snapped the second guard, recognition dawning on his face. “You’re Holly Lane, aren’t you?”

  Holly turned to run, but the guard grasped her arm. She swung on him but the second guard grabbed her other arm in midswing.

  “Come on, now. We don’t want to hurt you.”

  Holly saw it was useless. She relaxed and glowered at them.

  The first guard banged on Wilmot’s door hard enough to rattle it against its frame while the second one spoke excitedly into his handheld:

  “We’ve got her! Holly Lane. The fugitive. She’s here at Wilmot’s quar
ters.”

  A tinny voice replied, “Excellent. Hold her there until we arrive.”

  Wilmot opened his door, a fuzzy robe of royal blue wrapped around him and tightly tied at the waist. His eyes widened with surprise as he saw Holly in the grip of the guard.

  “Got a visitor for you, Professor,” the guard said, pushing Holly past the startled old man and into his sitting room. Then he slid the door shut again.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be astonished that you’re here,” Wilmot said, standing by the door. “The remarkable thing is that you’ve managed to elude the security people for so long.”

  “Not long enough,” Holly said ruefully.

  “Well… do sit down. We might as well be comfortable. Would you like something? Sherry, perhaps?”

  “No thanks.” Holly perched on the edge of one of the twin armchairs. She glanced at the closed door. No other way out of here, she knew. Wilmot sank down into the other armchair with a pained sigh.

  “Whatever brought you here, to me?” he asked.

  “I wanted your help,” Holly said. “Colonel Kananga murdered Don Diego and he’s after me now.”

  “Diego Romero? I thought his death was an accident.”

  “It was murder,” said Holly. “Kananga did it. He tried to kill me when I found out about it.”

  “And Eberly is in on it, is he?”

  “You know about that?” Holly asked, surprised.

  His face showing distaste, Wilmot said, “He’s put out a dossier that purports to show you are dangerously unbalanced.”

  Holly bit back the anger and remorse that surged within her. “Yes. Malcolm’s protecting Kananga.”

  “A little earlier this evening Dr. Cardenas sent me your dossier from the files on Earth. Eberly’s done some creative lying about you.”

  “Then you’ll help me?”

  Wilmot shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not even able to help myself, actually. He’s got me locked in here.”

  “Locked up? You? How could he do that? I mean, you’re—”

  “It’s a long, sad story,” said Wilmot wearily.