The Heart of the Comet

by David Brin

  —Can’t blame a man for tryin’.—

  “Come on, your tongue is hanging out.”

  They flew their mechs ahead of them, down through the hollow center of the orange cylinder, popping free restrainer clips as they went. The fiberthread tube unflexed, articulating in sheets along the original axis. Every two minutes it extruded from itself a hundred-meter segment, automatically pressure-sealed the ends, and began pushing out another—each barely narrower than the one before. To Carl, it resembled a gaudy tube-worm that continuously regenerated itself, burrowing into an apple.

  Side tunnels took more care. The mechs cut holes for the intersections, fuse-sealed them, and deployed the smaller tube extruders. Carl and Jeffers had to maneuver them into place, yoke and unyoke, check joints and seals, and be sure nothing snagged on an outcropping of rock or jagged ice. In the tunnels chunks of icy cometary agglomerate rubbed off—the mechs were sometimes clumsy—and floated freely through the dark spaces, striking multicolored halos around the spot torches the men carried. It was steady, meticulous, tiring work, even in near-zero gravity.

  Their meal break was in a tunnel segment recently filled with air. They cracked their helmets and moored on a wall, enjoying the freedom even though the cold, tangy-flavored air cut sharply in their nostrils.

  “Think you’ll ever get used to it?” Jeffers asked, munching methodically on a self-warming ration bar. “Living in here?”

  Carl shrugged. “Sure. The exercise wheel and electrical stimulation will take care of the low G, the docs say.”

  “Trust ’em for eighty years?” Jeffers’s lean face seemed fitted for a skeptical expression; his mouth drooped down toward a pointed chin, eyes narrowed and quizzical. “Anyway, what I meant was the ice all around you. Feel how cold it is? And that’s with all this insulation and our suit heaters goin’ full bore.”

  “It’ll warm up. That’s a meter’s insulation we just laid around this, remember.”

  “Gonna be a looong winter.” Jeffers grinned. He would soon be swimming blissfully in the slots, and clearly relished the thought. Jeffers had been awake on the flight out. It had been boring, and now the work was hard and dangerous. He was ready for others to take over. The first watch.

  Still, Carl couldn’t understand the man’s attitude.

  “There’s some risk in the slots, y’know. System malf, or—”

  “I know, I know. My biochem might screw up in some way the experts missed out on. Or maybe you guys on watch throw a wrong switch, cut off my power, and the safeguards fail. Or an asteroid hits us all. He grinned again. “Still. it’s a one-way trip across more’n a couple decades.”

  Carl frowned. “So?”

  “I’d just as soon sleep through the dull part, accumulatin’ Earthside pay.” Jeffers’s thin face twisted into a sardonic grin. “Comet farmin’ in the outer system—that’ll be fun. But I can skip the kiss-ass politics.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “C’mon, you’re a Percell too. You know how this whole expedition’s been set up.”

  “Uh …how?”

  “The Orthos! They’re running everything.” Jeffers ticked off the names on his fingers. “Cruz, then Oakes, Matsudo, d’Amaria, Ould-Harrad. Quiverian. Every section head is an Ortho.”

  “So?”

  “They think we’re freaks!”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “They do! Look at the way the Orthos are treating our people Earthside. Think these here are any different?”

  “They aren’t like that mob that burned down the center in Chile last week, if that’s what you mean. Sure, I read about that stuff, and the other places. That’s one reason I work in space, same as you.”

  “Space’s no different.”

  “Sure it is. These Ortho—these people know they’re really the same as us.”

  Jeffers said triumphantly, “But they aren’t.”

  Carl smiled humorlessly. “Now who’s being prejudiced?”

  “Hell, you know we’re not the same as them.” Jeffers leaned forward, speaking earnestly. “Our bodies are better, that’s for sure. And we’re smarter, too. The tests show that.”

  “Hell they do.”

  “Can’t argue with statistics!”

  Carl grunted with irritation. “Look, we were boy wonders back when we were growing up—before people started turning against us. All Percells were. Remember the scholarships? The special attention?”

  “We earned that. We were smart.”

  Carl shook his head. “We turned out smart—because of the VIP treatment.”

  “Naw. I’ve always been quicker than your typical Ortho, even if I don’t bother to talk real well.”

  “And you are. But you’re no better than people like Captain Cruz or Dr. Oakes.” Carl got to his feet too rapidly and his velcro grips tore free of the fiberthread. He shot across the tunnel and banged his head against the ceiling.

  “Damn!”

  Jeffers snickered but said nothing. Carl rubbed his head as he drifted back, but refused to let his irritation show any further. Jeffers was like too many Percells—wrapped up in their own sense of persecution, picking at every imagined slight like a festering sore. Arguing with them just encouraged it.

  “Open your eyes:” his friend persisted. “Who’ve they got in the dangerous jobs like ours? Percells!”

  “Because a lot of us are trained for zero G. We had the scholarships to get into it.”

  “Then why not put a Percell in charge of all Manual Operations?”

  “Well…we’re not old enough yet. No Percell is as experienced as Cruz or Ould-Harrad or—”

  “Come on! Look at who’s doing the outgassing experiments. And developing long term sleep slotting. All Orthos.”

  “So?”

  “That’s where the real money’ll be! Learn how to steer comets with their own boiloff, show you can sleep and work in decade shifts—and you can sell your talent anywhere in the system.”

  Carl couldn’t help laughing. Jeffers sure did take the long view. “Come on, that’s—”

  “And what about Chem Section? If we turn up anything half as valuable as Enkon here, you know who’ll make out. And they’re all Orthos, too, except Peters.”

  “We all signed patent agreements. Any techniques discovered, we all get a cut, after recouping basic expenses.”

  Jeffers’s face contorted into a sour, sardonic mask. “The Orthos’ll find a way around that.”

  Carl felt his own conviction wavering. What if he’s right? But then he blotted out the thought. “Look, get off that line. We can’t continue those stupid Earthside fights out here.”

  “We’re not—it’s them.”

  Exasperated, Carl stuffed the remains of his lunch into his carry pouch. “Let’s go—I’d rather work than argue.”

  * * *

  Still, that evening he entered the rec-lounge bar troubled, looking for Virginia. She was a reasonable Percell and might understand what he only slowly admitted to himself this afternoon—that he halfway agreed with some of Jeffers’s accusations. It was the man’s tone, his black-and-white way of putting everything, that got Carl’s back up.

  He collected a drink, turned to go, and saw the sign DUCK OR GROUSE just in time to remind him. He stooped and entered the lounge. The first week aboard, he and other Percells had slammed their foreheads into the doorjamb a dozen times; the Edmund’s designers had apparently believed only Orthos socialized.

  Lani Nguyen intercepted him near the smiling tungsten bust of Edmond Halley himself. “Ah, at last you appear.”

  She gave an immediate impression of slim, efficient design, every inch a spacer. Lean muscles bunched in her bare almond-colored arms, but otherwise she was covered in a draping, cool blue dress that moved in light pseudo-gravity with a graceful, modest independence. Carl liked the effect of shimmering cloth lagging behind her precise, delicate movements.

  “Uh, yeah, we had some trouble with the tunnel articulation.” He smiled cordially
but tried to scan the lounge without seeming to do so.

  Dr. Akio Matsudo was talking earnestly to Lieutenant Colonel Ould-Harrad, the head of Manual Ops. Through the viewport Halley Core glimmered and swam as the G-wheel turned. Captain Cruz stood ramrod-straight against the starry background, easily dominating the room, surrounded by the usual mesmerized pack of ladies.

  Where was Virginia ?

  “Oh?” Lani asked with a distant smile, similar to the Buddha-grin of the sculpture over her shoulder. “That should be automatic.”

  Carl blinked. “Uh… we ran into a patch of boulders.”

  “I usually send a forward mech ahead to slice those off with a cutter. Then—”

  Jeffers appeared out of nowhere and Carl snagged him. “Better tell this guy, he’s the point man in our team. I’ll just run a little errand…” And he was away, free, before Lani’s pert surprise could turn to protest. Let Jeffers have an opening, Carl thought. He deserves it. A bit unfair to Lani, maybe, but first things first. Let’s see, her shift should be up by stow…

  He passed the group surrounding Captain Cruz and on impulse slowed. He insinuated himself into the cluster. Cruz always spoke to the whole group, never leaving anyone out, and he smiled at Carl. “How’s it going down there, Osborn?”

  Carl was startled at being addressed personally. He had in tended simply to listen in. “Uh, pretty tough, sir, but we can handle it.”

  “I saw that neat trick at Shaft Three.” Cruz raised his eyebrows slightly and his gaze swept over the circle. Although an Ortho—a natural human being—he was as tall as most Percells.

  Carl felt his face getting hot. He had to say something, but what? “Well, I guess I kinda—”

  “Marvelous! A bull’s-eye! I felt like applauding.” The commander chuckled.

  Carl was dumbfounded. “Well… I…”

  “It’s good to see a little audacity,” Cruz said warmly.

  Carl grinned self-consciously. Does he know it was a mistake? “Well, we got a schedule to keep.”

  “So we do. I only wish other sub-sections were moving as crisply as yours.”

  Carl wondered if that was a veiled joke. But Cruz raised his bulb of bourbon in salute and, to Carl’s surprise, the crowd did, too. Carl covered his confusion by taking a sip, watching the crowd for signs of mirth. No, they meant it. He felt a sudden delight. He had bobbled the maneuver, sure, but recovered well. That was what mattered to the captain.

  Cruz caught Carl’s eye and there passed between them the barest moment of understanding. He knows I screwed up. But he’s rewarding initiative over timidity. Why? Carl had tried to perform well all during the Edmund’s flight out, but until this moment Cruz had never paid him more than polite, distant attention.

  That’s It—-Kato and Umolanda. He doesn’t want people getting spooked. He knows it was faulty equipment and plain bad luck that killed them, much more than carelessness.

  “We’ll make our deadlines, sir,” Carl said firmly.

  Cruz nodded. “Good.” With practiced smoothness, the captain turned his attention to a woman communications officer standing nearby. “The new microwave antennas are up on schedule, aren’t they? Having trouble getting signals through the plasma tail?” Cruz asked.

  “A little, yes.”

  “How soon can we deploy a microwave radar to search for the Newburn?”

  “I’ll have an estimate for you by tomorrow, sir.”

  Carl listened to the friendly, open way Cruz drew information out of the woman, commented on it, made a little joke that set the crowd to laughing. Now that’s how to lead, Carl thought. He’s in touch with everything, and never looks worried. I wonder if I’ll ever earn the knack.

  He would have liked to stay longer, but he wanted to find Virginia He discovered her in a laughing group of varicolored Hawaiians, her dress a blue shimmer that suggested without revealing The semiautonomous state of Hawaii had financed twenty percent of the expedition’s cost. As the true capital of the pan-Pacific economic community, they invested heavily in space. Their representatives lent a cheery air to most ship functions.

  He waited for a lull in conversation, caught Virginia ’s eye, and drew her away to an alcove. He quickly described Jeffers’s complaints. “Do you think he might be right?” he asked.

  “You mean, will the Orthos try to rake off whatever they can?” She smiled speculatively. “Sure. This isn’t a charity operation.”

  “I didn’t come just to make money.” Carl drew back, folding his arms. He knew it would probably be smarter to appear urbane, even a shade cynical-at least that’s what he thought attracted Earthside women. But somehow his real self always came out.

  “Offended?” Virginia smiled, her full lips drawing back to reveal startlingly brilliant teeth. “Don’t be so straitlaced. Even idealists have to eat.”

  “Did you sign any quiet little agreements Earthside?”

  Virginia frowned. “Of course not. Look, there’re always going to be rumors that so-and-so has a sweet extra deal to leak expertise. Who knows, maybe somebody’ll tightbeam stuff back before we return, have a bundle waiting for him in a Swedish account.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. With four hundred people taking turns standing watch over seventy years, there’ll be plenty of chances to cheat.”

  Virginia moodily stirred her bulb goblet of pina colada with a pink straw. To Carl the festive colors of the lounge seemed out of place when cold steel and vacuum lay only meters away. The psychologists probably thought tropical splashes of amber, green, and gold would take people away from raw reality, but for him it didn’t work.

  Virginia said slowly, “There’s an old saying: Ordinary men choose their friends, but a genius chooses his enemies.”

  Carl grimaced. “Meaning?”

  “The Orthos run this expedition, granted. If we create friction, they can do a whole lot more to make it hot for us.”

  He thought for a moment. “Okay. Conceded. That doesn’t change my aims, though.”

  Virginia nodded. “Ah yes. Plateau Three.”

  Carl knew she thought his opinions were too simplistic, too much a rubber stamp of the NearEarth colonies’ doctrine. Still, he honestly didn’t see how she could disagree.

  A century of struggle had finally given mankind the technology to exploit the solar system—efficient transport, mech’d mining and assembly, integrated artificial biospheres of any size needed.

  Now was the moment, the colonists argued, to move out.

  Unmanned satellites had been the first level of space exploitation—Plateau One. As far back as the 1980s people had made billions with communications satellites. Saved lives with weather sats.

  Automated space factories using lunar materials had been the next rung up—Plateau Two.

  Each Plateau had been climbed by a few who saw the benefits well in advance and took huge risks for that vision. Plateau Two had nearly failed, then became a roaring economic miracle-helping to pull the world out of the Hell Century.

  Each ascent seemed to provoke an Earth-centered apprehension—first, that the investment might go bust, then that the birthplace of mankind was being relegated to a mere backwater. This was aggravated by Earth’s never-ending social problems—malaises that the space colonies, by design, did not share. The Birth and Childhood Rules, which commanded that each spaceborn child must spend at least its first five years on the ground, were a legal expression of an underlying fear.

  PlateauThree was a dream, a political issue, an economic sore point, a faith—all rolled into one. But big rotating colonies were possible now. The colonists now looked on the Birth and Childhood Rules as symbols of apronstrings they had long out-grown. They wanted to exploit the rocky asteroids and moons, but needed volatiles as well, for propellants and for biospheres. They’d even funded a small Ganymede ice mine, but that hadn’t worked out well.

  Some saw comets as the key, and fervently believed that humans could scatter through the solar system like dandelion seeds, if t
hey could only learn to herd the ancient snowballs to orbits where they were usable.

  Virginia leaned back languidly in her web-chair. “You can’t expect Mother Earth to let go so easily.”

  “They have everything to gain! We’ll bring them asteroids galore, raw materials, provide new markets—”

  She held up her palm. “Please, I know the litany.” An amused expression of feigned longsuffering patience flitted across her face, instantly disarming him. Perhaps It wasn’t t intended that way, but with a single gesture she could make him see himself as gawky, thick-wilted, too obvious. Well, maybe I am. I’ve lived in space over half my adult life.

  “Just ’cause it’s familiar doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

  “Carl, do you really think mining comets for volatiles is going to ring in the millennium?”

  “Where else can we get cheap fluids?” To him this was the trump card, a cold economic fact. At the very beginning of the solar system, the hot young sun had blown most of the light elements outward, away from the inner solar system. Only Earth had retained enough volatile elements to clothe its rocky mantle with a thin skin of air and water. When humans ventured into space to exploit the resources there,—asteroids, the moon, Mars-they had to haul their liquids up from Earth.

  “Sure,” Virginia said. “Get ice from comets! In eighty years we’ll be back, Hail the conquering heroes! But by then somebody may’ve discovered frozen lakes deep in our own moon. Or even found a cheap way to chip iceteroids out of the Jovian moons—who knows?”

  Carl was startled. “That’s crazy! No way you can pay the expense of dipping into Jupiter’s grav well, just for water and ice. Jupiter Project is proving that.”

  She smiled impishly. “So? Chasing comets is easier?”

  Her dark eyes teased, and Carl knew it, but he couldn’t let go.

  “It’s worth a try, Virginia. Nobody’ll find a way to steer comets unless we make the outgassing method work. Nobody’ll find volatiles hiding on the moon or Venus because they’ve been baked out. You can’t prospect and mine the asteroids with mechs alone—because finding metals is still a craft, not a science. Dried-up comets like Encke can’t be herded precisely because there’s no way to use their outgassing to steer them. So—”