Dark as Day

by Charles Sheffield

  One major party still lay ahead. Jan had never heard of it before, but Paul explained as they lounged naked one evening in his cabin. The ship was in drive mode, and the two of them were reclining in sybaritic luxury on the most comfortable bed Jan had ever encountered. At the flip of a switch the floor had become soft and yielding, cushioned on the reservoir that contained the Achilles’ ample supplies of water.

  She lay on her side, head turned to look across the flat plain of his chest and watch its steady rise and fall as he breathed. He had painted her nude, and when the picture was finished one thing had inevitably led to another.

  “Of course the party isn’t necessary,” he said. “It represents a tradition from the earliest days of planetary exploration. The ships at that time all used chemical rockets—”

  “Not nuclear?” Jan asked. “They had nuclear energy, you know, even back then.”

  “They did, but they’d had bad experiences with it and a lot of people were still scared. So they used chemical rockets.”

  “But the effects of chemical rockets on the atmosphere and ionosphere are a lot worse than nuclear. Didn’t they know—”

  Paul had his arm around her and he gave her left breast a gentle squeeze. “Are you going to let me tell you about this, or do you want me to roll over and go to sleep?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it? Go on, I’m listening.”

  “The ships used chemical rockets. That’s not totally true, because there were already a few ion drives; but they provided such low accelerations that they were useless for passenger shipping. You can guess what it was like. Everybody was short of delta-vee for everything. They would scrounge, beg, or borrow as much momentum transfer as they could lay their hands on, but space travel was still marginal, all touch-and-go. The first ships to reach Jupiter didn’t have enough fuel to slow into orbit around the planet. If they didn’t do something different, they would arrive, swing past, and shoot away in some other direction. The answer—the only possible answer at the time—was to skim through Jupiter’s upper atmosphere and use air-braking for velocity-shedding.

  “The theory was simple and fully understood for more than a century. Doing it, and getting it exactly right, was another matter. The Ashkenazy went in too deep and never came out. The Celandine erred in the other direction. It skipped in, skipped out, and left the Jovian system completely.”

  His voice had gradually slowed and deepened. Jan squeezed the little roll of fat at his waist. “You’re supposed to be telling me about some big party we’ll be having, not zoning out on me. Are you drifting off?”

  “I am not. I’m thinking how much easier we have it than the original explorers. The Celandine crew members were tough, and braver than you can believe. I’ve heard their recordings. They sent back data on the Jupiter magnetosphere until they were on the last drips of oxygen, then they all signed off as casually as if they were going out together for an early dinner. A dip into the Jovian atmosphere used to be a life-or-death proposition. Now it’s just a game. Jupiter’s atmospheric depth profile is mapped to six figures. The atmospheric swingby is a tradition and a good excuse for a party, but it is absolutely and totally unnecessary.”

  “Like crossing the line.” She saw Paul’s forehead wrinkle. After sex he always seemed a little bit brain-dead. “In the old days of Earth-sailing ships, crossing the equator was a bit dodgy. The region around the equator was called the Doldrums, where the winds would fall away to nothing for days or weeks at a time. The ship would sit becalmed, in extreme heat, with no one aboard knowing if they would live long enough to catch a saving wind. Then steamships came along, and crossing the equator offered no special danger. But a ceremony called ‘Crossing the Line’ lived on. There were high jinks on board the cruise ships; parties and ritual shaving—not just of people’s heads, either—and silly ceremonies involving King Neptune.”

  “It’s King Jove on the Jupiter flyby, but the rest of it sounds much the same.” Paul turned to look at Jan. “Look, I know it sounds stupid and it really is stupid, but as first officer I’m stuck with it. You don’t have to go along.”

  “Are you kidding? Paul, there’s no way I’d miss this. If I had been there in the old days crossing the equator, I’d have been whooping it up like nobody’s business. My question is, can you as first officer take part in all the fun, or is it considered too undignified?”

  “Define ‘too undignified.’ I suppose there are limits, but they’re pretty broad. On the last Jupiter atmospheric flyby, two months ago, the chief engineer dressed himself in a baboon suit. He had cut a piece out of the back. His ass was bare, and painted blue, and he said he was selling kisses. But I didn’t hear of any takers.”

  “Captain Kondo permitted this?” Jan had trouble imagining the captain, short, stocky, and immensely dignified, participating in the brawl that Paul was describing—or even allowing it.

  “Captain Kondo remained in his quarters throughout the party. He does that on every Jupiter swingby. His view is that what he does not see, he is not obliged to report.”

  “And you? What did you do?”

  “Last time? I was lucky enough to be on duty, running the ship—someone has to. Officers on duty are not permitted to join in the general wildness. This time, no such luck. I’ll be assigned to passenger service. My official responsibility—as stated in ships’ orders—is ‘to offer and provide to passengers any form of legal pleasure that they desire.’ You have no idea what some people ask for.”

  “I’ll tell you what they’d better not ask for. When does this party start?”

  “Not for awhile.”

  “But when?”

  “We’re lying here nice and cozy, and you want to worry about time? Ten hours from now, give or take. Is that close enough?”

  Jan snuggled closer and blew across his chest. She liked to watch the fair hair stir and his nipples tighten. “It will do. Ten hours should be more than enough to think of something to do. Something legal. Something you’re not allowed to refuse….”

  * * *

  As the time drew nearer, Jan wasn’t so sure. She knew what she wanted, but Paul had a certain native prudishness and delicacy. He liked to wash at once after lovemaking, while Jan preferred, as she had told him to his mild disgust, “to wallow and steep in it for hours and hours.” Afterplay, with the smell and feel of male sexuality, had not lost its novelty and appeal, and Jan was not sure that it ever would.

  Would Paul cooperate? He would certainly have no chance to wash for awhile if he did. On the other hand, Jan was hearing more and more talk of previous swingby parties and they sounded like a case of anything goes. Paul might have trouble holding onto his dignity, even if Jan were not around.

  Meanwhile, preparations for the party were in full swing. The point of closest approach to Jupiter, when the Achilles would make its deepest penetration into the Jovian atmosphere before racing out again for its rendezvous with Ganymede, would take place in a little more than three hours. Before that, an early dinner must be served and done with, so that the big dining room could be emptied and decorated for the party. So far as Jan could tell, the dining room would merely serve as a focal point for festivities—passengers and crew would be living it up in every part of the ship, except for the prohibited area aft that contained the crew quarters and the drives.

  The little service robots had been allowed to make a jump-start on their duties. When the gong for dinner sounded over the ship’s general communications system, Jan went along to the dining room and found it already half full and the tables decorated. Fresh flowers, somehow preserved since the Achilles left Earth orbit, perfumed each table, and each place-setting contained some special item chosen to match the background of whoever sat there. Jan looked for her own place, and found on the table a small replica of the Global Minerals’ platform on which she had worked for more than ten years.

  She went quickly around the room, searching for Sebastian’s name card, and found a similar replica on the t
able in front of his seat. He also had something extra. At the place where he would be sitting Jan saw a small globe on a support stand. It was maybe five centimeters across, and when Jan looked closely she realized that it was not, as she had assumed, an Earth globe. The little sphere was Saturn, and as she watched the cloud patterns moved across the planet’s face. This, for a guess, was a special present to Sebastian from Valnia Bloom.

  Jan returned to her own table. As she was sitting down she saw Sebastian and Valnia enter together. Valnia looked worried—did she ever look anything different?—but Sebastian gave Jan a smile and a wave. He seemed different, older and more poised. His face was thinner and his expression more focused, and for the first time in her life Jan saw a mature man of thirty-five. Whatever Valnia Bloom was doing certainly appeared to be working. Jan smiled back and gave Sebastian a thumbs-up. They were less than a day away from Ganymede, and only a few weeks from their final destination at the weather station on Saturn’s minor moon, Atlas.

  She stood up, with the idea of going across to talk to Sebastian, but at the same moment Captain Kondo arrived at her table. He gave a nod of greeting and waved his hand to indicate that she should not stand up on his behalf.

  That had not been Jan’s intention, but rather than explaining she sat down again. “I’m a little surprised to see you here, Captain,” she said. “I rather thought that you would—well …”

  “Would certainly not be present?” Captain Kondo did not smile, but there was a definite twinkle in his eye. “Have no fear, Ms. Jannex, as soon as dinner is over, and well before flyby, I will be on my way out of here.”

  “I gather you do not enjoy such things.”

  “I would not say that. Perhaps I worry that my somber presence would dampen the gaiety of others. Or, who knows? Perhaps I might find myself carried away, and indulge in activities which I would later regret.”

  The captain was in a more playful mood than Jan had ever seen him. Apparently no one onboard was immune to the party atmosphere. It gave Jan hope that Paul would go along with what she had in mind. She saw him at the far side of the room, preparing to sit down at a table distant from hers.

  No matter. She did not propose to make her suggestion during dinner, with other passengers around, and certainly not in the presence of Captain Kondo.

  The dining room filled early, without any of the usual late stragglers. The food was exceptional in both its quality and its variety. Jan saw some from Earth, some from the Ganymede and Callisto deep farms, and even a few exotics from Mars. One item she did not recognize at all, but suspected it had been grown on the warm-blooded vegetation lattices of Saturn’s moon, Tethys. The diners, dressed except for the crew in their elaborate party best, paid little attention to the food. Their minds were already moving on past dinner. The instant of closest approach to Jupiter would be signaled by bells all over the ship’s communication outlets. That moment lay less than two hours away.

  As the final course was being served, Captain Kondo stood up. Crew members, scattered around the room, had obviously been waiting for this moment. They hushed their neighbors as the captain turned, so that he could take in everyone in the crowded dining room.

  He raised his glass, and tiny bubbles glistened and winked in the bright overhead lights. “To all of you,” he said, “and to your new and successful life as part of the Outer System. Ladies and gentlemen, you are the future. Work hard, live well, be happy and fertile, and I hope that someday I will meet each of you again.”

  Glasses were raised, the toast was echoed and drunk. Moments later, as conversation around the room resumed, Captain Kondo nodded to his table companions and quietly left. Jan felt the subtle change in atmosphere. It said, “Captain’s gone. Party time!”

  She had been careful not to eat too much. She hoped that Paul had done the same. For what she had in mind, she did not want an overstuffed and lethargic companion.

  He had moved away from his original table and she searched the room for him. He was standing over by the far wall. Unlike the passengers, the crew were not in party-dress. He looked terrific in his white uniform. It was no surprise to Jan to see that Paul was surrounded by half a dozen brightly-clad women.

  All the passengers were moving around now, impeding the progress of the robotic servers who were doing their best to clear the tables and move them into storage. The whole dining room was to be an open surface available for music, conversation, and dancing. Jan edged her way through. A couple of meters away from Paul she went to stand by the wall, and waited.

  It took a few minutes, but eventually he was alone and drifted over toward her. He said, “An excellent dinner, don’t you think?”

  It was a neutral remark. He knew that tonight she had something unusual in mind, but neither his face nor his manner revealed that. He was making Jan take the initiative, not exactly playing hard-to-get but giving her full freedom to make suggestions.

  Jan said, in just as calm and formal a voice, “Closest approach to Jupiter will happen in an hour or so.”

  He glanced at his watch. “An hour and three minutes.”

  “I’ve heard it said that the captain and the second in command of a ship like this have keys that will open or close any of the locks.” Jan was staring away across the room, as though the conversation might be a little boring to her. Inside, she was tingling. “Is that true?”

  “Quite true. We have to be able to deal with any sort of emergency. That would be impossible if parts of the ship were inaccessible.” He glanced at Jan. “By the way, I should mention that there will be an engineer aft with the Diabelli Omnivores, if they happened to be somehow on your mind.”

  “They weren’t.” She turned to face him. “Paul, there is an observation port right at the front of the ship. Do you know it?”

  “Given my position on this ship, that’s almost an insult. Come on, Jan. Of course I know it. I’ve been there dozens of times.”

  “How would you like to go there again—with me? I want you to lock the door, so that nobody else can get in.” She reached out her hand and placed it flat against his chest. The white uniform was cool to her touch, but she could feel the beat of his heart. “And then”—she was nervous, breathless—“I want us to stay there. I want to make love during the Jupiter swingby. I want to reach orgasm exactly when we are at the point of closest approach to the planet.”

  “My God. You don’t ask for much, do you?” But his eyes were alive with speculation. “I was trained as an engineer. An engineer is always allowed some kind of operating tolerances. When you say exactly at swingby minimum distance—how close do we have to get?”

  “You would know that better than me. But I want the bells in the ship and the bells inside me ringing at the same time.”

  He stood for a moment, thoughtful. Then he nodded. “It might be possible. But before we start, I need five minutes to pay my respects to a couple of other passengers. Head forward, just as far as the bend in the corridor, and wait for me—and don’t get friendly with anyone else. We have a date in the forward observation chamber. If anyone asks what you will be doing, say it is a project of the highest priority.”

  Jan nodded, stepped away from Paul as if she were bidding him a polite good evening, and walked toward the dining room exit. Her legs felt wobbly, which was ridiculous—that’s how your legs were supposed to feel after, not before.

  She was almost out of the room when the fresh-faced young sailor approached her. He had traveled Earth’s southern oceans before deciding to try the Outer System, and they had spoken about the sea life several times. He had seemed interested in Jan, and now he was smiling.

  “Great dinner, and I bet it’s going to be a great party. Are you lined up for anything special?”

  “I’m afraid I am.” Jan pulled a face. “You know, Sebastian Birch and I will be going on to Saturn, to work on the Atlas weather station. I’ve been asked to study Jupiter’s cloud patterns as we are making our atmospheric entry and withdrawal, in preparation for
what we’ll be doing at Saturn.”

  “That’s a bit much, isn’t it? On a party night.” He looked disappointed, and said as he turned away, “But if it’s your job, I guess you have no choice but to do it.”

  “I suppose I don’t.”

  Jan made her escape as quickly as possible. As she went to wait at the bend in the corridor she had a new thought. Suppose the young sailor decided that she would like company during the cloud observations? He might come to the forward chamber, and discover that a quite different form of entry and withdrawal was taking place.

  When Paul at last appeared, making a final farewell comment over his shoulder, her first words were, “When we’re in the observation chamber and the door is locked, no one else can get in. Can they?”

  “Only the captain. And the chance that Eric Kondo will run the gauntlet from all the way aft to all the way forward, with a high-grade party going on everywhere in between, is a flat zero unless he thinks the ship is in danger. Why? Who else are you expecting?”

  Jan explained about the sailor from Earth as they went forward. Paul laughed, and said, “You know what sailors are. They know there’s a port in every girl. But if he can enter the chamber when the door is locked, he will have earned anything he gets.”

  It was clear why Paul was so confident as soon as they entered the observation chamber and he locked the door. Jan had taken no notice of locks before, but this one seemed substantial and complex.

  “Proprietary experiments were performed in here a couple of times,” Paul said. “But so far as I know, it will be a first for this particular experiment.”

  He switched off the chamber lights and turned Jan to face forward. “Before we become distracted by anything else, take a look. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  The cloud-torn face of Jupiter filled half of the all-around observation port. Jan moved to the window and stared out. She felt overwhelmed. It was twilight at this location on Jupiter. The Achilles was close to the top of the atmosphere, racing forward for its planetary rendezvous. The ship would penetrate only the tenuous upper layers before skipping out again, but Jan could already feel—or imagine—a change in her weight caused by the deceleration.