by Ben Bova
“I like lobster,” Torre said.
“Anything else?” asked Devlin. “Technical supplies, personal items…” He hesitated, then in a slightly lower voice went on, “You’re a long way from all your friends. Maybe you need some VR simulations.”
Janet arched a brow at him. “You mean sex?”
Trying to look innocent, Devlin said, “Well, yeah, if that’s what you have in mind.”
Torre glanced at his sister. The two of them were grinning slyly. “No,” he said to Devlin. “We don’t need sex sims.”
For once in his life Devlin felt embarrassed. “Well … if there’s anything you do need, anything at all, you just call on ol’ Red. I can cut through all the regulations the paper shufflers put on ya.”
“Thank you, Red,” said Janet.
Changing the subject to what he really came for, Devlin said, “So this is a nanotech lab, eh?”
“It’s sort of rough and ready,” said Torre, “but, yes, this is our nanotechnology laboratory.”
“We never had one here before,” Devlin said, taking in every detail of the room. “You must be here for something special.”
“That’s right,” Janet said. And nothing more.
“Aren’t nanomachines dangerous?” Devlin asked, all innocent curiosity. “I mean, I’ve heard stories…”
“Everything’s perfectly secure here,” Torre assured him. “We have all the necessary safeguards in place.”
Devlin said, “Sign out in the hall said something about UV lights.”
“That’s to protect against any nanos that might get out of the lab,” Torre explained. “Ultraviolet light kills them.”
“Deactivates them,” Janet corrected. “They’re machines, not organisms.”
Torre nodded at his sister.
“So there’s nothing at all dangerous in here?”
Torre stepped over to a domed stainless steel chamber sitting on the lab bench. “The only dangerous thing is in here,” he said. “When we first construct the nanomachines they’re undifferentiated, not yet specialized for a specific task.”
“If they got loose at that stage there could be trouble,” Janet added. “We’d have to flood this area with high-intensity UV.” She pointed to the lights hanging from the ceiling.
Gobblers, Devlin thought. They’re talking about gobblers. But he didn’t mention the word to them, didn’t want them to get the slightest bit suspicious.
“So what happens to ’em?”
Tracing a finger along the pipe leading from the domed chamber to a smaller, square container, Torre said, “The undifferentiated nanos are fed in here, where we reshape them and program them for the specific task they’re designed to perform.”
Janet pointed to the display screen at the end of the workbench. “You can see them here.”
Devlin followed the pair of them to the screen. It showed a half-dozen shapes that looked to Devlin like little mechanical toys, each with two grasping arms attached to its main body.
“That’s them, huh?”
“That’s them,” said Torre, with some pride in his voice. “They’ll seek out molecules of a specific shape and take them apart into their constituent atoms.”
“Atoms! They must be pretty small.”
“The size of viruses. A couple of nanometers across.”
“Wow!”
Janet Torre looked at her wristwatch, then said, “Actually, we do have a lot of work to do.…”
“Oh! Sure!” Devlin backed away from the display screen. “I’m sorry for gettin’ in your way.”
Torre walked him toward the door; his sister sat on a stool by the display screen and turned it on.
“I appreciate your takin’ the time to show me around,” Devlin said.
“That’s okay.” Then, glancing back at his sister and lowering his voice, he said, “Can you show me some of those VR sims you mentioned?”
Acting surprised, Devlin said, “The sex sims? Sure. Any time. Just come and see me in the galley. Any time.”
“Uh, can you tailor them? Put specific people into them?”
“Who’d you have in mind?”
“Well, there’s this girl from the Belt … her name’s Deirdre Ambrose…”
Devlin’s surprise was genuine now. “You know Dee?”
“We’ve dated a couple of times.”
“So you want simulations of her, do ya?”
“If you can do it.”
With a nonchalant shrug, Devlin said, “I’ll see what I can do, Frankie old boy.”
Torre grinned and ushered Devlin through the door. Once outside in the passageway, the Red Devil grinned also. I’ve got the layout now, he told himself, and there’s no real security in there. Scientists. They think everybody’s honest.
LAUNCH PARTY
The largest conference room in the station’s first wheel had been cleared of its furniture by Katherine Westfall’s assistants, except for the long conference table, which had been pushed against one wall and loaded with drinks and trays of finger foods.
Red Devlin stood at one end of the table in a spanking clean white outfit, smiling benignly at the crowd of scientists, engineers, technicians, and administrators who crowded the room. The wall screens displayed views of Jupiter as seen from the station, and scenes of the leviathans recorded by the robotic probes that had been sent into the ocean.
Katherine Westfall, the party’s hostess, stood by the door, graciously greeting each new arrival. She wore a splendid gown of shimmering blues and indigos that shifted and sparkled with each move she made. Grant Archer and his wife stood beside her, smiling and chatting amiably.
Deirdre was off in a corner, feeling self-conscious from the feeding port that had been implanted in her neck. She knew that her high-collared dress covered the site, but still felt that it bulged noticeably. She glanced at Dorn and Max Yeager, standing beside her; their shirts covered their ports completely. Andy Corvus, standing halfway across the room deep in conversation with one of the launch controllers, scratched unconsciously at his port.
Andy and Max had both been shaved bald. The mission protocol required it: Living for days on end in the perfluorocarbon meant that all excess hair had to be removed from their bodies. Andy looked like a scrawny newborn chick without his thick mop of red hair. Max somehow looked nobler, wiser, more serious, almost like a bust of some august Roman emperor. Dorn, of course, had no body hair to shave off.
Deirdre had put off her own shearing to the last possible moment. She dreaded losing her thick shoulder-length auburn locks. At least she wouldn’t have to go completely bald, Isaac Lowenstien had told her.
“You can go with a buzz cut,” the head of the station’s safety department had allowed. “That’ll be good enough.”
When he saw the unhappy expression on Deirdre’s face, he tried to console her. “Hey, you’re lucky. In the old days they depilated you completely, head to toe. Took months to grow your hair back.”
Deirdre thought that it was scant consolation.
A petite woman in a form-hugging jade green jumpsuit stepped up to Yeager, smiling brightly at him. Deirdre noticed that she had a splendid crown of radiant golden curls.
Tipping her fluted glass toward Max, she said, “To you, little father.”
Yeager looked embarrassed, but touched his glass to hers. Turning to Deirdre and Dorn he introduced, “Linda Vishnevskaya, mission control chief.”
Vishnevskaya said, “You are going on the mission with Max. Take good care of him, please.”
Deirdre thought that the woman was slightly drunk. She herself was drinking only fruit juice; she didn’t want alcohol in her bloodstream, not with the mission launch less than forty-eight hours away.
“We will take good care of each other,” Dorn replied, very seriously.
“Of course, of course,” said Vishnevskaya. Patting Max’s shoulder, she went on, “But Max is very special. He cares about his ship like a loving father.”
Yeager’s face redde
ned noticeably.
Standing at the end of the laden conference table, Red Devlin watched the partygoers with professional interest. Food’s holding out all right, he said to himself. Archer unbent enough to let me rustle up some faux champagne and rocket juice, but nobody seems to be getting sloshed too badly. Of course, the night is young.
He saw that Grant Archer had moved slightly away from Mrs. Westfall and was deep in conversation with Dr. Johansen, the scientist who headed the group studying Jupiter. Mrs. Archer and Westfall were yakking away at each other like old friends. Funny, Devlin thought, how two women can both talk at the same time and keep the conversation going without missing a beat.
Michael Johansen was still less than happy with Archer’s decision to send Corvus and the other three on the mission.
“That ship was built for scientists to go into the ocean,” he was telling Archer, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the chatter of the crowd.
“We’ve been through all this, Mike,” Archer said gently. “The decision has been made. And implemented.”
Shaking his head, Johansen said, “You can still add a man to the crew. One scientist. There’s room—”
“I’m sorry, Mike, but the answer is no,” said Archer. “This mission is strictly to see if Corvus can make any meaningful contact with the leviathans.” He hesitated, then added in a lowered voice, “And to see if the ship works without killing anybody.”
Johansen frowned. “You’re wasting an opportunity to acquire more scientific data, Grant. Corvus isn’t going to get bubkes, you know that.”
Archer grinned at him. “You’ve been hanging around Ike Lowenstien too long, you’re starting to speak Yiddish.”
“This isn’t a joke, Grant.”
More seriously, “Only God knows what Corvus will accomplish, Mike. I don’t know and neither do you. That’s what research is all about. If you already know the answer, you’re not doing research.”
Johansen’s long, angular face settled into a gloomy pout. Even Katherine Westfall, halfway across the crowded room, could see that the scientist was displeased.
Westfall turned back to Marjorie Archer, who was still going on about some biochemical studies she was undertaking. “Would you excuse me, Marjorie? Now that everyone is here I ought to offer a toast to the mission’s success.”
Marjorie looked more relieved than displeased. “Oh. Of course. I’ve been bending your ear long enough.”
“Not at all,” said Westfall. “Not at all.” But she stepped away gladly and headed toward Rodney Devlin, who was still standing at the far end of the table, like a sentry in a white apron.
Devlin saw her coming and recognized the little nod that Westfall gave him. He quickly poured two champagne flutes. Handing them to her one by one, he said, “This one’s for you, ma’am, and this one’s for Ms. Ambrose.”
Smiling knowingly, Westfall took the glasses and made her precarious way through the crowd toward Dierdre, Dorn, and the others. Devlin was right behind her, clutching three more of the long-stemmed glasses. Westfall handed one of the flutes to Deirdre as Devlin passed out the other three to Yeager, Dorn, and Corvus.
Then Devlin emitted an ear-piercing whistle that stopped every conversation dead in its tracks.
Into the sudden silence, Westfall said in her little-girl voice, “I want to propose a toast to the crew of the good ship Faraday: May you find what you’re looking for.”
Everyone in the crowded room raised their glasses and repeated the toast. Deirdre, Max, Andy, and Dorn smiled appreciatively and sipped.
That’s a good girl, Westfall said silently as she watched Deirdre down her faux champagne. Drink it down. The nanomachines will do the rest.
IV
THE MISSION
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
—“The Tiger”
William Blake
IMMERSION CAPSULE
This is it, Deirdre said to herself as she ducked through the small round hatch and sat herself on the padded bench that ran around the interior of the circular chamber.
She waited for one of the men to make a comment about her skinned scalp. The buzz cut was hardly a centimeter long; Deirdre felt almost naked. She had nearly cried when she saw her beautiful auburn curls piling up on the floor as they cut her hair away.
Andy Corvus, already seated, extended a hand to help her. Dorn had gone in first; he was sitting by the control panel of blinking lights and keypads set into the capsule’s curving bulkhead. If Andy noticed her haircut he said nothing about it.
Max Yeager came through the hatch behind Deirdre, looking serious, almost grim. She thought that he must be reconsidering his decision to come on the mission. Not even Max said anything about her hair. Maybe being bald has made him more thoughtful, Deirdre surmised.
“Hope none of us are prone to claustrophobia,” Corvus said. It was an attempt at humor, but it fell flat.
“Helluva time to think of that,” Yeager grumbled.
All four of them wore nothing more than black elastane tights that hugged their bodies like second skins, lined inside with medical sensors that reported their heart and breathing rates, body temperatures, and blood pressures. Arms and legs bare except for a few more sensors plastered to the skin. Necklines low enough to allow easy access to the feeding ports in their necks. Deirdre was surprised at how buff Andy looked: lean but sinewy. She tried not to stare at Dorn’s half-metal body. She realized how uptight they all were when no one commented on how she looked in her revealing maillot, not even Max.
Dorn said gravely, “If anyone has second thoughts, now is the time to act on them.”
Deirdre felt a sudden impulse to get up and squeeze back through the hatch. But one look at Andy’s expectant face froze her in place. He’s depending on me, she thought. I can’t leave, not now.
Nodding, Dorn said, “Very well. We begin the mission.”
He touched a keypad and the hatch swung noiselessly shut.
“Here we go,” Deirdre heard herself say.
“Initiating immersion,” Dorn said into the tiny microphone built into the control panel.
“Initiating immersion,” a voice crackled from the grillwork of the speaker. Deirdre thought it sounded like that little blond woman who was the chief of the mission control team.
Thick oily perfluorocarbon liquid began to flow across the capsule’s deck, quickly covering their bare feet and rising toward their knees.
“Why do they have to keep it so cold?” Yeager groused. “They ought to warm it up a little.”
“Like soup,” Corvus said.
“Yeah. Gazpacho.”
Deirdre said, “I prefer lobster bisque.”
“Where’d you ever get lobster bisque?” Yeager demanded.
“We imported it from Selene,” Deirdre explained as the chilly liquid reached her hips. “It’s expensive, but we bring it in at least once a year, for the holidays.”
“Lobster bisque,” Yeager muttered, with a shake of his head.
The perfluorocarbon had climbed to their waists. Deirdre realized she was biting her lip. Andy was smiling nervously, Max staring down at the rising liquid. Dorn was turned slightly away from her, focusing on the control panel; she could only see the etched metal side of his face.
Deirdre tried to steady her breathing as the liquid rose to her breasts, then her shoulders, and up to her chin. Relax! she commanded herself. You’ve been through this before, several times. Just relax and try to breathe normally.
She couldn’t, of course. None of them could. Deirdre closed her eyes as her body spasmed and her lungs began to burn from holding her breath. She could sense the others struggling also, but kept her eyes shut tight. She didn’t want to see them, it would only make things worse.
At last she sucked in a breath and gagged on the cold, slimy liquid. Her body told her she was drowning even while the rational part of her brain insisted that it was all right, she’d be perfectly fine, just try to relax and breathe n
ormally.
Breathe normally, she repeated to herself. As if this is normal.
After a few year-long seconds of coughing and nearly retching she began to breathe almost naturally. Opening her eyes, she saw that the three men were also gasping, shuddering, looking terribly afraid, as if each breath would be their last. Their breathing slowly steadied, though, and soon enough they were all breathing the perfluorocarbon. Just as she was herself.
Her lungs felt raw, and there was a cold knot in the pit of her stomach, but she was breathing.
“Immersion complete,” Dorn said, his voice strangely low, reverberating like a moan from hell.
“Copy immersion complete,” came the voice of the mission controller, also low now, distorted.
Looking squarely at Deirdre, Dorn asked, “Is everyone all right? Any pains? Any problems?”
“I’m … all right,” Deirdre said, her own voice sounding like a bassoon in her ears.
“Okay,” said Corvus.
“No problems,” Yeager said. Deirdre thought it sounded grudging.
“Very well,” said Dorn. “Now we ratchet up the pressure.”
Deirdre knew it would take precisely three hours to increase the perfluorocarbon pressure to the point where it was designed to be. Three hours of sitting in this cramped little metal womb and doing nothing except waiting for your body to break down, your internal cells to implode, your brain to go berserk.
None of that happened. They talked to one another, meaningless chatter to pass the time. Corvus made a few pathetically weak jokes. Yeager kept telling them that “all things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.” No one laughed.
Deirdre thought she felt a dull pain in her abdomen, but it was so slight she didn’t mention it. Psychosomatic, she told herself.
Then she remembered her conversation with Katherine Westfall, at the party Dr. Archer had given them a few nights earlier.
After her toast with the faux champagne, Westfall had pulled Deirdre to one side of the crowded conference room and smiled coldly at her.