Arthur C Clarke's Venus Prime Omnibus

by Paul Preuss

  “Poor animals,” said Blake.

  “What analogy are you drawing here, Commander?” Sparta’s tone edged on mockery. “Could it have something to do with the fact that there wasn’t nearly as much of Falcon left as there was of me, each time they tried to kill me?”

  “What are you talking about?” Blake asked her, exasperated.

  The commander evaded her question. “The next scene we’ve reconstructed is much more recent, recorded two years ago in the Earth Central offices of the Board of Space Control. The subjects weren’t aware”—he coughed—“that I had access to the chip.”

  “Why do you want to go to Jupiter?”

  “As Springer said when he lifted for Pluto, ‘because it’s there.’”

  “Thanks, I’m sure. And now that we’ve got that out of the way … what’s the real reason?”

  Howard Falcon smiled at his interrogator—though only those who knew Falcon very well could have interpreted his slight, leathery grimace as a smile.

  Brandt Webster was one of the few who could. He was the Board of Space Control’s Deputy Chief of Staff for Plans. For twenty years he and Falcon had shared triumphs and disasters, not excluding the greatest disaster of them all, the wreck of the Queen.

  Falcon said, “Springer’s cliche…”

  “I think somebody said it before Springer,” Webster put in.

  “…is still valid, at any rate. We’ve landed on all the terrestrial planets and a lot of the small bodies—explored them, built cities and orbital stations. But the gas giants are still pristine. They’re the only real challenges left in the solar system.”

  “An expensive challenge. I assume you’ve worked out the costs.”

  “As well as anyone could. You’ve got the estimates there on your flatscreen.”

  “Mmm.” Webster consulted his screen.

  Falcon adjusted himself backward. “Keep in mind, my friend, that this is no one-shot deal. It’s a reusable transportation system—once it’s been proved out it can be used again and again. It will open up not merely Jupiter, but all the giants.”

  “Yes, yes, Howard…” Webster peered at the figures and whistled. It was not a happy whistle. “Why not start with an easier planet—Uranus, for example? Half the gravity, and less than half the escape velocity. Quieter weather, too, if quieter is the right word for it.”

  Webster had done his homework. It wasn’t the first time Plans had thought about the giants.

  “There’s very little saving,” Falcon replied, “once you’ve factored in the extra distance and the logistics problems. Beyond Saturn, we’d have to establish new supply bases. On Jupiter, we can use the facilities on Ganymede.”

  “If we can work a deal with the Indo-Asians.”

  “This is a Council of Worlds expedition, not a consortium venture. There’s no commercial threat. The Space Board will simply rent the Indo-Asian facilities on Ganymede we need.”

  “I’m just saying you’d better start now to recruit topnotch Asians for your team. Our prickly friends aren’t going to be happy if they see a lot of European faces peering into their backyard—which is how they think of the Jovian moons.”

  “Some of us European faces are Asians, Web. New Delhi is still my official address. I don’t see it becoming a problem.”

  “No, I suppose it won’t.” Webster studied Falcon, and his thoughts were transparent. Falcon’s argument for Jupiter sounded logical, but there was more to it. Jupiter was lord of the solar system; Falcon was fired by no lesser challenge.

  “Besides,” Falcon continued, “Jupiter is a major scientific scandal. It’s been more than a century since its radio storms were discovered, but we still don’t know what causes them. And the Great Red Spot is as big a mystery as ever, unless you’re one of those who believes that chaos theory is the answer to every unanswerable question. That’s why I think the Indo-Asians will be delighted to support us. Do you know how many probes they’ve dropped into that atmosphere?”

  “A couple of hundred, I believe.”

  “That’s just in the last fifty years. If you count back to Galileo, three hundred and twenty-six probes have penetrated Jupiter—about a quarter of them total failures. We’ve learned a hell of a lot, but we’ve barely scratched the planet. Do you realize how big it is, Web?”

  “More than ten times the size of Earth.”

  “Yes, yes—but do you know what that really means?”

  Webster smiled. “Why don’t you tell me, Howard?”

  Four planetary globes stood against the wall of Webster’s office, representing the settled terrestrial planets and Earth’s moon. Falcon pointed to the globe of Earth.

  “Look at India—how small it seems. Well, if you skinned Earth and spread it out on the surface of Jupiter, oceans and all, it would look about as big as India does here.”

  There was a long silence while Webster contemplated the equation: Jupiter is to Earth as Earth is to India. He stood up and went to the globe of Earth. “You deliberately chose the best possible example, didn’t you, Howard?”

  Falcon moved to face him. “Hardly seems like nine years ago, does it, Web? But it is. We did those initial tests three years before the Queen’s first and last flight.”

  “You were still a lieutenant.”

  “That I was.”

  “And you wanted to let me preview the grand experiment—a three day drift across the northern plains of India. Great view of the Himalayas, you said. Perfectly safe, you promised. Said it would get me out of the office and teach me what the whole thing was all about.”

  “Were you disappointed?”

  “You know the answer to that.” Webster’s grin split his round, freckled face. “Next to my first trip to the moon, it was the most memorable experience of my life. And you were right—perfectly safe. Quite uneventful.”

  Falcon’s mask seemed to soften with the memory. “I planned it to be beautiful, Web. The lift off from Srinagar just before dawn, because I always loved the way that big silver bubble would suddenly brighten with the first light of the sun…”

  “Total silence,” Webster said. “That’s what made the first impression on me. None of this blowtorch roar from the burners, like those ancient propane-fueled hot-air balloons. It was impressive enough that you’d managed to package a fusion reactor in a hundred-kilogram bottle, Howard, but that it was silent as well—hanging there right over our heads in the mouth of the envelope, zapping away ten times a second—you must know what a miracle-in-action that seemed.”

  “When I think about flying over India I still remember the village sounds,” Falcon said. “The dogs barking, the people shouting and looking up at us, the bells ringing. You could always hear it, even as you climbed, even when that whole sunbaked landscape expanded around you and you got up to where it was nice and cool—five kilometers or so—and you needed the oxygen masks, but otherwise all you had to do was lean back and admire the scenery. Of course the onboard computer was doing all the work.”

  “And meanwhile sucking up all the data it needed to design the big one. The Queen.”

  “We hadn’t named her yet.”

  “No,” Webster concurred, a bit sadly. “That was such a perfect day, Howard. Not a cloud in the sky.”

  “The monsoon wasn’t due for a month.”

  “Time sort of stopped.”

  “For me, too, even though supposedly I was used to it. I got irritated when the hourly radio reports broke into my daydreams.”

  “I tell you, I still dream of that…” He searched for the word. “…infinite, ancient landscape, that patchwork—villages, fields, temples, lakes, irrigation canals—that earth drenched in history, stretching to the horizon, stretching beyond…” Webster moved away from the globe, breaking the hypnotic spell. “Well, Howard, you certainly converted me to lighter-than-air flight. And I also got a sense of the enormous size of India. One loses sight of that, thinking in terms of low-orbit satellites that go around the Earth in ninety minutes.”

/>   Falcon’s face stretched into its minimal smile. “Yet India is to Earth…”

  “As Earth is to Jupiter, yes, yes.” Webster returned to his desk and was silent a moment, fiddling with the flatscreen that displayed Falcon’s estimates of the Jupiter mission parameters. Then he looked up at Falcon. “Granted your argument—and supposing funds and cooperation are available—there’s another question you have to answer.”

  “Which is?”

  “Why should you do better than the—what it is?—three hundred and twenty-six probes that have already made the trip?”

  “Because I’m better qualified,” Falcon said gruffly. “Better qualified as an observer and as a pilot. Especially as a pilot. I’ve got more experience with lighter-than-atmosphere flight than anyone in the solar system.”

  “You could serve as a controller, sit safely on Ganymede.”

  “That’s just the point!” Fire blazed in Falcon’s unblinking eyes. “Don’t you remember what killed the Queen?”

  Webster knew perfectly well. He merely answered, “Go on.”

  “Time lag—time lag! That poor sap controlling the camera platform thought he was on a direct beam. But somehow he’d gotten his control circuit switched through a satellite relay. Maybe it wasn’t his fault, Web, but he should have known, he should have confirmed and reconfirmed. Switched through a comsat! That’s a half-second time lag for the round trip. Even then it wouldn’t have mattered if we’d been flying in calm air, but we were over the Canyon, with all that turbulence. When the platform tipped, the guy corrected instantly—but by the time the platform’s onboard instrumentation got the message, the thing had already tipped the other way. Ever tried to drive a car over a bumpy road with a half-second delay in the steering?”

  “Unlike you, Howard, I don’t drive at all, much less over bumpy roads. But I take your meaning.”

  “Do you? Ganymede is a million kilometers from Jupiter—a round-trip signal delay of six seconds. A remote controller won’t do, Web. You need someone on the spot, to handle emergencies as they emerge—in real time.” Falcon adjusted himself stiffly. “Let me show you something … mind if I use this?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Falcon picked up a postcard lying on Webster’s desk; postcards were almost obsolete on Earth, but Webster seemed to have a fondness for things obsolete. This one showed a 3-D view of a Martian landscape; its verso was decorated with exotic and very expensive Martian stamps.

  Falcon held the card so that it dangled vertically. “This is an old trick, but it helps to make my point. Put your thumb and finger on either side, like you’re about to pinch it, but not quite touching.”

  Webster reached across his desk and put out his hand, almost but not quite gripping the card.

  “That’s right,” said Falcon. “And now…” Falcon waited a few seconds, then said, “Catch it.”

  A second later, without warning, he let go of the card. Webster’s thumb and finger closed on empty air.

  Falcon leaned over and retrieved the fallen card. “I’ll do it once again,” he said, “just to show there’s no deception. Okay?”

  He held out the card. Webster positioned his fingers, almost brushing the card’s surface.

  Once again the falling card slipped through Webster’s fingers.

  “Now you try it on me.”

  Webster came out from behind his desk and stood in front of Falcon. He held the card a moment, then dropped it without warning.

  It had scarcely moved before Falcon caught it. So swift was his reaction it almost seemed there was an audible “click.”

  “When they put me together again,” Falcon remarked in an expressionless voice, “the surgeons made some improvements. This is one of them”—Falcon placed the card on Webster’s desk—“and there are others. I want to make the most of them. Jupiter is the place where I can do it.”

  Webster stared for long seconds at the postcard, which portrayed the improbable reds and purples of the Trivium Charontis Escarpment. Then he said quietly, “I understand. How long do you think it will take?”

  “With the Space Board’s help and the cooperation of the Indo-Asians, plus all the private foundation money we can drag in—two years. Maybe less.”

  “That’s very, very fast.”

  “I’ve done lots of the preliminary work. In detail.” Falcon’s gaze flicked to the flatscreen display.

  “All right, Howard, I’m with you. I hope you get your luck; you’ve earned it. But there’s one thing I won’t do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Next time you go ballooning, don’t except me as a passenger.”

  The commander touched the button; the hologram collapsed into a dark point and vanished.

  “I don’t know about Ellen, but I’m hungry,” Blake said. “I don’t want to talk about this on an empty stomach.”

  “You’re right. Past time for lunch.”

  3

  “I don’t get it.”

  “The Free Spirit made Falcon,” Sparta said. “Remade him, I should say. For the same reason they remade me. Close your mouth, dear—” Blake’s mouth had opened in disbelief—“your arugula is showing.”

  The commander’s stone face almost softened into a grin, but with effort, by shoveling a forkful of crumpled lettuce into his mouth, he kept his dignity.

  “You were the first to tell me what they were after, remember?” she said to Blake. “The Emperor of the Last Days.”

  Sparta picked at her excellent food, of which there was as usual four or five times too much. Today, the printed menu cards announced, it was a choice of salads, to be followed by a tomato bisque en croute, then a selection of individual quiches and finger-sized croque-monsieurs, and finally orange sorbet with vanilla cookies—all accompanied by several wines which Blake and Sparta and the commander would as usual ignore.

  The people who served this opulent fare (and lunch was nothing compared to dinner) were young and scrubbed and cheerful, uniformed in white, enthusiastically talkative when company was wanted but always remarkably discreet. Today they were staying almost invisible.

  Sparta and Blake had been living as the commander’s guests in this strange “safe house,” as he called it, for a week now, often dining alone together beneath the heraldic banners that hung from the high walls of the gothic main hall. On sunny days like this one, dramatic shafts of golden light poured through the stained glass clerestories, windows that depicted dragons and loosely draped maidens and knights in armor. The man who’d built the mansion was evidently a fan of Sir Walter Scott’s, or had had dreams of Camelot.

  “We think they had Falcon targeted before the wreck,” said the commander, setting down his plate.

  “Targeted him?” Blake had gotten his greens down without choking, but he was still incredulous—not least because this Space Board officer, this old guy whom at first he’d taken for nothing more than Ellen’s fellow employee, was making sounds like he knew as much about the Free Spirit as Blake himself knew, information that Blake had risked his life to get.

  “The best balloon pilot in the world,” Sparta said, as if it were self-evident. “Someone realized—even before Falcon did—that to live in the clouds of Jupiter, you need a balloon.”

  “What’s Jupiter got to do with it?” Blake demanded.

  “I don’t know,” said Sparta. “But it’s Jupiter that I keep going to in my dreams…”

  “Ellen.” The commander tried to warn her off the subject.

  “Falling into the clouds. The wings overhead. The voices of the deep.”

  Blake eyed the commander. “Her dreams?”

  “We’re working from the evidence,” the commander said. “Consider that even for the Board of Space Control it’s almost impossible to mount an operation of this technical and logistical and political complexity in two years. We think Webster must have known Falcon wanted to go to Jupiter before Falcon told him.”

  “Exactly, Blake. Before he knew it himself,” Sparta said
. She turned to the commander. “They sabotaged the Queen.”

  His voice got gruff. “You were always quick to reach conclusions…”

  “Nobody’s ever put a remote link through a satellite by accident, before or since.”

  “That’s crazy,” said Blake. “How did they know Falcon would survive the crash?”

  “They have a habit of taking long chances.”

  The commander said, “The camera platform started having trouble as soon as he was topside. Not until then.”

  She nodded. “It should have been the safest place, if you were calculating the odds. Falcon himself thought so.”

  “Then they really screwed up,” Blake protested. “He was back down at the controls before the Queen hit. He almost saved the ship.”

  “The crash worked for them anyway,” Sparta said. “Maybe better than they hoped.”

  “Unlike you,” the commander said, “with him there wasn’t much of a thinking human being left to get in their way later.”

  Blake, agitated, thrust back his chair and stood up. “All right, I asked this before. You—sitting there—you personally represent the high and mighty Space Board Investigations Branch? What do you want from Ellen? What can she do that the Board hasn’t already done?”

  Before he answered Blake, the commander signaled the stewards to clear the table and bring the next course. “There are some things that the Space Board doesn’t do well,” he said. “Investigating itself is one of them.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “Don’t assume anything,” the commander said. “And don’t miss the tomato bisque.”

  He hesitated, then abruptly sat down. “If you want my cooperation, sir”—the resort to sarcasm was childish, a measure of Blake’s complete frustration with the course of events—“I need to know that whatever you’re planning, you’re not going to expose her to any more danger than she’s in already.”

  “Before we men make any deals for her, Blake, perhaps Ellen will tell us her own thinking.”

  “I’m certainly curious. I’d like to find out more about Howard Falcon and the Kon-Tiki mission,” she said.