Arthur C Clarke's Venus Prime Omnibus

by Paul Preuss

  Mays and Marianne Mitchell were gone, along with the Moon Cruiser capsule in which they had arrived so precipitously.

  The unconscious people still in the Ventris were alive, their vital signs robust—steady respiration, strong heartbeat and the rest—but they had been massively dosed with anesthetic. Sparta bent to absorb samples of their breath through the thin membrane that isolated her from the outer world. She allowed a telltale whiff of the drug to diffuse through the protective mucous; its chemical formula unfolded itself on the inner screen of her mind. It was a benign narcotic of the sort that would soon vanish, leaving hardly a trace. They would all wake up eventually, having slept soundly for perhaps three or four orbits of Jupiter, without even hangovers to show for it.

  She took a few moments to check the status of the ship. The first anomaly was obvious: the radiation shield was down again, after Walsh and McNeil had sworn they’d fixed it for good. But to the casual eye nothing else was amiss.

  PIN spines slid from beneath her fingernails, puncturing the shining film that coated her; she inserted the spines into the ports on the main computer and let tingling data flow straight to her brain. Nothing to be seen or heard here out of the ordinary, but amidst the tangy data an odd aroma—something off, something metallic, coppery-sour like sucking a penny, or an acrid whiff of potassium—under the baked-bread smells of normalcy.

  Ah, there, there in the maneuvering control system … Everything just as normal as could be, and only this slightest hint of a leak in a valve … a trickle of fuel, venting under pressure through—remarkably bad luck!—a trio of external nozzles, so positioned on the hull that the Ventris was being pushed ever so slowly into the full force of the radiation slipstream that blew past Amalthea.

  Once into that belt, and without any radiation shield whatever, a mere couple of orbits of Jupiter would do the whole crew in. Even with all their antiradiologicals, by the time they woke up they’d be too far gone to save themselves.

  Sparta hardly took the time to think about what to do. She corrected the ship’s positional problems first. Then she moved unhurriedly to the clinic and opened its well-equipped pharmaceutical cabinet. She visited the sleeping crew in the order of their need, injecting each with what she had determined was sufficient to bring them safely awake—about one day sooner than the clever saboteur had planned.

  Randolph Mays flew the Manta close to the Ventris and parked it in vacuum. The Ventris seemed not to have moved as much as he would have expected, but such things were almost impossible to judge by eye. Ships and sub and satellites were whirling around Jupiter in ever-adjusting orbits as Amalthea boiled itself into nothing, a few meters below them.

  He floated into the equipment bay through its clamshell doors, open to space as he had left them. He parked the Manta and climbed cautiously out of it. He went carefully through the hatches of the internal airlock, sealing it behind him so as not to disturb the condition of things inside, keeping his spacesuit sealed.

  Not that he feared the crew; they were safely asleep, even unto eternity.

  He drifted through the ship’s corridor, while inside his helmet his amplified breath sucked and hissed in his ears.

  He passed the sleeping compartments. Hawkins was unconscious, wrapped in his sleep restraint; little Tony Groves was still asleep in his, in the compartment he and Mays had shared.

  Through the wardroom. Forster and Redfield were there, huddled over the chessboard, having drifted only a few centimeters from where he’d left them.

  On up to the flight deck—Walsh inert in her couch, McNeil in his. Nothing on the big console different from the way he’d left it.

  Above the flight deck there was storage space and tanks of maneuvering-system fuel and an overhead hatch which the expedition rarely used, preferring the more convenient airlock through the equipment bay. Mays was not a careless man; he checked these spaces again. Still no one there.

  He moved down through the ship, past the sleeping men. Everything was in place. Mays had sketched out many a mystery scenario in his lifetime, but none was more perfect than this. Marianne’s testimony … all the physical evidence … every last detail would confirm his special version of the truth.

  He’d just about made it to the bottom of the corridor when he sensed a presence, a flicker of shadow along the corridor wall. Someone behind him? He wheeled around…

  “Why don’t you say a bit more, Sir Randolph?” Forster was prodding him hard, with a forefinger that felt as thick as a cricket bat. “About why you felt you had to gas us all. About why you felt you had to sabotage the communications systems. About what has become of your … of Ms. Mitchell.”

  Mays was surrounded—rather closely, given the confines of a working spaceship—by the people he had gassed. All of them. His legalistic arguments were having no effect—

  —but it was not his purpose to change any minds, as they all understood. It was his purpose to have his statements recorded by the ship’s recorders—now that they were functioning again, evidently—and to stall for time. “You sabotaged the communications, Professor,” he said loudly, “not I. Marianne and I took what measures we felt were necessary to escape.”

  “Escape from what?”

  “It will take us a little longer than it will take you, perhaps, but we can get back to Ganymede without your help. We’ve made contact with the Space Board. They are on their way.”

  “You’ve radioed them from your capsule?” Bill Hawkins blurted. He’d forgotten, or never learned, that the first rule of negotiation is to show no surprise.

  “Yes, by dint of great effort I managed to repair the capsule’s communications gear,” Mays said with a wide-mouthed, big-toothed grin. “Although I wouldn’t attempt to contact Marianne, if I were you. I’ve instructed her to ignore anyone’s voice but my own. Until all of us here have come to terms.”

  Hawkins cried out in anguish, “Does anyone here think she’s actually fond of this blackguard?” He pushed his limp blond hair out of his eyes so vigorously that he drifted halfway across the room.

  “Bill,” Josepha Walsh murmured uncomfortably, “let’s leave that kind of thing for later, what say?”

  Hawkins turned away in anguish, unable to bear Mays’s unruffled complacency. Hawkins could not know that beneath his calm exterior, Mays was a desperate man. Had Troy done this? He’d killed her!

  Forster, meanwhile, had been studying his adversary. “Well, you’re here with us again. So we’ll just go fetch Ms. Mitchell and … hold you both captive, as you put it, until we get back to Ganymede—or until the Space Board arrive. Whichever comes first. Then let the bureaucracy sort it all out.”

  “Fine. You’ll never find the Ambassador again, of course.”

  Forster’s eyebrows shot up. “Never find the Ambassador?”

  “After I took the photogram views I wanted, I moved it.” Mays paused just long enough to let the news sink in. “Oh, I do exaggerate. You might find it again, with enough time. But I assure you it won’t be easy.”

  “Pray, what was the point of that?” Forster inquired civilly.

  “My estimate of the situation has not changed since the last time we talked, Professor,” said Mays. “You have illegally held me and my associate, Ms. Mitchell, incommunicado.” It was becoming his favorite word. “Everything I’ve done has been in my … in our self defense. I want merely to communicate the news of this extraordinary discovery. I claim it as our right.”

  Forster slowly reddened. “Sir Randolph,” he said acidly, “you’re not only an attempted murderer but an unmitigated crook, and accordingly I’ve no compunction left in dealing with you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, sir?” Mays inquired cheerily.

  “I’ll tell you shortly. Tony. Blake. You, Bill. Come with me.”

  They caucused in the corridor, outside the lock to the equipment bay—in the same place Mays and Marianne had plotted their downfall.

  “I want to go with Blake,” Hawkins said hotly, a
fter hearing Forster’s plan. “There’s no reason I can’t go.”

  “There is, Bill, which I will presently explain to you. I understand your feelings. But if you do what I suggest, you’ll have a much better chance of, mm … getting what you want.”

  So it was that they sent Blake out alone.

  Blake piloted the Manta to within half a dozen meters of the lonely Moon Cruiser. Even in the milky fog he found it readily enough by its radar signature.

  Blake was wearing his spacesuit sealed, and having prepared for the event by leaving the hatch of the Manta open, he slipped free of the craft and pushed himself gently through the white night toward the burned black capsule. He had a moment’s rush of sympathy for the lonely young woman inside who, despite Mays’s assertions, could not see out, could not hear anything, did not know that her capsule was even now drifting out of a narrow and rapidly diminishing zone of radiation safety.

  Mays must have planned it that way, Blake thought; he’d meant to let her fry. He meant to leave no stone unburied.

  He clipped an acoustic coupler to the hull. “Marianne, this is Blake. Can you hear me?”

  “Who is that?” Her voice was full of strength, and of fear.

  “Blake Redfield. Since your commlink is out, I’m here as a go-between. For the negotiations, I guess you’d call them. What you say can be heard on the Ventris.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Right outside. I’ve clipped an acoustic coupler to your hull. It’s feeding through the Manta’s radiolink to the Ventris.”

  “What are you planning to do? Where’s Randolph?”

  “I’m not going to do anything. Whatever happens to Sir Randolph is between you and Professor Forster.”

  “I won’t tell you where the statue is,” she said defiantly.

  “Whatever you say. I’m not in on that; you’ll have to talk to the professor. I’m going back to the sub.”

  “Ms. Mitchell, do you hear me?” Forster’s voice intruded on the link, coming through clearly. “Sir Randolph has explained what he’s done, Marianne. All of us feel strongly that all of this … complication is completely unnecessary. We have treated you both as colleagues, and as such we still regard you. We’ve asked only that Sir Randolph obey the most basic rules of scholarship and ethical conduct.”

  “Does that mean you’re willing to call it off?” Marianne asked. “I hope so. I’m getting so … bored.”

  “Ms. Mitchell, I would like you to give Redfield permission to tow your capsule back here to the Ventris. In a very little time, we may have to move our ship. I’m concerned for your safety.”

  “I won’t tell you where the statue is,” she said. “Not unless Randolph tells me to.”

  “He’s not willing to do that,” said the professor.

  “Well…” Her sigh was almost audible through the jury-rigged sound link. “No.”

  “It’s apparent that you don’t take me seriously,” Forster said sternly. “Therefore I’ve arranged a rather drastic demonstration—to indicate that I at least am serious. In order to have his way, Sir Randolph has exposed you and the rest of us to extreme dangers. Now it’s his turn.”

  “What do you mean?” she replied. She tried to sound merely cautious, though her apprehension was apparent in her voice.

  “I’m not sure how much you know about celestial mechanics, but if your onboard computer is functioning at all, I’m sure it will confirm what I’m about to tell you.”

  “Just say what you mean, please.”

  “I’m trying to impress upon you our curious, indeed our precarious position. If your videoplate were functioning—alas, another deficit you might want to ask Sir Randolph about when you see him next—you would have only to look at it to remind yourself how close to Jupiter we are. And I need hardly remind you that Jupiter has by far the most intense gravitational field of all the planets.”

  She was quiet a moment. Then she said, “Go on.”

  He was alert to the edge in her voice, and continued with less condescension. “You, and we, and what’s left of Amalthea are going around Jupiter in a bit more than twelve hours. A well-known theorem states that if a body falls from an orbit to the center of attraction, it will take point one seven seven of a period to make the drop. In other words, anything falling from here to Jupiter would reach the center of the planet in a little over two hours. As I said earlier, your computer, if it is functioning, will confirm this.”

  There was a long pause before Marianne again said, “Go on,” in a voice that seemed drained of expression.

  “A fall to the center of Jupiter is of course a theoretical case. Anything dropped from our altitude would reach the upper atmosphere of Jupiter in a considerably shorter time.” When she did not immediately reply Forster added, a bit viciously, “I hope I’m not boring you.”

  “Uh,” said Marianne, then, “Just get on with it.”

  “We’ve worked out the actual time, and it’s about an hour and thirty-five minutes. You’ve worked with us long enough, Ms. Mitchell, to notice that as the mass of Amalthea boils away and the moon shrinks beneath us, what was a weak gravitational field to begin with has grown considerably weaker. Computer tells us that escape velocity is now only about ten meters per second. Anything thrown away at that speed will never come back. Your own experience will confirm the truth of that, I think.”

  “Yes, of course.” Her voice revealed no impatience, for she was quick and may already have seen where Forster was leading.

  “I’ll come to the point. We propose to take Sir Randolph for a little spacewalk, until he’s at the sub-Jupiter point—immediately under Jupiter, that is. We’ve disabled his suit’s maneuvering unit. We can operate it, but he can’t. We’re going to, ah, launch him forth. We’ll be prepared to retrieve him with the Ventris as soon as you give us the detailed directions to the whereabouts of the statue, which Sir Randolph himself assures us that you have.”

  Marianne hesitated, and then she said, “I want to talk to Randolph.”

  “I’m sorry, that’s impossible.”

  Blake, listening in, thought Forster’s eager anticipation was almost too evident; this was the moment he’d been waiting for.

  “Is Bill on the flight deck?” she asked, oh so softly.

  “Hawkins? Mm, actually, yes…”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “Well, if you … if you wish.”

  Hawkins came on the link. His voice was frantic with guilt and fear. “I objected, Marianne. I’ll lodge a formal protest, I promise. But Forster is adamant. He…”

  Forster cut him off angrily. “Enough of that, Hawkins. And no more digressions, Ms. Mitchell. After what I’ve told you, I’m sure you appreciate that time is vital. An hour and thirty-five minutes will go by rather quickly, but if you could observe what is happening to Amalthea, you would agree that we have little more time than that in which to confirm any information you choose to give us.”

  “You’re bluffing,” said Marianne.

  Blake was alarmed. This wasn’t according to plan.

  Then she went on. “I don’t believe you’d do anything of the kind. Your crew won’t let you.”

  Blake relaxed. She was trying to convey toughness and doing a creditable job of it, but mingled horror and disbelief underlay her words.

  The professor emitted an expressive sigh. “Too bad. Mr. McNeil, Mr. Groves, please take the prisoner and proceed as instructed.”

  McNeil’s solemn “Aye-aye, sir” was heard in the background.

  “What are you doing now?” Marianne demanded.

  “Sir Randolph and friends are going for a little walk,” Forster said. “Too bad you can’t see this for yourself.”

  Blake’s cue: he broke in excitedly. “Professor, what’s to keep Marianne from thinking this is all a colossal bluff? She’s gotten to know you in the past few days—you saved her life, after all, and she doesn’t believe you’d really kill the guy, throw him into Jupiter. And even if you would, she knows
Angus and Tony—she probably doesn’t think they’d do it.” Pause… “Right, Marianne?”

  She said nothing.

  Blake went on, “Well, she probably figures she’s seen through the bluff, and we’re left looking mighty foolish.”

  “What do you suggest?” Forster said.

  “I think we ought to let her come out of that tin can and see for herself. She knows we’re not interested in grabbing her—if we were, I could have towed her all the way back to the Ventris by now. And she’d never have known it.”

  That suggestion took about four seconds to sink in—little more than the time it took Marianne to seal her helmet. All the explosive bolts of the capsule’s hatch blew off at once and the square hatch went tumbling straight off into heaven. The massive capsule itself recoiled and drifted slowly backward as Marianne clambered out of the open hatch.

  Evidently she’d already determined that the Moon Cruiser was a useless relic of games past. The new game would be played here in vacuum; no matter who won or lost, whoever went home would be going home in the Ventris, if not in a Space Board cutter.

  She looked around, noting the spiraling umbilical cable that connected the acoustic link on the capsule to the Manta, which drifted a few meters off—Blake’s face was visible through the sphere, but she spared him hardly a glance—and noting, too, the distant bright reflection of the Michael Ventris floating above the glowing fog. The vast curve of Jupiter rose above them all, turning the tendrils of mist to fleshy pink in its backlight.

  Three white doll-like figures were just then leaving the Ventris’s open bay.

  “She’s out, Professor,” said Blake.

  “Now that you’re not shielded in the capsule, Ms. Mitchell, can you hear me in your suitcomm?”

  “Yes. I hear you.”

  “If you use the magnifying visor plate on your suit helmet, you’ll be able to reassure yourself that Angus and Tony aren’t dragging an empty suit between them. They’ll be over the horizon in a minute, but you’ll be able to see Sir Randolph as he begins to, er … ascend.”