Did he imagine it, or was there in fact a change in Cayuga's expression, a glimpse of something new behind the eyes?
But he was answering smoothly enough, turning to lead the way so that Conner could no longer see his face: "Call it an obsession, Mr. Preston, one that we all three share. Saturn exploration has been a family affair with us for three generations. My great-uncle, Jason Cayuga, together with Luke Costas and Athene Rios, flew on the first, second, third, and fourth Saturn expeditions. They died as they would have chosen to die: exploring. But after their disappearance, as you might imagine, we felt an obligation to try to learn what had happened. The three of us were on the fifth Saturn expedition."
"But you never found them." Conner turned his head quickly. Alicia Rios and Lenny Costas were following close behind, watching him intently.
"Unfortunately, no. But here we are." Cayuga was opening the door to the engine room and waving him through. Conner went ahead, a little nervous, although he knew that the Diabelli Omnivores were completely powered down. He found himself facing a half-dozen blue cylinders, each about three meters across. These were the hearts of the Omnivores, where the actual fusion reactions took place. He found even their appearance unsettling.
"Never a trace of anyone," Cayuga went on, "although we searched for several months. There had been a final signal, indicating that they were heading for Titan to check the progress of the Von Neumanns left there by the second expedition. It is possible that they lost control of the ship and plunged into the Titan atmosphere. If that happened and everyone died, the Von Neumanns would of course have employed their remains."
From his voice there was no way to know that he was talking about the fate of one of his own close relatives. Conner compared Jeffrey Cayuga, standing before him, with his recollection of the video images he had seen of the uncle, Jason Cayuga. It was easy to see a physical resemblance: Both men were tall and pale and had full lips and prominent noses. The nephew's dark beard made further comparison difficult, but even without it there was no way that anyone would mistake one for the other. Jason had always had a smile, answering even the rudest or most stupid question during media interviews in a light-hearted, laughing voice. He looked like a great man to party with. Whereas Jeffrey . . .
A real cold fish, cold and pale as Alicia Rios. Lenny Costas, with his hunched shoulders and expressionless eyes, seemed no better. Maybe that was what they needed to tolerate the lonely journeys to the undeveloped reaches of Saturn and beyond.
But Cayuga was a cold fish that Conner had better pay attention to, because now he was over by the Omnivores, patting one of the bulbous cylinders with a pale, hairless hand.
"As you probably know, the Omnivores are able to operate in five different modes, depending on what is easily available." Cayuga beckoned Conner closer. "The fusion takes place right here, inside this section. We can burn hydrogen to form helium, with an internal temperature as low as ten million degrees. If hydrogen is not available, the Omnivores can fuse helium to make carbon, but that needs at least a hundred million degrees before it becomes efficient. In mode three, carbon will burn to oxygen, neon, and magnesium, starting at about six hundred million degrees. Then we have mode four, neon burning once we get above a billion. And finally, if necessary we can fuse oxygen to silicon and then to iron. But those reactions don't really cut in until the Omnivores reach an interior operating temperature of at least one and a half billion degrees."
One and a half billion. Conner stared at the bulbous cylinders of the Omnivores with a new mixture of horror and respect. That was scores of times hotter than the center of the Sun itself. No wonder they were banned for Belt use and could be turned into weapons.
And if one of these Omnivores went wrong, in its hottest mode? The crew of the Weland would never know it. They might as well be sitting in the middle of a supernova.
"Are they safe?" The question popped out before he could stop it, but Cayuga did not seem to mind. He was even smiling, in a distant sort of way.
"Safe compared to what, Mr. Preston? Residence aboard the Weland is far safer, in my opinion, than residence today either on Earth or Mars, or in the Belt."
"You really think there is going to be a war?"
"Don't you?"
It was the question of the hour. On the one hand, Conner argued that the economic bickering between Earth and the Belt had gone on for as long as he could remember, and that was a full twenty years. But there was no doubt that recent exchanges were more rancorous.
"I believe that Earth deserves to be taught a lesson." Conner was parroting standard Belt politics, and felt uncomfortable doing it. "But I don't see how that can happen. I mean, there are eleven billion of them, and only a hundred million of us. And anyway, Earth has the Armageddon defense line, and it's supposed to be impenetrable. They drain a ridiculous share of our resources to support their population bloat, but I don't think there can be a war."
"Many people disagree," Alicia Rios said. "The rate of immigration from Earth and Belt to the Jovian system has tripled in the past four years. I gather that you yourself are a recent arrival."
"I was sent here. It's part of my job."
True enough. But Conner knew that it was not the whole story. He might claim that the stint on Ganymede was cruel and unusual punishment; but here, far from the threats and the posturing of Earth, Mars, and Ceres, he certainly felt a lot more secure.
Jeffrey Cayuga was staring at him as though he could read Preston's thoughts. "As I said a moment ago, the Weland and Saturn exploration is safe compared to what? Nature is less of a threat than human actions. Our expedition team, cruising the moons of Saturn, will be subjected to less danger than your friends and relations on Ceres. I am not sure that even Ganymede and Callisto will be safe if a full-scale war breaks out."
"But you plan to come back here, when the expedition returns."
"That is not quite true." Cayuga nodded to Alicia Rios and Lenny Costas and they turned, leading the way from the engine room.
"We will return to Ganymede," he went on, "if it seems completely safe to do so. But I do not live here. I make my home on Lysithea, one of the minor satellites of Jupiter. It is almost twelve million kilometers out, and it is rather small—just thirty-five kilometers in diameter. But it offers privacy. And it is, above all, safe."
He stared at Conner Preston and spoke the final word with peculiar intensity. Safe. It made Conner feel physically uncomfortable. Suddenly he felt anything but safe. He was eager to leave the Weland, and the company of Jeffrey Cayuga, as soon as possible.
* * *
When the shuttle carrying Conner Preston was on its way back to the surface of Ganymede, the three members of the Sixth Saturn Exploration Team convened in the ship's main cabin.
"Opinions?" Cayuga was at one of the scopes, watching the descending shuttle.
"I do not think that we have a problem." Lenny Costas had not spoken more than two words to Conner Preston, but his pale, cautious eyes had watched him closely every second that he had been aboard. "He knows nothing. I believe that he suspects nothing."
"You are too easily persuaded. Why then did he bother to come here?"
"Sniffing and scouting. He is a reporter. That is his job."
"Maybe." Cayuga, still using the scope, did not look around. "Alicia?"
"I don't like it. As a reporter, he gets places. It is possible that he was on Mars, three years ago."
"Even if he were, it is unlikely that he met Neely."
"But not inconceivable. They could have talked, before we were able to put the trace on her. I say, why take the risk? It is better to be rid of him, and be safe."
"I do not disagree with you." Cayuga was still at the scope. The shuttle with Conner on board was finally making its landing on the surface of Ganymede. "But the timing is inconvenient. Our review of progress on Helene is overdue. The others are already there. We should not delay our departure."
"We can use Jinx Barker. He did a good job for us o
n Mars. He's a professional, he's reliable, and he's discreet."
"He appears to be. But let us not forget that he is no more than a hired hand. He is not one of the Club. We must be careful."
"Of course. Why not make this a test case? We will be away for at least eight months. We tell Jinx what we want him to do about Conner Preston. When we get back we check that he did a good, quiet job. No matter what happens, there will be nothing to tie Preston to the Club. And we will all be a billion kilometers away."
"Lenny?"
Costas nodded. "I doubt Preston knows anything, but after listening to Alicia, I have to agree with her. It's just possible Conner Preston picked up some information from Neely. No point in taking the risk. I say, let Jinx handle it."
"Then we three are all in agreement. We will inform the other Club members when we arrive at Helene. Alicia, you will need to brief Jinx Barker in person."
"I know. I'll go down and do it today."
"Tell him to take his time, to find out as much about Conner Preston as he can, and report to us when we return."
"Suppose he decides that Preston has no connection at all with Neely?"
"He will still do his job, and dispose of Preston. Those must be his instructions. We cannot have someone who is not a Club member assessing risk on our behalf."
"Suppose there is a connection? Suppose Jinx finds out too much about Neely?"
"Then we must make another decision. It could be membership. He might make an excellent recruit."
"I'm sure he would." Alicia was smiling.
"No." Costas shook his big, shaggy head. "I don't like that at all. Don't forget that Neely was once considered a prime candidate for Club membership."
"A valid point." Cayuga turned off the scope. The screen turned dark, and the image of Conner Preston's shuttle blinked out of existence. "Caution is always the best policy. However, it does not affect our decision regarding Conner Preston. It is a pity that we took time explaining the ship to him. That is favorable publicity that will probably never be used."
4
EARTH: 2067 A.D.
Ten miles from the Corpus Christi spaceport, above-ground progress became impossible. Lola Belman took one last look at the sea of vehicles ahead as the bus driver made its assessment of all route loadings, computed probable delays, and ramped down into the tunnel net.
"Where are we going? What's happening?"
Spook, sitting at Lola's side near the front, was more annoyed than alarmed. To a ten-year-old, anything new was interesting. For all he knew, the spaceport access route was always crowded. But Lola had told him that they would see hundreds of spacecraft on the ground as soon as they got near enough, and now he felt cheated. The thin plume of lifting ships, taking off under laser boost, had been visible from fifty miles away as violet jets in the late-afternoon sky; but by now the novelty of that had faded.
"It's nothing. Just a traffic jam."
Lola said it, but she didn't believe it. Jaime and Theresa Belman might pretend that everything was normal, that the family trip to Ganymede was a vacation they had been planning for a long time. At ten their son was young enough to accept the story. Lola, at twenty-two, knew better. She wasn't much interested in news broadcasts, but at the moment they were hard to ignore. Everyone seemed to be making boring speeches: accusations of skullduggery, frantic boasts of Earth's military might, mockery of Belt threats and weapons—and warnings to civilians to prepare for possible attack.
After a few days of that, the speeches were just noise in your ears. But this—clogged roads and tunnels, nervous passengers, checkpoints tended by men in uniform—was different. It seemed like history, a video reconstruction of ancient times. This was the sort of thing that had happened a hundred or two hundred years ago, but not now.
Most significant, her parents had suffered a sudden and unexplained change of mind. Instead of all four of them leaving Earth for Ganymede in one week's time, she and Spook had to leave today, without adequate time to pack, without visiting grandparents, without the farewell party for friends. The explanation—that cheap tickets were available—had been enough for Spook. He couldn't wait to be off into space. To Lola, though, her parents' statement was no more credible than the political speeches of the past month. Her mother and father wouldn't even listen to her plea: that she would rather stay and travel with them. She and Spook had been hustled onto the bus with maximum speed and minimum dignity.
They were slowing down now, creeping along at a walking pace. Finally the bus halted completely.
"The spaceport terminals are one-point-two kilometers ahead," said the driver. "Unfortunately, the tunnels beyond this point are presently impassable for vehicular traffic. Passengers must proceed the rest of the way on foot. There will be signs to direct you to your flights."
The whole bus filled at once with a hubbub of protest.
"What about our luggage? Will it be loaded automatically?"
"We were supposed to meet our group at the drop-off point. Are there signs for that?"
"I have four cases with me, and they're heavy. How am I supposed to carry them?"
"A kilometer? You stupid machine, I can't walk a kilometer. I need wheelchair assistance. I can't walk more than a few steps."
That came from an old man who had been sitting just behind Lola and Spook. He seemed to have no trouble at all walking as he hurried forward and began to hammer on the blue cylinder of the driver's control unit with his black walking stick.
Lola grabbed her brother's hand. "Come on. We've had all the help from the driver we're going to get."
"But our luggage—"
"Can look after itself. Either it gets on the same ship as us, or it gets on the next one." I hope. Lola felt she should be crossing her fingers. "We can't worry about it now. Come on. "
Even on foot, progress along the tunnel was slow. Vehicles were everywhere, some empty, some still containing passengers conducting hopeless arguments with the automated driver units. The lighting was poor. It had never been intended for anything more than vehicles, whose controls had no need for any sort of illumination.
Lola followed the signs for Gate 53, still holding tight to her brother's hand. She knew he was supersmart, but when the mood took him he could be a super-smart-ass. He wasn't called Spook for nothing. If he exercised his famous skill at disappearing and made them miss their flight, it would somehow become her fault. Her parents would never forgive her.
Less than half a kilometer to go. Would they emerge above ground, or would the tunnel lead them right to the Gate's lower level? That was Lola's main worry when, without warning, all the lights went out. The darkness around her filled with curses and nervous moans. At the same moment she lost her grip on Spook's sweaty palm.
"Augustus Belman! Stay where you are and don't move."
"Don't you ever call me that! I'm Spook. And I'm not moving." His voice, right next to her, was high-pitched and indignant. "Where d'you think I could go? I can't see a frigging thing!"
"No cussing!" He sounded perfectly normal—and the lights, thank God, were flickering back on. Not as bright as before, but enough to see by.
"Let's go, Spook—as fast as we can."
Something far more serious than a lighting failure was going on. Lola felt a tremor—the ground vibrating beneath her feet. A current of air swept through the tunnel from behind, and it was filled with fine dust that, for a few seconds, had everyone coughing and choking.
Forward movement was becoming more difficult. She had told Spook they must travel fast, but some people seemed to have given up. They were lying down or sitting, leaning against the tunnel walls. It was necessary to step over legs and bodies. Trying not to tread on them, Lola also had to keep an eye open for the routing signs that blinked occasionally to life.
Gate 55. Gate 57. The signs were there. Had they somehow missed Gate 53? With enormous relief, Lola saw the sign they wanted over to their left. Its light was out, but she could make out the arrow pointing to an e
scalator.
An escalator that seemed to lead up forever into darkness—and that was not working. Lola pushed Spook ahead of her, clutching the back of his shirt. The steps were clogged with people, some doubled over and panting for breath, a few others standing hopelessly waiting for the escalator to return to life and carry them upward.
Spook stopped, making her bump into him. "Sis, what's happening here?"
She didn't have the breath to answer, even if she could. The ship they were supposed to be on departed at 7:00 P.M. It was now five forty-five, and she dared not even guess at the turmoil and delays they were likely to encounter at the gate.
"Keep going." The end of the escalator was finally in sight. Gate transit and security were just beyond. Ominously, the area was almost deserted. A solitary woman in transit blue stood at a security checkpoint, directing angry and baffled passengers.
"Flight 670 already left." She hardly glanced at Lola's outstretched tickets. "I know it shouldn't have, but we're not running on the usual schedules."
"What's happening?"
"Go along the tunnel there and up the other escalator—that one's working." She ignored Lola's question. "Hurry. Another flight is ready to leave. It's full, but we'll squeeze you on board."
"Our bags—," protested Spook.
"—will be fine." Lola grabbed his hand again. "Let's go." She dragged him toward the tunnel, and was rewarded with a grateful smile and a wave from the transit official.
The tunnel was long and curved to the right. It led to a rising stair. At the upper end Lola saw the purple of the night sky. She ran up the rising escalator, eager to be above ground again. Just before they reached the top, the opening ahead filled with a flash of pale orange. As they emerged onto a wide spaceport launchpad, Lola expected to hear the explosion. There was no sound, only another flicker in the sky like a far-off sheet lightning, and then, from one of the other pads, the whoosh of a laser launch.
"Go on." A man in blue was waving them toward the stubby ship that stood on their pad. He showed no interest in tickets or any form of identification. "Run. You'll be the last. Lift in two minutes."
The Ganymede Club Page 5