Jupiter Project

by Gregory Benford

  We made some repairs on the circuitry. Working in gloves is awkward and even slipping microchip decks snugly into place can be difficult. We both had modified our suits for the work. We had a big flap on the chest that pulled down, revealing a big adhesive patch. Pull the flap down, stick the securing tab on a knee, and there you have half a square meter of microhooks. They’ll hang onto anything until you give it a good tug. If you’ve ever chased a lost thermocouple over a cubic klick of space, because you let go of it for a nanosecond or two, you’d appreciate an adhesive patch. Some techs have them on their arms, legs, every place they can see and reach.

  After the standard repairs, I looked at the cup. It was a mess. Intermittent shorts, crappy signal characteristics. I didn’t think much of the design, either. Looked like ancient history. “Maybe we should keep it as it is,” I suggested. “For a museum piece.” Under Jenny’s schoolmarm eye I took it out, worked the replacement in, checked connections, and then ran a few tests on the rest of the oversized silver basketball. Everything looked okay. I coasted back.

  “Not bad,” Jenny said. “You only took fifty-three minutes.”

  On the long arc back we ate some squeeze-soup and tried to relax. I was tired. There is a kind of tension that comes from carrying out delicate operations in zero-g. Your muscles do far more than is necessary, without your even knowing it. Only later do you feel the aches seep into your joints.

  Satellite Fourteen was one of the three satellites that looped in close over the pole, to get readings where the magnetic fields are strongest. We got a good view of the Great White Oval, a mixmaster of colors inside a glaring white swirl. As we watched it Jenny and I started to talk. The grand dance of Jove went on beneath, so vivid and alive you felt as if you could reach out and touch it. Somebody had called it “the greatest found art object in the solar system,” back in the twentieth century. Dead right. God’s palette. And as we stared at the hypnotic technicolor swirl, Jenny and I began to talk, really talk. And what came out was a lot of the things I’d always thought but never said.

  I told her about the way the whole social thing looks to me—and to a lot of boys growing up. We’re driven by a big urge—get laid! the hormones sing. But everybody says, no, you’re too young. You’ll get in trouble. You sort of expect your parents and The System to keep saying no—they always do; they’re cautious. So you discount that. But the girls say it, too. That’s because they’ve been sold a bill of goods, just like us. They have everybody wagging fingers at them, saying Watch out! Don’t give in. Don’t even think of giving in. You’re not ready for it, emotionally ready. And you could get pregnant. And they’re right, in a way. Girls pay the bigger price. Their whole growing-up process is filled with fears of things that might happen to them. Boys never have to worry about getting pregnant. Or raped. And suppose you’re a thirteen-year-old girl and you decide you’re going to have sex no matter what anybody says? If you do anything to prevent pregnancy, you’re in trouble. The doctor tells your parents and then they come down on you. And if you don’t see the doctor, then maybe you wind up having a baby or getting an abortion. Some choice, uh?

  I could see all that. Girls had it hard. Maybe harder than we did. Or maybe the trouble was just different. Boys had this drive and it seemed powerful as hell. You thought about it all the time.

  Jenny said, well, sure, she thought about sex; but not all the time. Maybe for boys it was different. For girls, sex was an expression of something else a lot of the time. Of affection. Or of a sense of self-esteem (I’m a woman; somebody wants me). Or sometimes as a reward to the boy for something. And a girl sees images of women all over the place while she’s growing up—magazines, 3D ads. And they’re all actresses’ pinups, beautifully groomed and busty and leggy. “Most girls get a kind of inferiority complex out of all that,” Jenny said. “So sex gets to be a thing you’re kind of shy of, because compared to those gorgeous women on 3D, you’re not so much. How could any man desire you?”

  There were two reactions to this, she murmured, making a sour expression. A girl could go out and try to prove herself—and run all the risks I had been talking about. Or she could just hang back, shy. Neither solution really worked. It just delayed the real problem, which was coming to grips with your own personality, who you really were.

  Maybe so, I said, but it seemed to me we all got wounded. After a while of frustration, a guy got to seeing girls as the enemy. They were the ones doing the rejecting, the ones who were holding out. They could come across if they wanted to. So a guy builds up this resentment of women, and he keeps it. Even after he’s got things sort of straightened out, there are always those years when he was a teenager and every hand was turned against what his body told him to do. Walking wounded, yeah. A guy doesn’t forget.

  Jenny said softly, “I think I see what you mean. The training we get from our parents and others—it makes us think the other sex is different, an enemy. Sure, maybe they don’t intend it to have that effect. But it does.”

  “Right.”

  “We’re all victims, then.”

  “Yeah. I can understand how things got this way…”

  “Especially out here in the Can.”

  “Right. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  She nodded solemnly and looked at me. “I don’t either.”

  The talk sort of dribbled off. We started to get tired. We buckled in and got some hours of zero-g sleep.

  When the bridge of the Can called. I woke up. I felt pretty well rested. The Can was already a glowing dot, spinning patiently.

  I jockeyed Roadhog into the bay and we both did the refueling; it was beginning to look like we would make a good team. Most shuttle hops weren’t so long and one operator would do, but on jobs like this one the bridge liked two pilots along.

  I felt good. It seemed like something to celebrate, so I invited Jenny for a drink—a real one, not a milkshake.

  I unsuited, went through the ’fresher—ever smell someone who’s been working in a space suit for over thirteen hours?—and waited for Jenny in the tube outside the women’s area. I had planned on taking her to the small officer’s bar on one of the outer levels, where a big 3D screen gives views of Earth and I thought we wouldn’t meet anyone we knew. It was 20:00 hours, ship’s time, well past the cocktail hour.

  I had just leaned against the wall when Zak came loping along, panting.

  “I figured you’d be here,” he gasped. “Want—wanted to catch you.”

  “What for?”

  “Commander Aarons called a shipwide meeting, it’s starting right now. I thought you’d probably missed the announcement while you were coming inside.”

  Jenny appeared. “What announcement? What is it?”

  “Come on,” Zak said.

  “I think we ought to go,” I said apologetically. Jenny and I looked at each other. We shrugged. “A little later, maybe…”

  Jenny smiled and nodded. We followed Zak, who was already walking away. I felt bad about interrupting our little private party. Alcohol holds no fascination for me—I’ve had plenty of chances to drink at home, so it’s nothing new—but there is something about the rituals of drinking that can cement new ties, formalize a relationship. And I suppose I wanted to mark the occasion. I wanted to make a bench mark that said, here is when I opened my eyes a little, and saw her clearly for the first time.

  Zak told us about a flurry of rumors that had run around the Lab during the day, most of them contradictory. I half-listened on the way to the auditorium. The bowl was nearly filled. The 3D cameras were operating, so that people who couldn’t leave their posts could listen in. We found three seats together on the very last row.

  The auditorium buzzed with speculation. I spotted Mom and Dad sitting together, the Motos, and several others. The lights dimmed slightly. People stopped chattering and Commander Aarons walked to the podium at center stage. He seemed smaller than I remembered him, and awfully tired. He reached up and nervously plucked at his mou
stache before speaking.

  “It is my duty to make a grave announcement. Two hours ago I received word from the Executive Council of the International Space Administration. For the last several weeks the Council has deliberated on the future course of research and exploration throughout the solar system.

  “The discussions were extensive. Plans for construction of the first unmanned probes to the nearby stars were even considered; the Council elected to set aside such a program for the foreseeable future.

  “As many of you may have suspected, it was an order of the Council that delayed the departure of the Argosy. I did not know why until this evening.

  “We are all aware—however divorced we may be from our home planet—that the economic crisis there is steadily worsening. Overpopulation has not been solved. Raw materials are running low, despite the self-supporting mines in the asteroid belt. Gradually the ‘extras’ are being whittled away.

  “I am afraid the Council has decided that it is the Laboratory’s turn to be trimmed. No, no—” he looked toward the top of the bowl, directly at me—“that is far too mild a word. The Council has informed me…that all research operations here and on Ganymede are to be ended. The Laboratory is finished.”

  Chapter 12

  Suddenly everybody was talking at once. The Commander let the noise build for a moment and then cut it off by raising his hand.

  “The Argosy will leave Earth orbit within the hour. It is flying empty; none of the cargo we asked for is aboard, nor are food supplements. The Council has given orders that the Laboratory be stripped of useful scientific instruments. All personnel are to return to Earth on the Argosy.”

  “Impossible!” someone down front shouted.

  The Commander shook his head. “It is not. The Council sent detailed plans for departure. If we squeeze, we can make it.”

  “But why? Why so sudden?” the same person said again.

  Commander Aarons relaxed his stance and leaned slightly against the podium. He seemed glad that the formal announcement was over and he could talk normally. “We’ve always known that there are factions on the Council who oppose space research further away than Luna. I believe since the recent elections they are in the driver’s seat.”

  Mr. Jablons stood up. “Commander, we have as much patience as anyone. We all know ISA has been trying to nickel and dime us to death for years, with little cuts here and there. But this isn’t a cut, it’s a hangman’s noose. I say we should fight it!”

  “Right!”

  “I’m with Jablons!”

  “Very fine, gentlemen,” the Commander said. “What do you propose?”

  “Shoot the Council!”

  Commander Aarons smiled wryly. “Impractical, I am afraid. Anyone else?”

  Mrs. Moto stood up. “We are citizens of many different countries. Could we not appeal through our geographical representatives?”

  “We are only a few more than twelve hundred people. Madam.” Commander Aarons said. “We carry very little political clout.”

  “Senator Davidson has always supported the Lab. We can appeal to him,” a voice said.

  A man stood and waved for attention from the Commander. When he got it he said. “Judging from a few hints in the legislative reports we get sandwiched into the news from Earth, Senator Davidson fought for us and lost. He has relinquished his position on the Advisory Board.” The Commander nodded. “Anyway, a senator is a creature half-man and half-horse. Normally the top half is a man. You can’t expect them to set sail against the prevailing winds.”

  Some people nodded; others looked glum.

  A woman stood. “Yes, Mrs. Schloffski?” the Commander said and I recognized her from the Sagan.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said dramatically, “I have been sorely distressed at the things said here tonight. Murder and insurrection have been advocated. I think it is time the saner, wiser heads in this Laboratory are heeded—goodness knows we have not been listened to enough in the past. In all honesty, I feel that if the Commander and his staff had sought out proper council among the Laboratory members we would not be having such difficulties now. I have always thought—”

  “Do you have a point, Mrs. Schloffski?” Commander Aarons said mildly.

  “Of course I do. I wanted to say that, once the Council has spoken, we should all be good enough citizens to recognize that fact and act accordingly. Certainly there is no one else to blame than ourselves for the fact that we have found so little of lasting scientific interest out here—”

  “Who says?”

  “How would you know?”

  “—far from our natural home.” She glared at the hecklers. “I believe there are a number of women who followed their husbands out from Earth and feel that they have sacrificed enough. The living conditions here are wretched. I imagine there will be many of us who will be glad to go home.”

  Mrs. Schloffski sat down. Her husband, sitting next to her, said something. She snapped at him and he opened his mouth and then closed it again. After that he was quiet.

  “Commander?” my mother said, standing. “I would like to speak for the women I know. We are not ready to go Earthside until our jobs are finished here. We will stand by our husbands even if we don’t have clean, ironed sheets every day.”

  There was a burst of applause. Several hands were waving for attention. The Commander picked my father’s.

  “Something bothers me about your wording, Commander. You said everyone returns on the Argosy?”

  “Correct.”

  “I don’t believe the Can’s fusion plant and electrical generators can be left to automatic control; it’s too risky. We will have to shut them down before we go.”

  “What’s your point?” someone in the audience said.

  “Without current our superconducting magnets will not work.”

  There was a murmur as a few people saw what Dad was driving at. Commander Aarons frowned and unconsciously tugged at his moustache.

  “Without the magnets,” my father went on, “the Can won’t be completely shielded from the Van Allen belt radiation. High-energy electrons and protons will pass into the Laboratory. Within a year they will create enough radioactive isotopes to make the living quarters here uninhabitable. The isotopes will be distributed randomly around the Lab, in the walls and deck. The Lab will be unlivable.”

  The crowd was silent for a moment. An engineer said, “You mean men couldn’t come back, ever? The Can would be contaminated?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Doctor Yakana is in charge of radiation control. Doctor, do you agree with Dr. Bohles?”

  A lanky man near the front nodded.

  “Those Earthside flea-brains!” someone shouted.

  “Commander!” one of the ship’s officers said. “Did the Council say they were abandoning the Lab?”

  Aarons sighed. “My orders say ‘The facility will be reactivated when fiscal policy permits.’ That’s all.”

  “When they speak in Latin it’s always a brush-off,” Zak said to me. The crowd was muttering, restless.

  A ship’s officer stood up. He was Lt. Sharma, a heavy, dark man from Calcutta who ranked middle-high on the squash roster.

  “Sir, I think most of us have had enough of ISA,” he said. “Right?” He turned to the audience and they answered with a storm of clapping.

  “There’s one thing the Council forgot. We don’t have to cooperate! They can’t force us. Who is going to send armed men all the way out to Jupiter?”

  “I say we stay!” another voice said. “Refuse to board the Argosy. We’ll thumb our noses at ’em.”

  Lt. Sharma shook his head. “Lord preserve me from my friends. That isn’t what I meant. Not all of us can live out here indefinitely—we need trace elements in our diet, spare parts for the life system and a hundred other things.”

  “Okay, how long can we stick it out?” someone said.

  “I am not qualified to say,” Commander Aarons said. “You three”—
he pointed out two bridge officers and the supervisor of Maintenance Division—“put your heads together and give us a guess.”

  The three women met in an aisle and murmured together for a moment while everybody watched. They nodded. “A little less than two years before we have serious trouble,” one of them said.

  “Thank you. I am no politician or economist, but I do not believe Earth’s troubles will clear up in two years. The Council will not be able to send more ships by that time. And if we rebel now I know they’re not going to be in the mood, anyway.”

  Lt. Sharma looked exasperated. “Sir, that is not what I had in mind.”

  “Oh?”

  “Most of the Can’s population must return Earthside. We’ll never survive, otherwise. But we don’t have to leave the project deserted. Leave behind a skeleton crew to keep the superconductors working, so that someday men can come back.”

  Mr. Moto stood up. “That sounds fine to me. We should leave a few scientists, too, to keep watch on Jupiter. Even simple, close-up observations covering the time the rest of us are gone will be immensely important.”

  “I volunteer,” Mr. Jablons said.

  “Me, too!”

  “Single personnel should have preference.”

  “That’s unfair!”

  “Merde!”

  “You can’t—”

  “Ich muss—”

  “Quiet!” Commander Aarons tugged at his moustache. “All that will be decided later.” He gazed slowly around the bowl. “I think we are all far too disturbed and hot under the collar to make reasonable judgments right now. I urge you all to think this matter through carefully; your lives may depend on it.

  “I ask you then to go home and discuss it among your families. In a few days we will meet again. Good evening.”

  There was a burst of applause as he left the podium.

  Jenny and Zak and I got out ahead of the crowd and headed for my home. People were pretty stunned. It wasn’t until some time later that I remembered my date with Jenny; both of us had forgotten it.

  “What do you think our chances are of staying on?” she asked me.