Giant's Star g-3

by James P. Hogan

  "I had to hold things right there when that ruling came down the line," Caldwell interjected, looking at Hunt. "That was why I couldn’t tell you about any of this before." Hunt nodded. Now that it had been explained, at least he felt a little better on that score.

  He was still far from completely happy, however. It sounded as if there had been a typical bureaucratic overreaction to the whole thing. Playing safe was all very well up to a point, but surely this supersecrecy was taking things too far. The thought of the UN keeping everybody out of it apart from a handful of select individuals who had probably had few, if any, dealings with Ganymeans was infuriating.

  "They didn’t want anybody else included?" he asked dubiously. "Not even a scientist or two-somebody who knows Ganymeans?"

  "Especially not scientists," Caldwell said, but volunteered nothing further. The whole thing was beginning to sound nonsensical.

  "As a permanent member of the Council, the U.S.A. was informed from high up in the UN and applied sufficient pressure to be represented on the delegation," Heller continued. "Norman and myself were assigned that duty, and for most of the time since then we’ve been at Giordano Bruno, participating in the exchange of signals that has been continuing with the Thuriens."

  "You mean everything is being handled locally from there?" Hunt asked.

  "Yes. The ban on communicating anything to do with it electronically is being strictly adhered to. The people up there who know what’s going on are all security-cleared and reliable."

  "I see." Hunt sat back and braced his arms along the table in front of him. So far there was a mystery and some reason for being uncomfortable, but nothing that had been said so far explained what Heller and Pacey were doing in Houston. "So what’s been going on?" he asked. "What have you been talking to Thurien about?"

  Heller motioned with her head to indicate a lockable document folder lying by her elbow. "Complete transcripts of everything received and sent are in there," she told him. "Gregg has a full set of copies, and since you’ll no doubt be involved from now on, you’ll be able to read them for yourself shortly. To sum up, the first messages from Thurien asked for information about the Shapieron -its condition, the well-being of its occupants, their experiences on Earth, and that kind of thing. Whoever was sending the messages seemed concerned . . . as if they considered us a threat to it for some reason." Heller paused, seeing the look of non-comprehension that was spreading across Hunt’s face.

  "Are you saying they didn’t know about the ship before we beamed that first signal out from Farside?" he asked.

  "So it would appear," Heller replied.

  Hunt thought for a moment. "So again, whoever is handling the surveillance isn’t talking to whoever is sending these messages," he said.

  "Exactly," Pacey agreed, nodding. "The ones handling the surveillance could hardly have not known about the Shapieron while it was here if they have any access to our communications network. There were enough headlines about it."

  "And that’s not the only strange thing," Heller went on. "The Thuriens that we have been in contact with seem to have formed a completely distorted picture of Earth’s recent history. They think we’re all set for World War III only this time interplanetary, with orbiting bombs everywhere, radiation and particle-beam weapons commanding the surface from the Moon. . . you name it."

  Hunt had been growing even more bemused as he listened. He could see now why it looked as if the Shapieron couldn’t have been intercepted-at least not by the Thuriens who were talking to Earth; the Ganymeans from the ship would have cleared up any misunderstandings like that straight away. But even if the Thuriens who were doing the talking hadn’t intercepted the Shapieron , they had an impression of Earth nonetheless, which meant that they could only have obtained it from the Thuriens who were handling the surveillance. The impression they had obtained was wrong. Therefore, either the surveillance wasn’t very effective, or the story being passed on was being distorted. But if the messages had been coming in composed in English, the surveillance methods had to be pretty effective, which therefore implied that the Thuriens passing on the story weren’t passing it on straight. But that didn’t make a lot of sense, either. Ganymeans didn’t play Machiavellian games of intrigue or deceive one another knowingly. Their minds didn’t work that way; they were far too rational. . . . unless the Ganymeans who now existed on Thurien had changed significantly in the course of the twenty-five million years that separated them from their ancestors aboard the Shapieron. That was a thought. A lot of changes could have taken place in that time. He couldn’t arrive at any definite conclusions now, he decided, so the information was simply filed away for retrieval and analysis later.

  "It sounds strange, all right," Hunt agreed after he had sorted that much out in his head. "They must be pretty confused by now."

  "They were already," Caldwell said. "The reason they reopened the dialogue is that they want to come to Earth physically-I guess to straighten out the whole mess. That’s what they’ve been trying to get the UN people to arrange."

  "Secretly," Pacey explained in answer to Hunt’s questioning look. "No public spectacles or anything like that. What it seems to add up to is that they’re hoping to do some quiet checking up without the outfit that’s running the surveillance knowing about it."

  Hunt nodded. The plan made sense. But there was a note in Pacey’s voice that hinted of things not having gone so smoothly. "So what’s the problem?" he asked, shifting his eyes to glance at both Pacey and Heller.

  "The problem is the policy that’s been handed down from the top levels inside the UN," Heller replied. "To put it in a nutshell, they’re scared of what it might mean if this planet simply opens up to a civilization that’s millions of years ahead of us. . . . our whole culture could be torn up by the roots; our civilization would come apart at the seams; we’d be avalanched with technology that we’re not ready to absorb. . . . that kind of thing."

  "But that’s ridiculous!" Hunt protested. "They haven’t said they want to take this place over. They just want to come here and talk." He made an impatient throwing-away motion in the air. "Okay, I’ll accept that we’d have to play it softly and exercise some caution and common sense, but what you’re describing sounds more like a neurosis."

  "It is," Heller said. "The UN’s being irrational-there’s no other word for it. And the Farside delegation is following that policy to the letter and operating in go-slow, stall-stall-stall mode." She waved toward the folder she had indicated earlier. "You’ll see for yourself. Their responses are evasive and ambiguous, and do nothing to correct the wrong impressions that the Thuriens have got. Norman and I have tried to fight it, but we get outvoted."

  Hunt caught Lyn’s eye as he sent a despairing look around the room. She sent back a faint half-smile and a barely perceptible shrug that said she knew how he felt. A faction inside the UN had fought hard and for the same reasons to prevent the Farside transmissions being continued after the first, unexpected reply had come in, he remembered, but had been overruled after a deafening outcry from the world’s scientific community. That same faction seemed to be active again.

  "The worst part is what we suspect might be behind it," Heller continued. "Our brief from the State Department was to help move things smoothly toward broadening Earth’s communications with Thurien as fast as developments allowed, at the same time protecting this country’s interests where appropriate. The Department didn’t really agree with the policy of excluding outsiders, but had to go along with it because of UN protocols. In other words, the U.S. has been trying to play it straight so far, but under protest."

  "I can see the picture," Hunt said as she paused. "But that just says that you’re becoming frustrated by the slow progress. You sounded as if there’s more to it than that."

  "There is," Heller confirmed. "The Soviets also have a representative on the delegation-a man called Sobroskin. Given the world situation-with us and the Soviets competing everywhere for things like the South Atlan
tic fusion deal, industrial-training franchises in Africa, scientific-aid programs, and so on-the advantage that either side could get from access to Ganymean know-how would be enormous. So you’d expect the Soviets to be just as impatient to kick some life into this damn delegation as we are. But they aren’t. Sobroskin goes along with the official UN line and doesn’t bitch about it. In fact he spends half his time throwing in complications that slow things down even further. Now when those facts are laid down side by side, what do they seem to say?"

  Hunt thought over the question for a while, then tossed out his hands with a shrug. "I don’t know," he said candidly. "I’m not a political animal. You tell me."

  "It could mean that the Soviets are planning to set up their own private channel to fix a landing in Siberia or somewhere so that they get exclusive rights," Pacey answered. "If that’s so, then the UN line would suit them fine. If the official channel stays clogged up, and the U.S. plays straight and sticks with the official channel, then guess who walks off with the bonanza. Think of the difference it would make to the power balance if a few heads of select governments around the world were quietly tipped off that the Soviets had access to lots of know-how that we didn’t. You see-it all fits with the way Sobroskin is acting."

  "And an even more sobering thought is the way in which the UN’s policy fits in with that so conveniently," Heller added. "It could mean that the Soviets have ways that we don’t even know about of pulling all kinds of strings and levers right inside the top levels of the UN itself. If that’s true, the global implications for the U.S. are serious indeed."

  The facts were certainly beginning to add up, Hunt admitted to himself. The Soviets could easily set up another long-range communications facility in Siberia, up in orbit, out near Luna maybe, and operate their own link to whatever was intercepting Farside’s signals out beyond the edge of the solar system. Any reply coming back would probably be in the form of a fairly wide beam by the time it got to Earth, which meant that anybody could receive it and know that somebody somewhere other than the UN was cheating. But if the replies were in a prearranged code, nobody would be able to interpret them or know for whom they were intended. The Soviets might be accused, in which case they would deny the charge vehemently . . . and that would be about as much as anybody would be able to do about it.

  He thought he could see now why he had been brought in on all this. Heller had given herself away earlier when she said that the U.S. had been trying to play it straight, "so far. " As insurance the State Department had decided that it needed its own private line too, but nothing crude enough to be detected anywhere within a few hundred thousand miles of Earth. So who would they have sent Heller and Pacey to talk to? Who else but someone who knew a lot about Ganymeans and Ganymean technology, somebody who had also been among the first people to receive them on Ganymede?

  And that was another point-Hunt had spent a lot of time on Ganymede, and he still had many close friends among the UNSA personnel there with the Jupiter Four and Jupiter Five missions. Jupiter was a long, long way from the vicinity of Earth, which meant that no receivers anywhere near Earth would ever know anything about a beam aimed toward Jupiter from the fringe of the solar system, whether the beam diverged appreciably or not. And, of course, the J4 and J5 command ships were linked permanently to Earth by laser channels . . . which Caldwell and Navcomms just happened to control. It couldn’t possibly be all just a coincidence, he decided.

  Hunt looked up at Caldwell, held his eye for a second, then turned his head to gaze at the two people from Washington. "You want to set up a private wire to Gistar via Jupiter to arrange a landing here, without any more messing around, before the Soviets get around to doing something," he told them. "And you want to know if I can come up with an idea for telling the people at Jupiter what we want them to do, without the risk of any Thuriens who might be bugging the laser link finding out about it. Is that right?" He turned his eyes back toward Caldwell and inclined his head. "What do I get, Gregg?"

  Heller and Pacey exchanged glances that said they were impressed.

  "Ten out of ten," Caldwell told him.

  "Nine," Heller said. Hunt looked at her curiously. There was a hint of laughter in her expression. "If you can come up with something, we’ll need all the help we can get handling whatever comes afterward," she explained. "The UN might have decided to try going it alone without their Ganymean experts, but the U.S. hasn’t."

  "In other words, welcome to the team," Norman Pacey completed.

  Chapter Four

  Joseph B. Shannon, Mission Director of Jupiter Five , orbiting two thousand miles above the surface of Ganymede, stood in an instrumentation bay near one end of the mile-and-a-quarter-long ship’s command center. He was watching a large mural display screen from behind a knot of spellbound ship’s officers and UNSA scientists. The screen showed an undulating landscape of oranges, yellows, and browns as it lay cringing beneath a black sky made hazy by a steady incandescent drizzle falling from somewhere above, while in the far distance half the skyline was erupting in a boiling column of colors that exploded upward off the top of the picture.

  It had been fifty-two years before-the year that Shannon was born-when other scientists at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena had marveled at the first close-ups of Io to be sent back by the Voyager I and II probes, and dubbed the extraordinary disk of mottled orange "the great pizza in the sky." But Shannon had never heard of any pizza being cooked in the way this one had.

  Orbiting through a plasma flux of mean particle energies corresponding to 100,0000 Kelvin sustained by Jupiter’s magnetic field, the satellite acted as an enormous Faraday generator and supported internal circulating currents of five million amperes with a power dissipation of a thousand billion watts. And as much energy again was released inside it as heat from tidal friction, resulting from orbital perturbations induced as Europa and Ganymede lifted Io resonantly up and down through Jupiter’s gravity. This amount of electrically and gravitationally produced heat maintained large reservoirs of molten sulfur and sulfur compounds below the moon’s surface, which eventually penetrated upward through faults to explode into the virtually zero-pressure of the outside. The result was a regular succession of spectacular volcanoes of solidifying sulfur and sulfur-dioxide frost that ejected at velocities of up to a thousand meters per second, and sometimes reached heights of 300 kilometers or more.

  Shannon was looking at a view of one of those volcanoes now, sent back from a probe on Io’s surface. It had taken the mission’s engineers and scientists more than a year of back-to-the-drawing-board experiences to devise an instrumentation package and shielding method that would function reliably under Jupiter’s incessant bombardment of radiation, electrons, and ions, and Shannon had felt an obligation to be present in person to observe the results of their eventual success. Far from being the chore he had expected, the occasion had turned out an exhilaration and served as a reminder of how easy it was for supreme commanders of anything to allow themselves to become remote and lose touch with what was happening in the trenches. In future, he thought to himself, he would make a point of keeping more up to date on the progress of the mission’s scientific projects.

  He remained in the command center discussing details of the probe for a full hour after he was officially off duty, and then at last excused himself and retired to his private quarters. After a shower and a change of clothes he sat down at the desk in his stateroom and interrogated the terminal for a listing of the day’s mail. One item that had come in was qualified as a text message from Vic Hunt at Navcomms Headquarters. Shannon was both pleasantly surprised and intrigued. He had had many interesting talks with Hunt during the latter’s stay on Ganymede, and didn’t perceive him as being somebody with much time for idle socializing, which suggested that something interesting was afoot. Curious, he keyed in a command for Hunt’s message to be displayed. Five minutes later he was still sitting there staring at the message, his brows knitted in a mystified fr
own. It read:

  Joe,

  To avoid any further cross words on this subject, I looked for some clues in the book you mentioned and came across some references on pages 5, 24, and 10. When you get down to sections 11 and 20, it all makes more sense.

  How they got 786 is still a puzzle.

  Regards

  Vic

  Not a word of it meant anything to him. He knew Hunt well enough to be reasonably sure that something serious was behind the message, and all he could think of was that Hunt was trying to tell him something highly confidential. But why would Hunt go to this kind of trouble when UNSA possessed a perfectly adequate system of security codes? Surely it wasn’t possible that somebody could be eavesdropping on the UNSA net, somebody equipped with enough computer power to render its protective measures unreliable. On the other hand, Shannon reflected soberly, the Germans had thought exactly that in World War II, and the British, with their "Turing Engine" at Bletchley, had been able to read the complete radio traffic between Hitler and his generals, frequently even before the intended recipients. Certainly this message would mean nothing to any third party even though it had come through in plain English, which made it appear all the more innocuous. The problem was that it didn’t mean anything to Shannon, either.

  Shannon was still brooding about the message early the next morning when he sat down for breakfast in the senior officers’ dining quarters. He liked to eat early, before the captain, the first navigation officer, and the others who were usually on early shift appeared. It gave him time to collect his thoughts for the day and keep up with events elsewhere by browsing through the Interplanetary Journal -a daily newspaper beamed out from Earth by UNSA to its various ships and installations all over the solar system. The other reason he liked to be early was that it gave him an opportunity to tackle the Journal’s crossword puzzle. He’d been an incurable addict for as long as he could remember, and rationalized his addiction by claiming that an early-morning puzzle sharpened the mental faculties in preparation for the demands of the day ahead. He wasn’t really sure if that were true, and didn’t care all that much either, but it was as good an excuse as any. There was nothing sensational in the news that morning, but he skimmed dutifully through the various items and arrived gratefully at the crossword page just as the steward was refilling his coffee cup. He folded the paper once, then again, and rested it against the edge of the table to scan through the clues casually while he felt inside his jacket for a pen. The heading at the top read: JOURNAL CROSSWORD PUZZLE NUMBER 786.