Marooned on Eden

by Robert L. Forward; Martha Dodson Forward

  After an appetizer of pâtè de foie gras made from the liver tissue culture "Pâtè LaBelle," served with crisp algae-flour wafers, the first course was served.

  "What is it?" asked Richard suspiciously.

  "It's a spinach quiche," replied Nels with pride. "It has a new strain of spinach that I developed that doesn't make your teeth squeak after you eat it, and a new algae pseudocheese with a taste of both mozzarella and parmesan."

  "Real men don't . . ." started Richard, then spluttered as his quiche was spirited right off his plate.

  "I was waiting for you to say that," said Shirley, who now had a slice of quiche in each hand and was taking alternate bites from both of them. She then saw the disapproving look in Reiki's eyes and handed Richard back his quiche, slightly diminished.

  "Now the piece de resistance!" said Nels somewhat later. "The first harvest of Cinnamon's new contribution to our real-meat meals. I have to hand it to our resident ichthyologist. She has managed to manipulate the genes of our standard hydroponics fish and created a delicately flavored 'ponics-Trout that you would swear just came from a high mountain stream."

  The dinner finally drew to a close with dishes of strawberry sherbet made with real strawberries, followed by more white wine and after-dinner drinks of various ports, sherries and liqueurs, all from James's versatile chemical synthesizer. George raised his wine glass in a toast to the new world they were soon going to explore.

  "To the wild winds!" said George, who had been monitoring the patterns of the almost constant storms on Zuni below.

  "To the restless waters!" said Shirley, who had worked out the complex tidal charts for the planetoid.

  "To the roaring earth!" said Richard, who had determined that each one of the ninety-five island continents on Zuni was the top of a submerged active volcano.

  George was in high good humor and opened another bottle of wine with a flourish. "The landers gave us excellent reports from the surface! The flyer, Orville, was really busy, flying over island chains to open water and back again, in and out of thunderstorms—plenty of weather down there!"

  "Selecting the best spot for our own landing is going to be interesting," said Jinjur, holding out her glass, while George shook a gobbet of wine into it. "With all the different sorts of weather we're seeing perhaps we can pick out a region less . . .hectic? After the problems we had with the waterfall on Rocheworld and the geysers on Zulu, perhaps we ought to look for a quieter place this time."

  "It's not going to be easy," said George. "Zuni always has a great deal of weather activity. We're going to have to time things very closely to get the rocket lander down to the ground during a lull between storm fronts."

  "Each island is a volcano," reminded Elizabeth Vengeance. "And they all become active during the three-moon conjunctions every twenty-three Earth days."

  "Well, Red, then find me a nice large island with a big beach far away from the central caldera," replied Jinjur. She looked at a stack of blue-green and white colored electrorase prints on the center of the table.

  George picked up a print from the top of the stack. "Here's a candidate at the East Pole . . .."

  "East Pole!" said Jinjur. "Which of the poles is that?"

  "East when you're looking at Zuni from Gargantua," said George. "The 'Leading pole'—the part of Zuni which is always facing in the direction that the moon is moving in its orbit around Gargantua. Besides that, and the North and South spin poles, there's the 'Inner pole' which always faces toward Gargantua, the 'Outer pole' which always faces away from Gargantua, and the 'Trailing pole' which faces in the direction opposite to the motion of the moon in its orbit."

  Cinnamon held a print, almost reverently, up to the lights, her fingers careful to respect the surface.

  "It's beautiful," she murmured. Her enjoyment of the compliments of the crew on her 'ponics-trout contribution to the fine dinner had given her, unusually, the confidence to take part in the conversation. "Like a beautifully colored marble, or like the Earth! This one, in particular, taken from so far away."

  "I took that myself with my electrocamera, from the sunside science dome," beamed Thomas. "Glad you like it."

  "That superficial resemblance to Earth could be dangerous," warned George flatly. "We've got to avoid the trap of unconsciously assuming a similarity that doesn't exist in fact."

  "That blue-green color may indicateEearth-like photosynthesis, but the light from Barnard is so poor, the plants would have to struggle for it." They all turned to look at Deirdre; her voice was heard so seldom, everyone tended to overreact when she did speak.

  Richard and John put down their forks, and carefully wiped their hands before reaching for the stack of prints. Richard ran a finger along what had all the appearance of a storm front.

  "Clouds, that's a glare from lightning, I'm sure . . .rain . . ."

  "And a strong wind blowing, just there," John noted. "Real weather: it'll seem odd being rained on, even though we're in suits."

  "Golly! Remember umbrellas?" Carmen spoke the word, and there was an instant's silence. How strange and ancient a thing! And yet all understood, and recalled, wistfully, the forgotten sensation of water falling freely on bare skin.

  John growled, "Yeah, and don't forget to remember puddles, and mud, and slush, and ruined shoes . . ."

  Arielle chuckled. "John always look on bright side!"

  Shirley spoke thoughtfully. "It's too early to be sure, of course, but the reports I've been studying about the atmosphere below are certainly reassuring. There is plenty of oxygen for us to breathe, and except for a slight excess of volcanic-type gasses, nothing harmful in the air. Our suits are vital for safety, of course, but we might be able to do without . . ."

  Jinjur interrupted with absolute authority. "No, and that's final. Not one sniff of strange air, no matter what the analyzers say. All it takes is one undetected virus, one microbe, and either we're in trouble, or one of the alien life forms on Zuni are in trouble . . ."

  They all knew she was right.

  "Still, even in suits, we may be able to explore it just like a new country on Earth," Shirley said. "Those clouds really do seem to be water, and so do the lakes. The temperature averages between thirty and forty celsius. Pretty warm, but we should find some cooler spots in the shady regions."

  "Sounds great," grunted Richard, taking a third helping of the remains of the salad Cinnamon had harvested only two hours ago. "I won't mind if I'm never cold again." He knew what it meant to be cold—he'd lost both small toes to frostbite during an Alpine rescue. "But why is it so warm? Barnard and Gargantua certainly can't be supplying all that much heat."

  George leaned back in his chair. "Tidal action," he said briefly. "The same thing that warms Rocheworld. All those tides. Gargantua raises a huge tidal bulge that shifts slightly as Barnard and the other moons rise and set. Then there are those short, but really high tides when Zuni and Zouave get together in the same part of the sky . . ."

  "It's not just tides sloshing around," added Red. "I've been modeling the composition and chemical reactions in the atmosphere. Zouave, the moon that orbits Gargantua just outside Zuni's orbit, loses some of its nice fertile smog into space every day. The smog just sits there in space near Zouave's orbit. Most of it gets picked up as Zouave comes around again, but some of it expands inward to Zuni's orbit and Zuni comes by and scoops it up. Same thing with the water from the geysers on Zulu, which has an orbit inside that of Zuni. Some of the water vapor from the geysers on Zulu gets thrown high enough to go into space, where it forms into a sort of doughnut-shaped fog bank centered around Zulu's orbit, the outskirts of which also fall in on Zuni."

  "And all that infalling water and smog pours down out of the sky onto the Leading pole," mused Nels, bent over the closest picture to that area. "Which is why we see a large region of permanent high pressure centered at the Leading pole, spawning storms off its perimeter ranging from hurricanes to super-dense fogs."

  "I remember a strange little val
ley in China," mused Reiki. "It was a lovely, peculiar place, richly green, and so thickly layered with moisture-saturated air that the slightest vibration, like a sharp clap of the hands, caused a tiny shower. I wonder, will this strange world have such fascinating micro-climates?"

  There was a long pause in the conversation, and Reiki took the opportunity to take her leave.

  "Excuse me," she said softly. John smirked slightly; his tolerance for polite behavior being somewhat limited. Reiki picked up her wine glass, being careful not to disturb the quivering ball of white wine resting in the bottom, and withdrew to her apartment on the upper crew quarters deck to insert the day's events into her electronic journal, and to consider thoughtfully all the implications of an exploratory journey to a new world.

  INTRODUCING

  Comfortably alone in the sitting area of my personal suite, I've paused in my entry of the day's happenings into my electronic journal to take a brief sip of the evening's wine. This particular "vintage," which of course has never been anywhere near a grape, has a nice color and clarity; I always enjoy the fruity aroma more than the actual taste, which is a bit flinty. The Christmas Bush, as a vintner, tries to please us all—something no earthly vintner would attempt.

  Gazing out at Rocheworld is even more refreshing. Although it is far distant from Prometheus at this time, it is always under observation by one of the ship's large telescopes, and I have had James arrange so that its telescopically magnified image twinkles on the large viewwall in my room. From here, the strange shape of that fascinating double-world looks even more than ever like a colorful, elongated figure "8," a veritable infinity symbol, traveling its unique and elongated orbit around the dim red sun—Barnard's star—which attracted us all here so many years ago.

  On the other viewwall, I can see an image of the moon Zuni, which is pursuing its orderly way around the immense diameter of the giant planet Gargantua. We are becoming as familiar with all the celestial objects in the Barnard planetary system as we once were with Sol's planetary system, but there is still more to learn than we will ever be able to, a humbling realization which I personally find a trifle irksome to accept.

  But, then, I remember . . .that is nothing new.

  "Miss LeRrroux!" The Scottish burr rumbled the name lengthily, while the fierce blue eyes glared at me. "Your essay on the failure of the Jacobite uprising is thrrree times as long as it needs to be—and is not enhanced by your careful analysis of the kilt-folding techniques of the time!"

  I have always been too easily lured from sober-fact-noting to fascinating side-issues. Even here, lightyears away from the Earth I wandered over with such avid curiosity, I continue to read the ancient Victorian rules for the language of the fan with as much interest as the recent updating of the alien language of the flouwen. The joys of a huge library have been mine from an early age, and at school I had been accepted as a permanent fixture therein, attending classes only to surpass my classmates in exams. One of the most exciting prospects of my present mission has been the opportunity to have at my disposal an almost infinite multitude of scientists, historians, writers, musicians—all more important to me than the limited human minds living around me. And, not only easier of access and dismissal, but also requiring neither tact nor discipline; Mozart never objects when I frivolously use his glorious creations as background music!

  "Here" has been our home for so long; the mighty space ship Prometheus, which set out so bravely from Earth long ago. How ignorant we were then! And how much we were sure we knew! What we continue to discover is, how important it is to go and find out.

  I began, then, to continue these daily journals. The habit was instilled in me from my first year at the small school in the far north of Scotland, where my Japanese family had sent me, with much love and a sincere relief at my no longer being part of their daily life.

  My mother's lovely almond eyes were full of tears, as they looked hard into my round ones, and her slender hands were clenched tightly in my stubborn black curls.

  "My precious Reiki! You know you can always depend on us—and you know your father's family will give you anything you want! But you must be as weary as I am, with the curious stares and the nosy questions! Even your little step-brothers are tired of explaining . . ." I had, indeed, listened with sympathetic amusement as young Ko explained to a new and unusually inquisitive servant that my exotic appearance was due to an illness—which he thought might be contagious! His own sturdy frame was as like to his father's—my stepfather—as my slender height was to mine, even at that time, when I was barely ten.

  "I know, dearest mother. And how glad I am to be able to go freely! I'll not forget you—or dear grandfather—or any part of Japan—but I am so eager to be on my way!"

  The freedom I began to enjoy then, I cherished, and never surrendered. Continually fascinated with the complexities of intelligent interaction, I explored many cultures and tried my hand at many skills and occupations, learning from everything, but always ready to move on.

  As I pursued a kaleidoscopic range of interests, my journal became ever more valuable to me, as a means of sorting through the various disciplines I was absorbing. A custom model of my own design, my journal is no larger than a filing card and no thicker than a coin, but it contains within its electronic files over sixty years of memories and musings, and has room for many decades more. The electrochromo display, which covers one whole side, lies just above the photoelectric cells that power the electronics. If there is sufficient light to see the image on the screen, there is sufficient light to charge the slim battery.

  I normally use voice input for these daily entries, but if I don't have the necessary privacy, I can key in my words with subtle chordic squeeze patterns of my fingers on the touch-sensitive pads along the edges on the front and the back sides. A journal is not complete without an occasional picture, so the back side unfolds into a simple solid state video camera with the display on the front side serving as the viewfinder. I normally keep only selected still frames, although I do have a few short video segments saved, which mean much to me. My slim little computer journal contains my most precious memories and it goes with me everywhere.

  The skilled use of computers was taught to all of us as a matter of course in school. My classmates, as well as I, absorbed the intricacies of computer programming with the intensity of children learning a new game—which in many ways it was. For me, however, it was more than a game, and my orderly, somewhat perfectionist attitude toward life turned me into a professional programmer—one of the best, I might add, although like many programmers, my interests are varied and wide. Even my name, in Japanese, reflects that. My mother, grieving for my father's death and contemplating this strange-hued infant, her first-born, had put together a series of syllables odd to Japanese ears, but which included vague hints of long life, thought, peaches, and, strangely enough, etiquette, which ultimately turned out to be a passion of mine. Very early in my childhood, surveying the hurrying crowds far below in the streets, I had seen how the pleasant-faced, smiling throngs shared the sidewalks with the ease of schooling fish, and had reflected that a bad-tempered shove would have had absurdly far-reaching results, and how fortunate it was that everyone was being so polite.

  For ordinary purposes, I am called Reiki—Reiki Momoku LeRoux, to be precise, which my mother insisted upon, although the family had a dreadful time with that last name! Although I never knew my father, nor indeed any of his Cajun family, their financial support was unstinting during my youth, and I bear their name proudly. My parents had met and married when he was stationed in Japan. I have seen many pictures of my father, and I can understand how his easy smile, and slouching grace, would have been captivating to my shy and dainty mother. His tragic accidental death soon after their marriage had sent her fleeing homeward, mourning, but she was far too young and lovely to remain unmarried long. As for me, I enjoyed the idyllic babyhood of all Japanese children, loved and spoiled unconditionally. The few letters I received fr
om the LeRoux family, far off in Louisiana, seemed like missives from another world—and set me, even then, thoughtfully studying the huge globe in my grandfather's room.

  Some of my friends are puzzled by my using such an obsolete and limited technology as a personal journal. For, after all, we on Prometheus have James, the most sophisticated and intelligent computer the human race could construct when we left the solar system some forty-five years ago. My own imp is so much a part of my being now, that I would feel quite lost without its gentle lights and soft sounds next to me. Robots they are, of course, but not unattractive companions, for all that. I like to use mine to hold one of my bits of lace around my throat—both useful and ornamental. With the imp always observing everything, and James recording anything of importance, there is no need for anyone to keep a journal or to take pictures. But I do; I'm not aware if anyone else does.

  Prometheus has been home to all of us for so long that I am surprised at how accustomed we have become to such an artificial, from Earth standards, existence. It is more like living in a seventy meter tall cylindrical apartment building than in an interstellar space vehicle. Our personal quarters on the two crew decks in the middle have taken on the characteristics of each of us, while the working decks on each end of the ship, and the large commons rooms on the Living Area deck remain impersonal, similar to an office building or a comfortable hotel lobby. It is perhaps a restricted existence, but we have grown to like it well enough, and rarely notice the lack of a larger sphere. It's fun, with a nose as acute as mine, to detect from a lingering fragrance when a fellow crew-member has been lounging in the commons. Once, while in school, I had been reading in a secluded corner of the stuffy library when a classmate had wandered in, sniffed, and said, "Been playing hockey?" The actual explanation was that I'd developed a stiff neck, and the school nurse recommended a particularly pungent liniment; but the remark had led to my enjoyment of this harmless hobby. Harmless, that is, if one has the sense to keep such detection strictly to oneself! Few people would be pleased to know that the ship's air-conditioning system has not instantly eliminated all traces of coffee, or garlic, or whatever. And sometimes there are odd combinations which lead to rather startling speculations—but discretion is another habit of mine, and I never speak of my discoveries. And, truly, it is only of interest in the living quarters.