Authors: Ben Bova

Venus (10 page)

BOOK: Venus

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Her expression softened, but only a little. “Well, then, let’s see. I’ll give you eight hours for sleeping and an hour and a half for meals … that leaves fourteen empty hours every day! If I had fourteen hours on my hands I’d build a whole new set of biosensors for when we dip into the clouds.”

“I could help you,” I said.

She pretended to consider the offer. “Uh-huh. Do you have any background in cellular biology?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Spectroscopy? Can you take apart one of the mass spectrometers and realign it to be sensitive to organic molecules?”

I must have been grinning like a fool. “Um, do you have a manual for that? I can follow instruction manuals pretty well.”

She was smiling now, too. “I think you’d better stick to your own specialty.”

“Planetary physics.”

“Yes. But get active about it! There’s more to science than watching the readouts of your instruments.”

“I suppose so. But so far the sensors aren’t showing anything that the old probes didn’t get years ago.”

“Are you certain? Have you gone through the data thoroughly? You mean to tell me there’s
nothing
different? No anomalies, no unexplained blips in the incoming data?”

Before I could think of an answer, Duchamp’s voice came through the intercom speaker built into the overhead. “Mr. Humphries, radar scan has picked up a glint that might be wreckage. Could you come to the bridge, please?”

RECONNAISSANCE

R
odriguez was back on the bridge when we got there, and with all three chairs occupied, the bridge was simply too small for both me and Marguerite to squeeze in. I ducked halfway through the hatch and stopped there. Marguerite stayed behind me, in the passageway, and looked in over my shoulder.

The bridge felt hot, stuffy. Too much equipment jammed in there, humming away. And too many bodies radiating heat. The air seemed soggy, murky, and yet at that moment it fairly seethed with suppressed turbulence.

The main screen, in front of Duchamp’s command chair, showed a frozen radar image: dark shadows and jumbled shapes of landforms with a single bright glint at its center. Rodriguez was leaning forward in his chair, studying the image, perspiration beading his brow.

“That could be it,” he said, pointing to me. “It’s definitely metal; the computer analysis leaves no doubt.”

I stared hard at the blob of light. “Can we get better resolution? You can’t tell what it is from this image.”

Before Riza could reply from the comm console, Duchamp snapped, “We’ve magnified it as much as we can. That’s the best we can get.”

Rodriguez said, “It’s within the footprint that your brother’s craft would be expected to have, knowing what we know about when and where he went down. Nothing else metallic has shown up in the region.”

“We’ll have to go lower for better resolution,” Duchamp said. “Get under the cloud deck and use optical sensors.”

“Telescopes,” I muttered.

“Yes.”

“What region is that?” Marguerite asked, from behind me.

“Aphrodite,” said her mother.

“It’s a highland region, more than two kilometers higher than the surrounding plains,” Rodriguez said.

“Then it must be cooler,” I said.

Duchamp smiled humorlessly. “Cooler, yes. The ground temperature is down to a pleasant four hundred degrees Celsius.”

The lowland surface temperature averages above four hundred fifty degrees, I knew.

“Are we set for atmosphere entry?” I asked.

“The heat shield’s been checked out,” Duchamp replied. “Propulsion is ready.”

“And still no word from Fuchs?”

Riza answered from the comm console, “He entered the cloud deck two hours ago, halfway around the planet. I got his entry position from the IAA.”

“Then he hasn’t seen the wreckage?”

Duchamp shook her head. “If we’ve seen that glint, he has, too.”

“The plane of his entry was almost exactly equatorial,” Riza said, almost apologetically. “He’ll most likely come out of the clouds in the same region as the glint.”

I felt a dull throb in my jaw and realized that my teeth were clenched tight. “Very well then,” I said. “We’d better get under the clouds, too.”

Duchamp nodded, then touched a stud on her chair’s left armrest. “Captain to crew: take your entry stations. Stand by for atmospheric entry in ten minutes.” She lifted her hand and looked directly at me. “Clear the bridge of all nonessential personnel.”

I took her unsubtle hint and backed out into the passageway. Marguerite was already striding away.

“Where are you going?” I called after her.

“To my lab. I want to record the entry.”

“The automatic sensors—”

“They’re not programmed to look for organic molecules or other exotic species. Besides, I want to get the entry process on video. It’ll look good for your news report.”

I started to reply, then sensed Rodriguez standing behind me.

“She threw you off the bridge, too?”

He grinned at me. “My entry station is up forward with the life support technician.” He squeezed past me and started along the passageway.

The trouble was, I had no official entry station. If we went strictly by the rules I should’ve slid into my berth and stayed there until we jettisoned the heat shield. But I had no intention of doing that.

“Is there room for a third person up there?” I asked, trailing after Rodriguez.

“If you don’t mind the body odors,” he said over his shoulder.

“I showered this morning,” I said, hurrying to catch up with him.

“Yeah, well, it’s gonna get a little warm up there, you know. You’d be more comfortable in your berth.”

I lifted my chin a notch. “You don’t have to pamper me.”

Rodriguez glanced over his shoulder at me. “Okay, you’re the boss. You wanta be in the hot seat, come on along.”

Striding down the passageway behind him, I asked, “How are you and Duchamp getting along?”

“Fine,” he said, without slowing down or looking back toward me. “No problems.”

Something in his voice sounded odd to me. “Are you sure?”

“We’ve worked things out. We’re okay.”

He sounded strange … cheerful, almost. As if he were in on a joke and I wasn’t.

We passed Marguerite’s tiny lab. The accordion-pleat door was folded open and I could see her standing in the cubicle, her head bent over a palm-sized video camera.

“You’ll have to strap down for the entry,” Rodriguez told her. “It’s gonna get bumpy for a while.”

“I’ll help her,” I said. “You go ahead and I’ll catch up with you.” Mr. Gallant, that’s me.

Rodriguez looked uncertain for a moment, but then he nodded acceptance. “The two of you have got to be belted in for the entry. I don’t care where, but you’ve got to be in safety harnesses. Understood?”

“Understood,” I assured him. Duchamp had made us practice the entry procedures at least once a day for the past two weeks.

“ENTRY BEGINS IN EIGHT MINUTES,” the countdown computer announced.

Marguerite looked up from her work. “There. The vid-cam’s ready.”

She pushed past me and started down the passageway to the observation blister, the camera in her hand.

“Aren’t you going with Tom?” she asked.

“I was,” I said, “but if you don’t mind I’d rather stay with you.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Rodriguez gave me the feeling I’d just be in his way up there.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know when I’m being condescended to,” I insisted.

“Tom’s not like that.”

We reached the blister, a metal bubble that extended outward from the gondola’s main body. Three small observation
ports studded its side, each window made of thick tinted quartz. Four padded swivel chairs were firmly bolted to the deck.

“You won’t see much through the tinting,” I said.

Marguerite smiled at me, and went to a small panel beneath the port that slanted forward. Opening it, she snapped her camera into the recess. Then she shut the panel again. Three tiny lights winked on: two green, one amber. As I watched, the amber light turned red.

“What’s that?” I asked, puzzled. “I thought I knew every square centimeter of this bucket.”

“God is in the details,” Marguerite said. “I got Tom and my mother to allow me to build this special niche here. It’s like an airlock, with an inner hatch and an outer one.”

“They allowed you to break the hull’s integrity?” I felt shocked.

“It was all done within the standard operating procedures. Tom and Aki both checked it out.”

Akira Sakamoto was our life support technician: young, chubby, introspective to the point of surliness, so quiet he was almost invisible aboard the ship.

I was still stunned. “And the camera’s exposed to vacuum?”

She nodded, obviously pleased with herself. “The outer hatch opened when the inner one sealed. That’s why the third light is red.”

“Why didn’t anybody tell me about this?” I wasn’t angry, really. Just surprised that they’d do this without at least telling me.

“It was in the daily logs. Didn’t you see them?” Marguerite turned the nearest swivel chair to face the port and sat in it.

I took the chair next to her. “Who reads the daily reports? They’re usually nothing but boring details.”

“Tom highlighted it.”

“When? When was this done?”

She thought a moment. “The second week out. No, it was the beginning of the third week.” With an impatient
shake of her head, she said, “Whenever it was, you can look it up in the log if you want the exact date.”

I stared at her. She was smiling impishly. She was enjoying this.

“I’ll fry Rodriguez’s butt for this,” I muttered. It was a phrase I had often heard my father growl. I never thought I’d say it myself.

“Don’t blame Tom!” Marguerite was suddenly distraught, concerned. “My mother okayed it. Tom was only doing what I asked and the captain approved.”

“ENTRY IN SIX MINUTES,” came the automated announcement.

“So you asked, your mother approved, and Rodriguez did the work without telling me.”

“It’s only a minor modification.”

“He should have told me,” I insisted. “Breaching the hull is not minor. He should have pointed it out to me specifically.”

Her roguish smile returned. “Don’t take it so seriously. If Tom and my mother okayed it, there’s nothing to worry about.”

I knew she was right. But dammit, Rodriguez should have informed me. I was the owner of this vessel. He should have made certain that I knew and approved.

Marguerite leaned over toward me and tapped a forefinger against my chin. “Lighten up, Van. Enjoy the ride.”

I looked into her eyes. They were shining like polished onyx. Suddenly I leaned toward her and, reaching a hand behind the nape of her neck, I pulled her to me and kissed her firmly on the lips.

She pushed away, her eyes flashing now, startled, almost angry.

“Now wait a minute,” she said.

I slid back in my chair. “I … you’re awfully attractive, you know.”

She glared at me. “Just because my mother’s letting Tom sleep with her is no reason for you to think you can get me into your bed.”

I felt as if someone had whacked me with a hammer. “What? What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“Rodriguez and your mother?”

The indignation in her eyes cooled a bit. “You mean you didn’t know about them?”

“No!”

“They’re sleeping together. I thought everyone on board knew it.”

“I didn’t!” My voice sounded like a little boy’s squeak, even to myself.

Marguerite nodded, and I saw in her expression some of the bitterness her mother exuded constantly.

“Ever since we left Earth orbit. It’s my mother’s way of solving personnel problems.”

“ENTRY IN FIVE MINUTES.”

“We’d better strap in,” Marguerite said.

“Wait,” I said. “You’re telling me that your mother is sleeping with Rodriguez to smooth over the fact that she’s captain and he’s only second-in-command?”

Marguerite did not reply. She concentrated on buckling the seat harness over her shoulders.

“Well?” I demanded. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” she said. “I’ve shocked you.”

“I’m not shocked!”

She looked at me for a long moment, her expression unfathomable. At last she said, “No, I can see that you’re not shocked.”

“I’m accustomed to men and women enjoying sex together,” I told her.

“Yes, of course you are.”

Then a new thought struck me. “You’re angry at your mother, is that it?”

“I’m not angry. I’m not shocked. I’m not even surprised. The only thing that amazes me is that you can live in this crowded little sardine can for week after week and not have the faintest inkling of what’s going on.”

I had to admit to myself that she was right. I’d been like a sleepwalker. Or rather, like a clown. Going through the motions of being the owner, the man in charge. All these things happening and I hadn’t the slightest clue.

I sagged back in my padded chair, feeling numb and stupid. I started fumbling with my safety harness; my fingers felt thick, clumsy. I couldn’t take my eyes off Marguerite, wondering, wondering.

She looked back at me, straight into my eyes. “I’m not like my mother, Van. I may be her clone, but I’m nothing like her. Don’t ever forget that.”

“ENTRY IN FOUR MINUTES.”

BOOK: Venus

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