Jupiter (16 page)

'He was, before he was elevated to the directorship. Even so, we worked together quite a lot — until…" Muzorawa hesitated.

'The accident,' Grant finished for him.

'You know about that.'

'A little.'

'A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing,' Muzorawa misquoted.

'Then I ought to get more knowledge,' said Grant.

Muzorawa didn't argue the point. Neither did he add to Grant's knowledge of the accident.

The fluid dynamics problem he faced, Grant quickly learned, was that they were trying to study conditions that had never been experienced before. With meager data, at that. Hundreds of automated probes had been sent into the unmeasured deeps of the Jovian ocean, but the data they returned was nothing more than a series of pinpricks in a sea of ignorance ten times wider than the whole Earth.

Squeezed relentlessly by Jupiter's massive gravity, the thick, turbulent Jovian atmosphere is compressed into liquid some seventy thousand kilometers below the visible cloud tops: a strange and unknown ocean, water heavily laced with ammonia and sulfur compounds. Yet the ocean's temperature is far below the Earth-normal freezing point; under Jupiter's merciless pressure, the water liquifies despite its frigid temperature. With increasing depth, though, the sea becomes increasingly warmer, heated by the energy flow from the planet's seething interior.

That ocean is at least five thousand kilometers deep, Grant saw. More than five hundred times deeper than the deepest trench in any ocean on Earth.

And that was barely scratching the surface of gigantic Jupiter. For the first time, Grant began to understand how truly immense Jupiter was. The numbers didn't even begin to tell the story; they couldn't. Jupiter was just too mind-numbingly
big
for mere numbers.

An ocean more than ten times wider than Earth and five hundred times deeper, yet it is nothing more than a thin onion-skin layer on the planet's titanic bulk. Below that ocean lies another sea, an immense brain-boggling sea of liquified molecular hydrogen almost sixty thousand kilometers deep. Nearly eight times deeper than the whole Earth's diameter!

And below
that
the pressure builds more and more, millions of times normal atmospheric pressure, compressing the hydrogen into solid metal, sending the temperature soaring to tens of thousands of degrees. There might be another ocean deep below those thousands of kilometers of metallic hydrogen, an ocean of liquid helium. On Earth, helium liquifies only a few degrees above absolute zero. Yet, deep within Jupiter's interior, helium becomes liquified despite the ferocious temperatures at the planet's core because all that incredible pressure squeezing down from above doesn't give the helium atoms room enough to turn into the gaseous state.

At the planet's very heart lies a solid rocky core, at least five times larger than Earth, seething with the appalling heat generated by the inexorable contraction of the stupendous mass of material pressing down to its center. For more than four billion years Jupiter's immense gravitational power has been squeezing the planet slowly, relentlessly, steadily, converting gravitational energy into heat, raising the temperature of that rocky core to thirty thousand degrees, spawning the heat flow that warms the planet from within. That hot, rocky core is the original protoplanet seed from the Solar System's primeval time, the nucleus around which those awesome layers of hydrogen and helium and ammonia, methane, sulfur compounds — and water - have wrapped themselves.

Jupiter's core was far beyond any physical probe. Grant had to be satisfied with equations that estimated what it must be like. But that onion-skin ocean of water, that was his domain now. He was determined to learn its secrets, to probe its depths, to resolve its mysteries. The first crewed mission had failed disastrously because they had been unprepared for the conditions to be found down there. Grant drove himself fiercely to make certain that the next human mission into Jupiter's ocean would not end the same way.

There were currents in that sea, swift vicious currents that tore through the planet-girdling ocean, ferocious jet streams racing endlessly. With the heat flowing from deep below, the Jovian ocean pulsed and throbbed in constant turbulent motion. Storms raced across its surface and roiled the sea with the energy of a million hurricanes.

Muzorawa spent very little time in the lab now; almost his every waking hour was taken by his training for the probe mission. The Sudanese physicist dropped into the fluid dynamics lab now and then, but for the most part Grant worked alone, struggling with the attempt to map out the major global jet stream patterns. At first Grant had been upset by his mentor's increasingly long absences, but as the weeks ground past, Grant realized that Zeb trusted him to do the necessary work. I'm freeing him for the deep mission, Grant told himself. If I weren't here to do this job, he wouldn't be able to prepare for the mission.

Late one afternoon Muzorawa stepped into the lab and sagged tiredly into the empty chair next to Grant.

'How goes the struggle, my friend?'

'You'd think that someone would have solved the equations of motion for turbulent flow,' Grant complained, looking up from his work.

'Ah, yes, turbulent flow.' Muzorawa flashed a gleaming smile despite his evident weariness. 'In all the centuries that physicists and mathematicians have studied turbulent flow, it still remains unresolvable.'

'It's chaotic,' Grant grumbled. 'You can't predict its behavior from one blink of an eye to the next.'

'Is that a new unit of measurement you've invented, the eyeblink?' Muzorawa chided gently.

Grant saw the weariness in Zeb's red-rimmed eyes. 'No,' he joked back, 'I think Galileo invented it.'

'If you could solve the equations of turbulent flow you could predict the weather on Earth months in advance,' Muzorawa said, stroking his bearded chin. 'That would win you a Nobel Prize, at least.'

'At least,' Grant agreed.

'Until then, you must do the best you can. We need to know as much as possible about the currents, and how they change with depth.'

'I'm working on it,' Grant said, without feeling much confidence. 'But the data points are few and far between, and the mathematics isn't much help.'

'Situation normal,' said Muzorawa, 'all fucked up.' Grant flushed with shock. He'd never heard Muzorawa use indecent language before.

'I've got to get some sleep,' Zeb said. 'Dr Wo's been driving us all very hard.' He struggled to his feet, then added, almost as an afterthought. 'And the Old Man is pushing himself harder than any of us.'

Grant got out of his chair. 'Wo's driving himself? Why?' With a weary smile, Muzorawa explained, 'He intends to lead the mission. Didn't you know?'

'You mean he's going to go with you?'

'That is his intention.'

'But he can't walk! He can't even get out of his chair.'

'Yes he can. The therapies are beginning to help him, at last. He can stand up by himself now - with braces on his legs.'

'He can't lead a mission into the ocean in that condition.'

Muzorawa started for the lab door, and Grant saw that he himself was not walking very well. With a shake of his head, the Sudanese replied, 'He claims it doesn't matter. We really don't need our legs inside the craft.'

'You won't?'

'We'll all be immersed in pressurized PFCL. It's the only way to survive the gravity pull and the pressure of a deep dive.'

'What's PFCL?' Grant asked.

'Perfluorocarbon. It carries oxygen to the lungs and removes carbon dioxide. We'll be breathing in a pressurized liquid.'

'You'll be floating, then,' Grant said.

'Correct. It's something like zero-gee. That's why we're training for the mission in the dolphin tank.'

'I didn't know.'

Muzorawa placed a finger over his lips, the sign for silence. 'Now you do, my friend.'

Grant wanted to ask Lane about the dolphin tank, but he had forced himself to stay clear of her since the evening he'd spent in her quarters. Avoid temptation, he kept telling himself sternly. He spent his evenings sending long, rambling messages back to Marjorie and re-reading hers to him.

Somewhat to his surprise, there had been no repercussions over his stained trousers. Either the guards who'd seen him that night hadn't thought enough of the incident to repeat it to anyone else, or the station's gossip-mongers didn't consider it worth their notice. Whenever he bumped into O'Hara she was cordial and polite, business-like but friendly at the same time. No mention of the brief kiss that bothered Grant so much. No personal emotions at all that he could discern.

You're making a mountain out of a molehill, Grant told himself, time and again. But he dreamed about O'Hara, despite his strenuous efforts not to. How do you
not
think about something, he demanded of himself. Take no pleasure in it, he heard the advice of his moral counselor from his teen years. If you rigorously reject any thought that's pleasurable, then there's no sin to it.

He prayed for strength to resist temptation. Yet the more he prayed, the more he thought about Lane. Neutered, she had said. The electronic biochips somehow block out the sex drive. Is that a side effect, an accident? Or did Wo make it that way on purpose?

Each message he got from Marjorie he read over and over again, like a rare treasure, like a drowning man clutching at a lifebuoy. Until…

Marjorie was sitting at a desk in some sort of office, or perhaps it was a hospital. Grant couldn't see enough of the background to tell. Besides, his attention was focused on Marjorie, on her soulful brown eyes and beautiful dark hair. She'd clipped her hair short, it framed her face in thick, luxuriant curls.

'I guess that's all the news from here in Bolivia,' she said cheerfully. 'They're sending me back home for a month's R&R. I'll take a trip to see your parents.'

Before Grant could even think about that, she added, 'Oh, and Mr Beech called to say he hasn't heard from you. He'd like you to send him a call when you get a chance.'

Ellis Beech.

'That's all for now, darling. I'll send you a 'gram when I'm at your folks' house. 'Bye! I love you!'

The display screen went blank as Grant sagged back in his chair. Beech wanted to hear from him. I'll bet he does, Grant thought. But I don't have anything to tell him.

So far, the New Morality had exerted no pressure at all on Grant; they hadn't even tried to communicate with him, until now. And all Grant could report to them was that one crewed probe into the ocean had failed disastrously and Dr Wo was readying another mission. They already know that, Grant said to himself. I've been here for months now and I don't know more than
they
knew when they sent me here.

In a way, though, he felt almost glad of that. He resented being ordered to spy on the scientists, resented being shipped out to Jupiter to suit the prying whims of a man like Beech and his unseen but powerful superiors. I've got to decide which side I'm on, Grant remembered Beech telling him. Why do there have to be opposing sides? Why can't we study Jupiter without the New Morality poking their noses into it?

Confused, miserable, Grant sat up for hours watching and re-watching all of Marjorie's messages to him. He found that he couldn't picture her face if he didn't study her videos.

Sleep just would not come. He was too upset, too resentful. His mind kept spinning the same thoughts over and over again. At last he pulled on a pair of coveralls and trudged barefoot down to the cafeteria for some hot chocolate. The place was empty, the overhead lights turned down to a dim night-time setting.

As he stood before the dispensing machine, wondering if a cup of tea wouldn't be better for him, he noticed Red Devlin making his way through the empty, shadowed tables.

'Up late, eh?' Devlin said cheerfully as he approached.

Grant nodded. 'I can't seem to get to sleep tonight.'

Devlin cocked his head to one side, like a red-crested woodpecker. Jabbing a finger toward the dispensing machine, he said, 'Nothing in there will help much, y'know.'

Grant replied, 'Maybe some hot chocolate

Devlin shook his head. 'I've got just what you need. A couple pops o' these,' he pulled a palmful of pills out of his trousers pocket, 'and you'll sleep like a baby.'

'Drugs?' Grant yelped.

With a laugh and a shake of his head, Devlin countered, 'And whattaya think chocolate is? Or caffeine?'

'They're not narcotics.'

Devlin put the pills back in his pocket. 'Against your religion, eh?'

Nodding, Grant bit back the reply he wanted to make. A man who sells narcotics is evil personified, he knew. Yet Devlin seemed only to be trying to help — in his own benighted way.

'Maybe what you really need is some stimulation,' the Red Devil mused. 'A VR program. 'I've got some real hot ones: fireballs, y'know.'

Before Grant could answer Devlin laughed and said, 'But that'd be against your religion, too, wouldn't it?'

'Yes, it would,' Grant said stiffly.

'Well, I'm afraid there's not much I can do for you, then,' Devlin said good-naturedly. 'But if you ever need me, you know where to find me.' He strolled off down the shadowy corridor, whistling a tune that Grant didn't recognize.

Dr Wo shouldn't let him stay on this station, Grant told himself. What he sells is wrong, sinful. Still, he found himself r

wondering what virtual reality sex might be like. Would it really be a sin? Maybe if he could imagine himself with Marjorie…

Grant spent almost all his waking hours in the fluid dynamics lab, doggedly working out a point-by-point map of the turbulent currents in the Jovian ocean, based on the scant data returned by the automated probes. The course work sent by the University of Cairo remained in his computer, untouched, ignored.

Late one afternoon Karlstad moseyed into the lab, a knowing, superior grin on his pallid face. Grant was alone among the humming computers and silent experimental equipment.

'You do tend to make a hermit out of yourself, don't you?' he asked, pulling up the wheeled chair next to Grant's.