Jupiter

RETRIBUTION

The thin whine of a medical monitor woke Grant from a deep, dreamless sleep.

His first thought was, I can hear!

Opening his eyes, he saw he was in the infirmary, his bed screened off by thin plastic partitions. He ached from head to foot, but the pain that had throbbed behind his eyes for so long was gone now. His head felt clear, not even dizzy.

The memories came tumbling back, all in a rush. Climbing out of the ocean in the battered, barely functioning Zheng He. Achieving orbit. The frantic messages from the station, all displayed on his one working console screen because his hearing was still gone. Too hurt and exhausted to do more than float numbly in the bridge, Grant had engaged the ship’s automated rendezvous system to get them back to the station. It worked well enough for the controllers aboard the station to bring the ship in and dock it successfully.

They had rushed the whole crew to the infirmary. Grant remembered fuzzily Dr. Wo wheeling along beside him as a medical team hurried him through the station corridor, the director’s mouth moving in what must have been a thousand questions, but Grant unable to hear a word.

How long have I been here? he wondered. Lane, Zeb —Krebs. How are they? Did they make it? Did they survive?

Gingerly he pushed himself up to a sitting position. The bed adjusted automatically, rising to support his back. The tone of the medical monitors changed subtly.

“I can hear,” Grant said aloud. There was a faint ringing echo to his words, as if he were speaking them from inside an echoing metal pipe. “I’m alive,” he marveled, “and I can hear.”

“Me, too.”

It was Karlstad’s voice, from the other side of the partition on his left.

“Egon!” Grant shouted. “We made it!”

“Yeah. You saved our butts, Grant.”

“Me?”

“Nobody else, kid. You got us out of there all by yourself.”

“But I only—”

The crack of hard heels on the floor tiles sounded like rifles firing. Several people were approaching, walking fast, impatiently.

The screen at the foot of Grant’s bed screeched back. Ellis Beech stood there, sullen anger clear on his dark face. A younger man stood slightly behind him, sallowfaced, thin pale blond hair. Like Beech, he wore a somber gray business suit.

But Grant stared at the other person standing with Beech: Tamiko Hideshi, dressed in a midnight-black silk floor-length robe with a high mandarin collar, her round face expressionless except for the smoldering resentment radiating from her almond eyes.

“I suppose you think you’re a hero,” said Beech.

Grant blinked at him, pulling his attention away from Tamiko. Then he remembered. The final two data capsules. The pair they had fired off Zheng He while the ship was straining to break free of Jupiter’s pull and establish itself in orbit.

“No,” Grant replied, shaking his head. “I just did the job that needed to be done.”

“You betrayed us!” Hideshi snapped.

“I shared new knowledge with the rest of the human race. How can that be a betrayal?”

In those frenzied moments when he didn’t know if the ship would make it or plunge back into Jupiter in a fiery death ride, Grant had programmed the capsules to broadcast their data on the widest bandwidth possible. He had remembered Dr. Wo’s words: Then we beam the information back to Earth. To the headquarters of the International Astronautical Authority, to the scientific offices of the United Nations, to all the news networks, to every university. Simultaneously. We make our announcement so loud, so wide, that it cannot possibly be overlooked or suppressed.

That’s what Grant had done: beamed every bit of data they had collected to every available antenna on Earth.

“There are three shiploads of news media people on their way to this station,” Beech said, almost snarling his words. “Every scientist in the solar system wants to come here, to study your godless whales, to make a mockery of the truth faith, to—”

“What makes you think the Jovians are godless?” Grant interrupted.

He spoke quietly, but his words stopped Beech in midsentence.

“Don’t you think that God created them, just as He created us?” Grant asked.

Beech glowered at him, speechless.

“When we were down in that ocean, crippled and sinking, I prayed to God for help. One of those creatures lifted us on its back and carried us upward. It answered my prayer.”

“That’s blasphemy,” hissed the young man behind Beech, his voice hollow, his eyes staring at Grant.

“No,” Grant replied. “God worked through that giant Jovian creature. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

Beech pointed at Grant with a long, accusing finger. “You will say nothing about this to anyone. You will not speak to any of the news reporters. You will be held incommunicado until we decide what to do with you.”

He turned on his heel and stamped away, followed by Hideshi and the slim young man, all of them walking in military lockstep.

Grant swung his legs off the bed and pulled back the partition separating him from Karlstad. Egon was sitting up in his bed, a palmcomp and headset resting on the sheets. He looked normal, no obvious signs of injury.

“Incommunicado,” Grant said. “I guess they’re pretty upset about what I did.”

Karlstad grinned at him. “If he thinks he can keep the reporters away from you, he’s living in dreamland.”

“You think so?”

Chuckling, Karlstad nodded. “You’re going to be the news media’s darling, kid. The brilliant young scientist who saved his fellow crew members deep in the boiling sea of Jupiter. It’ll be great!”

“Fellow crew members,” Grant repeated. “What happened to them? Zeb? Lane?”

“Lainie’s okay.”

“But she collapsed.”

“They haven’t found any permanent physical trauma. They’re keeping her in the women’s ward for observation.” He tapped a knuckle against the wall behind the head of his bed.

“And Zeb?”

Karlstad’s face turned more serious. “Bleeding in his lungs. Tissue must’ve been ruptured by the pressure.”

“Is he all right?”

“They stabilized him and shipped him to Selene. He should pull through, they think.”

“And what about Krebs?”

Egon laughed again. “That old bird’s too tough to keep down. She got a concussion from slamming into the bulkhead. She’s in the women’s ward, too, but she’s already busy helping Old Woeful to write reports back to the IAA.”

“How long have we been here?” Grant wondered.

“Three days. Like Christ rising from the sepulcher, you’ve come back to consciousness three days after going under.”

Grant frowned at Karlstad’s derisive impiety.

“For what it’s worth,” Egon continued, “neither of us suffered any major trauma, aside from having our hearing temporarily blotted out.”

Grant still heard that annoying metallic ringing echo to each word Karlstad spoke. Maybe my hearing is permanently damaged, he thought. That’s not so bad, considering what might have happened.

“If we’re okay, then why are they keeping us here?”

“Two reasons. The medics want to make sure we get a complete rest. And your friend Beech wants us kept away from the rest of the station personnel.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Grant said.

“Tell that to your Mr. Beech. None of us is allowed to speak to the news media. By the time the reporters get here, Beech will probably have us shipped off the station. He wants us under wraps. Permanently.”

“But you said—”

“The reporters will find you, Grant. No matter where Beech puts you, they’ll ferret you out. Trust me, I know how they work.”

Grant sank back onto his upraised bed, thinking hard. They can’t keep the news secret. I blared it out to the whole world. But Beech and his team can punish us, all of us. He was furious with me, and he’s going to do his damnedest to prevent us from seeing the media in person. I hope Egon’s right. It’s not going to be easy for any of us, though.

He spent the rest of the day catching up on the messages that had accumulated. There were half a dozen from Marjorie and almost as many from his parents.

He stared at Marjorie’s face in the tiny screen of the palmcomp one of the nurses had lent him. She was smiling radiantly at him.

“I’m so proud of you, Grant,” Marjorie said in the headset’s earphone. “You’ve made an enormous discovery and you saved the lives of your crew…”

She’s acting as if I did it all by myself, Grant thought. He found that he didn’t mind that at all. In fact, he basked in the warmth of her smiling admiration.

“I love you, Grant darling,” his wife said. “And I miss you terribly. I hope you can come home soon. Sooner. Soonest.”

Grant adjusted the microphone of the palmcomp’s headset so close to his lips that they almost touched it, then whispered a long, rambling, heartfelt message to Marjorie, telling her how he yearned to be with her, how he would take the first vessel heading Earthward as soon as the authorities gave him permission to leave But when he tried to transmit the message, the screen glared: ACCESS TO UPLINK DENIED. NO OUTGOING MESSAGES PERMITTED.

Incommunicado. Maybe the news media would be able to get to him, once they arrived at the station, Grant thought, but probably Beech and his people will have moved us by then. It’s not going to be as easy as Egon thinks.

There were more messages, Grant found, hundreds of messages from total strangers that radiated hatred and fury at his “godless humanist blasphemy.” None of them were from people he actually knew; all strangers, most of them did not even speak their names. More than one contained a death threat. “It is the duty of God’s disciples to strike you dead,” said one particularly chilling ascetic-looking young man.

There was also a long list of incoming messages from the news media—but the messages themselves were all blanked out, censored, except for the name and affiliation of the sender.

Startled by the hate mail, smoldering at the censorship, Grant composed a long and upbeat message for his parents, keeping it totally personal, assuring them that he was fine, carefully avoiding any hint of scientific information. Still, when he commanded the palmcomp to transmit, the screen again answered: ACCESS TO UPLINK DENIED.

If I ever get back to Earth, he began to realize, it will probably be Siberia—if some Zealot fanatic doesn’t kill me first.

Karlstad seemed unworried, though, confident that the news media would find a way past the New Morality’s stone walls. Grant was not so certain. He tried to put in a call to Dr. Wo, but even that access was denied him.

I’m a prisoner here, he told himself. Egon and I are being held prisoners. But what about Zeb? Once he’s up and around at Selene he can tell everyone about what we did. Unless he dies there. Unless some Zealot gets to him in the lunar hospital.

The hours dragged by. Grant felt strong enough to get up and go back to his own quarters, but the nurse on duty told him that he was to remain in the infirmary. Grant at least got to walk the length of the ward, noticing that his and Karlstad’s were the only beds occupied. Through the window in the infirmary door he could see two hefty security guards outside in the corridor.

We’re in prison.

Sleep would not come that night. Grant lay in his bed, wide awake, wondering what would happen to him. The New Morality was deciding his fate. Ellis Beech was determining the course of his life.

He had to get away, had to break out of this trap. But how?

It was almost 6 a.m. when someone entered the still-darkened infirmary. More than one person, Grant realized, listening to their footsteps approaching his bed.

Assassins? Grant’s heart clutched in his chest. He was completely defenseless. There was no place to hide in the infirmary; he couldn’t even run away, there was only the one entrance to the ward.

It was two men, walking quietly past the empty beds, guided by the pencil-beam of a small flashlight.

“Which one?” he heard a man whisper.

A hesitation. Grant slipped out of bed, fists balled at his sides, legs trembling. Despite his fear he felt slightly ridiculous, ready to fight for his life in a flimsy knee-length, open-back hospital gown.

“Archer… here’s his bed.”

They were two security guards, in uniform. They played the beam of light along Grant’s bed, then swung it to catch him standing there.

“You’re awake. Good. Come with us.”

“Where?” Grant asked.

“Dr. Wo wants to see you.”

“Now? At this hour?”

“Now. At this hour. Come on, he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

FAREWELL

Grant threw a robe over his hospital gown and followed the two guards out into the dimly lit corridor. It was still nighttime throughout the station. “Dawn” was at seven, when the lights in all the public spaces turned up to their daytime brightness. The corridor was empty; no one else was in sight.

“This way,” said one of the guards. They were both bigger than Grant, hard with muscle, unsmiling.

“Dr. Wo’s office is down the other way,” Grant said.

“He’s not in his office. Come on.”

With growing trepidation, Grant went along with them. He couldn’t think of anything else to do. His legs felt rubbery, not entirely under his control. The biochips, he told himself. I can’t even walk well; if I tried to run I’d probably fall on my face. Besides, where could I run to? If these two are Zealot assassins, he reasoned, they would’ve killed me in my bed. And Egon, too.

Still, he didn’t feel reassured by his attempt at logic. Killers aren’t always rational, he knew.

With growing desperation he tried to think of some way out of this, some tactic to save his life. Nothing. He followed meekly, frightened but uncertain of what lay ahead, unsure of what he could do, what he should do, to save his life. This must be how the Jews felt during the Holocaust, he thought. Who can help me? Where can I run to?

At last they reached the heavy metal hatch that sealed off the aquarium. As one of the guards opened it, Grant asked the other, “Are you going to drown me?”

The guard’s granite face broke into a sardonic smile. “I thought you could breathe underwater.”

They gestured him through the hatch, then led Grant down the long row of thick windows, the lights from the fish tanks playing fitfully along the narrow passageway. The hard metal floor felt cold to Grant’s bare feet. The fish seemed to be watching, big-eyed, their mouths working silently. The dolphins glided along in their tanks, smiling as ever.

Sheena! Grant realized. They’re taking me to Sheena’s pen. She’ll tear me apart and it will look like an accident.

His mind was racing. Maybe I can get Sheena to help me. If only I could show her that I’m her friend … if only she could overlook that one time I hurt her.

Something was blocking the passageway near the gorilla’s pen. Grant saw that it was Dr. Wo in his powered chair. The guards stopped a respectful twenty meters from the station director. Grant walked the final steps alone, shakily.

Dr. Wo looked up at Grant from his chair, a strange little half smile on his lips. “Mr. Archer, the medical doctors tell me that you are fully recovered from your injuries.”

Grant nodded, awash with relief that he wasn’t about to be murdered.

“I am leaving the station tomorrow. I have been replaced as director here.”

“Leaving?” Grant blurted. “They’ve kicked you out?”

Wo actually grinned at him. “They have kicked me upstairs. It is a compromise worked out between the New Morality and the IAA. I will go to the IAA center in Zurich and assume the directorship of the entire astrobiology program.”

“But the work here … the Jovians …”

“That is for you to continue. And Dr. Muzorawa, when he returns.”

“He’ll be returning?”

“Once he has recovered, yes. I have nominated him to be my successor. Both the IAA and the various religious factions have agreed. But he will not participate in any future missions into the ocean.”

Grant thought that over for a few seconds. Zeb’s coming back. He’ll be the station director. And I’m expected to continue the studies of the Jovians.

He said slowly, “Then the New Morality hasn’t totally gutted our work.”

“How could they? The entire world is watching us now, thanks to you. Some are fearful, many are curious. You have opened a new chapter in human history, Mr. Archer.”

“Not me. I didn’t—”

“You had the presence of mind to broadcast Zheng He’s findings to the entire world. No one could keep our discoveries secret once those data capsules began singing their song.”

Grant’s legs felt too weak to hold him up. He leaned his back against the cold metal wall and slid down to a sitting position.

“The religious fanatics are very angry with you, Mr. Archer,” said Wo. “The Zealots want to kill you.”

“What good would that do them?”

“Not much, but they are furious and frustrated. An evil combination.”

Grant suddenly remembered, “They killed Irene Pascal, didn’t they?”

Wo’s expression hardened. “Dr. Pascal’s death was an accident. An inadvertent suicide.”

“No,” said Grant.

“Yes,” Wo insisted. “She took an overly large dose of amphetamines, which led to her death in the high-pressure environment aboard Zheng He. ”

“Irene didn’t take the drugs knowingly,” Grant said.

“A board of inquiry has examined the incident. They have made their decision. The case is closed.”

“It wasn’t an incident,” Grant snapped. “It was a murder!”

Wo’s voice took on a steely edge. “No, Mr. Archer. Let it rest.”

“But I know—”

“The case is closed!”

For a long moment the two men stared at each other, eyes locked. Grant could not fathom what was going on in Wo’s mind. But he knew his own thoughts: It may be over for you and your board of inquiry, he said silently, but it’s not over for me. I know Irene was murdered and I know who did it.

“The IAA has appointed Dr. Indra Chandrasekhar as interim director here.”

Grant stirred out of his inner turmoil. “Chandrasekhar? I don’t know her.”

“Your recognition is not a prerequisite for the position,” said Wo, smiling thinly.

Grant made no reply.

“She has been heading the studies of the Galilean moons. A very good leader. She comes from a long line of excellent scientists.”

“She’ll be in charge until Zeb returns?”

“Yes, and you will direct the studies of the Jovian creatures that you found in the ocean,” Wo said, his smile widening. Then he added, “Whether they are intelligent or not.”

“They’re intelligent. I’m convinced of that.”

“Good! Now all you have to do is prove it so completely that the rest of the world will believe it.”

“Including the New Morality?”

Wo laughed. “The New Morality, the Holy Disciples, the Light of Allah … even the Zealots.”

Grant nodded, accepting the challenge. The first thing I’ll have to do is go over the data we recorded. We can slow down the visual imagery so we can see the pictures the whales are flashing to each other. We’ve got to repair Zheng He or maybe build a new vessel…

Dr. Wo broke into his train of thoughts. “It will be necessary for you to remain here.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“You have earned a release from your Public Service obligation, of course. You could go back to Earth if you wish.”

“But the work is being done here.”

“Exactly. And—frankly—you are much safer here than on Earth, where some Zealot fanatic can murder you.”

There’s a Zealot fanatic here on this station, Grant thought. At least one. And I know who it is.

“Beech is keeping me incommunicado,” Grant said. “Egon and the women, too. I can’t even get a message out to my wife.”

Dr. Wo nodded knowingly. “I have seen to it that you can have the freedom of the station. You needn’t be confined to the infirmary. As for messages home…” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I’m afraid Mr. Beech has the upper hand in the communications department.”

Grant stared at the older man. It’s a struggle, he realized. A battle between Wo and Beech. Neither side has a completely free hand. And I’m caught in the middle of their power struggle.

Dr. Wo intruded on his thoughts. “Very well, then, Mr. Archer. There is one last farewell for you to make.”

“Farewell?” Grant asked.

Wo gestured toward Sheena’s darkened pen.

“Sheena’s leaving?”

“We have no further need of her. Perhaps the dolphins can be of help in your attempts to establish meaningful contact with the Jovians, but Sheena is too much like us to be of any aid in your work.”

“What’s going to happen to her?”

Wo sighed heavily. “The simplest thing to do would be to sacrifice her. Then we could dissect her brain and—”

“No!” Grant shouted.

Raising both his hands placatingly, Dr. Wo said, “I agree. It would be a criminal act. I am taking Sheena back to Earth with me, to a primate research center in Kinshasa. They are quite eager to have her, in fact.”

“She’ll be all right there?”

“She will be welcomed. They have augmented several other apes. Sheena will not be an anomaly there. If all goes well, she will be the mother of a new breed of creatures, the founder of dynasties. And another challenge to the fundamentalists.”

“By force of arms, if necessary. She is an extremely valuable entity.”

Grant felt a glow of satisfaction. “She’ll be among her own.”

“I believe so,” said Wo.

“I wish…” Grant could not finish the sentence. He swallowed hard and fought back tears, feeling embarrassed to be emotional about a gorilla.

Wo touched the keypad built into his chair’s armrest, and the overhead lights brightened to their daytime level.

“I can make the sun rise,” he said wryly. “One of the privileges of being station director.”

And Sheena wakes up with the sun, Grant remembered. He turned expectantly toward the entryway to her pen. Will she still be angry at me? he wondered.

Very gently, Wo said, “She asked to see you.”

“She did?”

“When I told her you had been injured, she became rather upset.”

Grand didn’t know what to say.

He heard her shambling out of her pen, huffing and snuffling like anyone who’d just awakened from a good night’s sleep. As he scrambled to his feet he caught a trace of the thick animal scent of her. Then Sheena appeared in the entryway, massive hairy shoulders brushing both edges of the open hatch.

“Grant,” the gorilla rasped.

“Hello, Sheena.”

She turned her eyes briefly to Dr. Wo but immediately looked back at Grant. “Grant hurt.”

“I’m all right now, Sheena. I’m fine.”

“No hurt?”

“Not anymore,” said Grant. “It’s good to see you, Sheena.”

“Sheena no hurt.”

She remembers the neural net, all right, Grant realized. But maybe she’s forgiven me for it.

The gorilla glanced at Dr. Wo again, then took a knuckle-walking step toward Grant. Grant extended his hand to her, palm up. Sheena reached out her enormous hand and touched Grant’s palm lightly.

“And Sheena is my friend,” he replied.

“Yes. Friends.”

Dr. Wo broke in, “Sheena and I are going to a new place where Sheena will make many new friends.”

The gorilla seemed to consider this for a moment, then said, “New friends. Grant, too?”

“I’m afraid not, Sheena. I’ve got to stay here for a while. Maybe later I’ll come and see you.”

“You come. See new friends. See Sheena.”

“I will,” Grant promised, hoping that he would one day be able to keep his word.

THE BEAUTY OF THY HOUSE

Surprised at how difficult it was for him to bid farewell to Sheena, Grant returned to the infirmary where he and Karlstad stood patiently for a final checkup by the little martinet who headed the medical staff. Once officially released, they dressed quickly and headed for their quarters, both of them walking awkwardly, their electrode-studded legs still feeling alien, barely under their own control.

Grant went past his own door.

Karlstad, tottering along beside him, said, “Have you forgotten where you live?” things, come to think of it”

“The only thing I want to do is get a decent meal and get the medics to shut down these damned biochips, so I can feel like a whole human being again.”

Grant nodded absently and kept on going as Karlstad stopped in front of his own door.

“And then I’m going to look up Lainie,” Karlstad called after him. “For real.”

Grant paid him no attention. Tamiko. All this time, Tamiko has been working for Beech. Really working for him, not just going through the motions the way I did. She’s a Zealot. She’s dangerous.

He went to Hideshi’s quarters and rapped on the door. It rattled slightly. Funny, Grant thought, I never noticed how flimsy these doors are.

“Who is it?” Hideshi’s voice called.

“Grant Archer.”

She slid the door back and ushered Grant into her compartment with a silent gesture. As he stepped in he saw a garment bag lying open on the bed, clothes scattered around it. The drawers of her desk hung open and empty.

“You’re leaving?” he asked.

“With Beech, yes.”

“You’re one of his agents, aren’t you?”

“That’s obvious,” Hideshi said, walking back to the bed and sitting on it, among the clothes.

“And you’re a Zealot.”

Hideshi did not answer.

“You’d kill me if Beech told you to, wouldn’t you?”

She made a sour face. “He won’t. It’d be pointless now. You’ve done your damage. No sense making a martyr out of you.”

“How could you kill a human being?” Grant asked, incredulous despite himself.

“To prepare the way for His kingdom,” she said, as if reciting from rote. “To do His work. I’m willing to give my own life, if needed.”

“But that’s not what God wants.”

“How would you know?” she sneered. “You’re on their side. You’ll all burn in hell.”

Grant went to her desk and sank into its chair. “Tami, this isn’t about religion.”

“Oh, no?”

“No,” said Grant, feeling weary, drained. “It’s politics. Don’t you see? The New Morality is using religion as a cover for its political agenda. It was never about religion. It was always politics.”

“You’re dead wrong, Grant. We’re doing God’s work. You secularists are on the side of the devil.”

“By their fruits—”

“Don’t quote Scripture at me!” Hideshi snapped. “Don’t try to convert me to your atheist ways!”

“But I’m a Believer!”

“So you say.”

It was like talking to a statue, Grant thought. Then he recalled his real reason for coming to her.

“You killed Irene Pascal, didn’t you?”

Hideshi looked surprised, almost shocked. “Me? Why would I do that?”

“To wreck the deep mission.”

She laughed at him. “Brightboy, are you ever wrong! I didn’t kill anybody.”

“Then who did?”

“Kayla.”

“Kayla! She’s one of you?”

With a satisfied smirk, Hideshi said, “Go ask her.”

Grant prowled through the station, searching. Kayla, he was telling himself. She’s one of the Zealots. The whole station must be infested with them. I’ve got to find her before she does any more damage. Before she kills someone else or tries to blow up the whole station.

The more Grant thought about it, the more he was convinced that Tamiko had told him the truth. The Panther, with her perpetual angry scowl, had been alone with Irene that last night. Kayla fed her the amphetamines that killed her.

At first he had thought it must have been Devlin. The Red Devil has access to all kinds of drugs, and he’d sold some to Irene, Grant knew. But Irene was too intelligent to take a harmful dose. She would never do that to herself. No, the overdose had to be slipped to her unknowingly, by someone she knew and trusted. Someone she loved.

Kayla Ukara. A Zealot. A fanatic. A murderer.

He searched the station for her, starting with her usual workstation in the sensor lab and combing labs and maintenance shops until at last he pushed through the doors of the mission control center.

The center was silent, dimly lit, the big wallscreens blank, the consoles dead. Except for the one at which Ukara sat, staring into one small screen, hunched over, elbows on the console keyboard, head resting in her hands, eyes locked on the single glowing screen.

Grant padded softly down the ramp that had been built to accommodate Dr. Wo’s wheelchair. He stopped when he could see, over Ukara’s shoulder, that the screen she was watching displayed a video of Irene Pascal.

“You killed her,” Grant said.

She wheeled around, shock showing clearly on her face.

“You murdered Irene.”

For an instant Grant thought she was going to leap at him, fingers curled into claws. Then she relaxed, the anger and surprise in her face faded away, and she slumped back in the little wheeled chair.

“I killed Irene,” Ukara admitted. “It wasn’t murder, but I killed her, yes.”

“You tried to wreck the deep mission,” said Grant.

Ukara shook her head. “All I wanted to do was to save Irene. I didn’t want her to go on the mission. She herself was frightened of it, terrified almost, but she was too loyal to refuse the assignment.”

“Save her?” Grant snapped. “By feeding her enough amphetamines to kill her?”

“It wasn’t a fatal dose,” Ukara replied, looking miserable now. “I didn’t know it would kill her. I just wanted her to get sick enough to be taken off the mission.”

Grant pulled up one of the other chairs and sat down next to her. “I wish I could believe that.”

“I didn’t know it would affect her so strongly in that soup they were living in. I didn’t want to kill her. I loved her.”

Grant studied her face. Ukara didn’t look like a panther now. She looked desperately unhappy, close to tears.

“But you’re a Zealot, aren’t you?” he asked.

Ukara’s eyes flashed wide. “A Zealot? One of those fanatics?” She broke into a bitter, angry laugh. “Oh, yes, certainly. A black lesbian. They have troops of us in their ranks. Whole battalions full!”

She jumped to her feet. “I killed the person I loved! Isn’t that punishment enough, without an idiot like you asking stupid questions? Dr. Wo understands what happened. Who appointed you to be the prosecutor-general around here?”

Again Grant thought she was going to strike him, but instead Ukara strode angrily out of the control center, leaving him sitting alone, stunned, with Irene Pascal’s face still framed on the single working console screen.

He sat there for a long time, thinking, remembering, replaying the hours and days and weeks. So much has happened, Grant said to himself. Everything’s changed so much. The whole world has changed.

He turned to the console and powered up its communications systems.

The screen showed one of the young men who had accompanied Beech in the infirmary. He was still dressed in a somber dark suit, clean shaven, hair neatly combed.

“I want to make a call to my wife,” he said.

The young man shook his head. “You are being held incommunicado. That means no outgoing calls. Be grateful that we allowed you out of the infirmary.”

Grant nodded curtly and cut the connection.

“Red Devlin,” he told the communications computer.

The screen remained blank for a few moments, but at last Devlin’s youthful, mustachioed face grinned back at him.

“Hey, there, Grant, what can I do for you?”

Devlin appeared to be in the kitchen area. Grant could see tall stainless-steel freezer doors behind him and the corner of what looked like an electric stove.

“I need to make an outgoing call,” Grant said, “and the powers-that-be want to keep me incommunicado.”

Devlin arched a brick-red eyebrow. “You want me to skirt around the New Morality blokes, is that it?”

“Yes. Can you do it?”

“For you, chum, damned right I’ll do it. You’re a bloody hero and those silly bastards are a major pain in the backside.”

Grant hesitated. “Uh, it’ll be a personal message. To my wife.”

Devlin nodded. “I understand. Compress it and squirt it to me on the regular phone system. I’ll send it to a pal of mine Earthside along with my usual purchasing list. He’ll shoot it off to the proper party for you.”

“Thanks, Red,” said Grant. “I owe you one.”

Laughing, Devlin replied, “Hey, you’re gonna be a big mucky-muck around here one o’ these days. I’ve gotta be on your good side, don’t I now?”

Grant kept his message to Marjorie brief. He told her he was fine, but there were some problems with the official red tape that kept him from calling her directly.

“We’ll get it all straightened out pretty quickly, I’m sure,” Grant said, thinking of the shiploads of journalists heading for the station.

“But…” He hesitated, licked his lips, then made the decision. “But I’m going to be staying here at Jupiter, at the station here, for a long time, Marjorie. I want you with me. I need you with me. Will you come out here? I know it means dropping your work with the Peacekeepers, but your two years of Public Service are almost finished anyway. Come here, please. I love you, Marjorie. I miss you terribly. Come work with me, live with me. This is where I’ve got to be, and I’ve got to have you here, too.”

Not daring to review his message, Grant data-compressed it and fired it off to Devlin.

Red will get it through to Marjorie, he told himself. It might take a day or two, but she’ll get my message.

He got up from the console and walked slowly up the ramp and out into the corridor. Then we’ll see, he thought. Will she come out here to be with me?

Grant felt confident that she would. Despite the time and distance between them, he still loved his wife. Does she still love me? Enough to come all the way out here?

Yes, he answered silently. I think she does. But even if she doesn’t, I’ve got to stay here. I’ve got to.

He walked aimlessly along the station’s main corridor. People greeted him with smiles and hellos and even pats on the back. Grant smiled and helloed and waved at them all.

And found himself at last in the station’s observation lounge. Alone, he stepped inside and softly closed the door behind him. The lounge was dark, with only tiny lights on the floor to mark where a couch and a pair of padded chairs stood. Its long windows were shuttered. Almost like a blind man, Grant went to the faintly glowing switch that activated the shutters.

They peeled back smoothly, without a sound except the muted hum of an electric motor.

Light from Jupiter’s massive globe flooded into the lounge. Grant felt the breath catch in his throat as he saw the colorful roiled clouds rushing across the face of the giant planet. There are living creatures beneath those clouds, he reminded himself. And in the ocean there are intelligent creatures.

Of that he was certain. He also realized that he was ready to spend the rest of his life trying to prove it.

So much work to do. So much to learn, to discover.

The view of Jupiter slid by as the station turned slowly and Grant saw the curve of the glowing planet give way to the blackness of infinite space. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, and then he saw the stars, thousands of stars, staring back at him.

“O Lord,” said Grant, remembering the ancient psalm, “I love the beauty of Thy house and the place where Thy glory dwelleth.”

Then he smiled. They can try to keep us incommunicado. They can try to silence us. But knowledge is more powerful than ignorance. Curiosity is more powerful than fear.

Grant laughed aloud, then turned and left the observation lounge, heading for his new tasks, his new responsibilities, ready to do God’s work.