Titan

21 March 2096: Midnight

Urbain had lost track of how many times he’d walked between his own office and the mission control center that night. The biologists had settled themselves around the little oval conference table in his office, still throwing out theories about what smoothed Alpha’s tracks and what observations they needed to decide which theory was correct. If any. The engineers in the control center were doggedly tracing those ghost tracks and looking for fresh ones.

As Urbain returned to the dimly lit control center once again, half a dozen of the engineers were gathered around the coffee urn, arguing intently:

“We’ve covered the whole damned surface and no trace of her. The frigging junk heap must’ve sunk into one of the seas.”

“Or maybe that smaller lake. Tracks went right up to it.”

“And out again.”

“How can you tell if some of the tracks were outbound from the lake?”

“Too many tracks to be all one way. Besides—”

“Besides, bullshit! We’ve got five-meter resolution imagery. And stereoscopics. We’ve covered the whole fucking surface of Titan. Nothing! Nothing but tracks and ghosts of tracks.”

Urbain realized for the first time that his team of engineers were feeling just as frustrated and angry as he himself. They’re close to cracking, he told himself. I must do something to lift their spirits. But what?

One of the women said, “It’s a big world down there. Even with three-dimensional imagery we could miss the beast. We need to keep hunting.”

“Til we trip over our long, gray beards, huh?”

“What else can we do?”

“Go back home. Admit the damned thing’s lost and go back to Earth. We’re not exiles, we’re volunteers. We can go back whenever we want to.”

“Whenever there’s a ship to take us back.”

“You mean whenever somebody’s willing to foot the bill to carry us back.”

“The ICU has to take us back! We didn’t sign on for a permanent appointment all the way the hell out here!”

Urbain cleared his throat noisily and they all looked up.

“Any progress?” he asked pointedly.

No one bothered to answer him. They drifted back to their consoles, sullenly, Urbain thought. Like unhappy schoolchildren who would rather be somewhere else, anywhere except here.

“I know this is frustrating,” he said, loudly enough for everyone in the control center to hear him. Before anyone could reply he added, “But the search for Alpha must continue. Already the biologists have made an important discovery.”

“Already,” someone muttered acidly.

“Alpha is down there, and she needs our help. We must—”

One of the men at the consoles sang out, “Got something here! Looks like fresh tracks.”

Urbain rushed to his console and peered over the engineer’s shoulder at his central display screen. Across the spongy landscape he could see the sharp, deep imprint of a double row of cleat tracks.

“Follow them!” he shouted. “Follow them!”

The landscape shifted. The tracks continued, clear and straight. Suddenly the display went blank.

“What happened? Urbain demanded.

Without looking up from his screens the engineer replied, “Reached the limit of that satellite’s range of vision. Switching to another …”

“Quickly!” Urbain hissed, breathless. “Vite, vite!”

Other engineers were gathering around behind him. Urbain felt their body heat, smelled the scents of their colognes and aftershaves and perspiration. But he kept his eyes riveted to the blank display screen.

It lit up and Urbain could hear a gush of excitement behind him. The view was much wider than it had been a moment ago.

“Tightening the focus,” the engineer murmured. “This is all real-time, you realize.”

“Yes, yes,” Urbain snapped impatiently. “Focus on the tracks.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” the engineer replied testily.

“Use the autofocus,” a voice behind Urbain suggested.

“What the hell d’you think I’m doing?” the engineer growled.

The double row of tracks took form on the screen. Urbain heard the others sigh.

“Follow them!” he urged.

The landscape shifted; the tracks blurred and then came into sharp focus again. Urbain could feel his heart thundering against his ribs. His mouth was dry.

“And there she is,” the engineer said.

Urbain stared. Titan Alpha sat on the ice, unmoving but apparently intact. Then the view on the screen blurred.

Urbain realized that he had tears in his eyes.

When Ramanujan had reported to Eberly about Holly’s afternoon rally, Eberly’s first reaction was, “A petition drive? Do you know how many signatures she will need?”

“Sixty-seven hundred, she said,” Ramanujan had replied.

“Six thousand, six hundred and sixty-seven, actually,” Eberly said.

Ramanujan dipped his chin in acknowledgement of his boss’s superior knowledge. He was taller than most of the Hindus that Eberly had known, but painfully thin; Ramanujan’s face looked like a skull with emaciated dark skin stretched tightly across it.

“She’ll never get that many signatures,” Eberly had said, dismissing the problem—and his assistant—with a wave of his hand.

But as the afternoon wore into evening Eberly found himself worrying more and more about it. He ate dinner alone in his apartment, brooding over the possibilities. After dinner he watched Holly’s panel discussion on the news channel.

She can’t possibly get sixty-seven hundred signatures, Eberly told himself. Even if she got every woman in the habitat to sign the stupid petition she’d still need two thousand men to sign it, too.

Impossible.

And yet …

Eberly sank back in his favorite recliner and thought about the problem for long hours. Well past midnight he was still wide awake, pondering the possibilities.

I need a woman to rise up in opposition to her, he realized. I need a woman who’ll not only refuse to sign the silly petition but who’ll campaign actively against it. She doesn’t have to openly support my candidacy. In fact, it’d be better if she didn’t; she shouldn’t have any visible ties to me. She should just oppose the petition because the idea behind it is wrong.

A woman who’d oppose breaking the ZPG protocol. Who? Who would stand up against most of the other women in the habitat?

The answer came to him with the clarity of a church bell on a calm summer evening: Jeanmarie Urbain. Her and her clumsy attempt to seduce me into releasing those satellites for her husband. If she believed that allowing population growth would endanger the scientific work her husband’s doing, she’d oppose Holly’s petition. She’d not only refuse to sign it, she’d campaign against it.

Good, he told himself. I’ll have to see her and explain the situation to her. Put it in terms that she’ll understand: population growth will eat up the habitat’s resources and we’ll no longer be able to support the scientific research that her husband’s leading. She’ll go for that. If she doesn’t, I’ll remind her of our little tryst a couple of months ago. I’ll scare her into working for me, if I have to.

But it won’t come to that. She’ll do it for her husband.

“Good,” he repeated aloud.

Suddenly a new conception flashed into his mind like a starburst. An entire plan for the campaign, a strategy that could not possibly fail. No matter what Holly does, no matter what she stands for, this will beat her. Like those ancient oriental martial arts, I’ll use her own strengths to defeat her. It’s perfect! I’ll lead her into the trap and when we have one of our big debates I’ll spring it on her.

There’s no way she can outmaneuver me, Eberly said to himself. I’ll sweep her and anyone who’s supporting her entirely out of my way!

Perfect.