Titan

28 May 2096: Death

Geata wiped at his visor again; his glove left a black smear acoss the glassteel. C’mon Fritz, he urged silently. I’m leakin’ air down here. His life-support displays were all in the red now.

“Air supply critical,” came the suit’s computer voice. “At present loss rate, air supply will be exhausted in twelve minutes.”

There’s air in the suit, Gaeta told himself. Suit’s full of air. Even if the tank goes dry I can last another ten-fifteen minutes on the air inside the suit before I use up all the oxygen in it.

He peered out into the swirling dark flakes. The return pod’s out there, off to my right somewhere. Seventy-two meters away. I could throw a football that far, almost. It’s covered with this black crap by now, but if I get close enough I’ll see it sticking up like a fat phone booth.

“The escape pod is thirty-four degrees from your position,” Fritz said, his voice brittle with tension. “If you are facing the rear of the lander the pod is on your right in the two o’clock direction.”

“Two o’clock, copy.” Gaeta knew there were ladders built into both sides of Alpha. He got down onto his knees again, servos groaning, and looked up and down the lander’s flat metal flank.

“I see the rungs. Starting for the ladder.” It was easier to crawl. “Got the ladder. I’m going down now.”

Wondering how much the audience could see in this black blizzard, Gaeta felt his way cautiously down the metal rungs.

“I’m on the ground now,” he said, turning around. Then it hit him. “I’m standing on the surface of Titan!” he exulted. “My boots are on the methane snow!”

Fritz must have already been speaking to him, because his voice came through immediately: “ … on the ground with your back to the lander, the escape pod is seventy-two meters from you. Your heading should now be ten o’clock.”

“Gotcha,” Gaeta replied. He started walking. “Ground’s kinda mushy, like slogging through wet snow, maybe ankle deep. Not easy going.”

“Air supply critical,” the computer reminded calmly. “At present loss rate, air supply will be exhausted in ten minutes.”

Cardenas stood frozen behind Fritz’s seated form. Ten minutes’ worth of air! Manny’s going to die down there!

As if he could hear her thoughts, von Helmholtz turned in his wheeled chair and looked up at her. “He’ll make it,” he said flatly. “There’s enough air inside the suit itself for him to make the rendezvous in orbit.”

“You’re sure?” She could feel her pulse machine-gunning through her chest.

Fritz pointed at the display screen. “The numbers show that he’ll make it.” But she noticed that his extended finger was trembling. And then he added, “If he doesn’t stumble into any obstacles before he gets to the escape pod.”

Timoshenko floated serenely at the end of the tether that connected him to the airlock. Saturn sank behind the habitat’s dark bulk, a spectacular sight with its saffron clouds and glittering rings disappearing behind the knife edge of Goddard’s flank.

I can’t kill them, Timoshenko told himself. I’m not a murderer. Eberly, yes. I’d throttle him with my bare hands if I could. He deserves it, the lying bastard. But not the others. Not ten thousand people. I can’t.

Then what can you do, idiot? snarled a savage voice in his head. Here you are hanging onto the end of a rope and thinking about life and death. Whose life? Whose death?

Gaeta slogged across the mushy ground, his boots sinking into the black mud. With each squelching step he had to pull his feet out of the mire; the boots came loose with an obscene sucking sound.

“Air supply critical,” the computer chanted. “At present loss rate, air supply will be exhausted in seven minutes.”

“You are within fifty meters of the escape pod,” Fritz said. “Can you see it?”

“Can’t see much in this muck,” Gaeta answered, staring out ahead. He saw a tall, bulky shape sticking up out of the black ooze. “Hey, yeah, I see it!”

It was impossible to run in the goo, but Gaeta redoubled his efforts. His visor seemed clearer, and the darkness around him was lifting somewhat.

“The snow’s changing to rain,” he said, puffing as he worked his way toward the return pod. “Must be a warm front comin’ through.” He laughed at his own joke: warm on Titan would mean anything higher than a hundred seventy-five below.

Fat drops splattered against his visor and he could hear them pattering against his suit’s outer shell.

“The rain consists of a mixture of ethane and water droplets,” said Fritz.

“Makes it easier to see,” Gaeta replied, “but it’s turning the ground into real soup. Tough going.”

“Air supply critical,” the computer said again. “At present loss rate—”

Gaeta cut off the voice. I don’t need to be reminded, he said to himself. Aloud, he asked, “Hey, is that monster back there uplinking the sensor data?”

More than twelve seconds’ wait. Then Habib’s voice came on. “Yes! The data is streaming in. It’s wonderful! How did you get the computer to do it?”

Gaeta was puffing with the exertion of slogging through the sticky, clinging mud. “My father,” he said.

Christ, he thought as he plodded ahead, I wanted to be the first man on Titan but I wanted to be able to get back home, too. The way this mud’s sucking me down, looks like Titan wants me to stay here.

“Your father?”

“Yeah …” Another step. “When we were kids … and we asked him for something … he didn’t have the money for … he would tell us he’d get it … . But he never would.”

Another squelching stride into the gooey mud.

“What’s that got to do with getting the computer back on line?”

“He lied to us,” Gaeta explained. “He’d lie … with a smile … and we’d believe him … . Suckered us … every time.”

He could see the return pod clearly now. The rain was washing that black snow off it.

“So I lied … to the computer … . Told it … what it wanted … to hear.”

Gaeta’s legs felt like lengths of lumber. He reached the return pod, half collapsed against it.

“Works … every time,” he panted. “Dumb computer … thinks I’m honest.”

A sledgehammer blow to his shoulder knocked him off his feet. “Gesoo!” Gaeta yelped. “That damned laser’s shooting at me!”

Timoshenko realized he’d been out in the space suit for nearly an hour. Doing what? he asked himself. What have you accomplished out here?

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmured. “Thinking. It’s good for a man to think. Think before you act.”

There is only one life you have the right to take, he decided. Your own.

He tossed away the remote controller that he’d been holding in his gloved hand. It went spinning off into the infinity of space. I’m not a mass murderer. I’m not a murderer at all. But suicide, that’s a different matter. That’s between nobody but me and myself.

He touched the safety catch that sealed his helmet to the torso of the hard suit. Open the catch, let out the air, and you’ll decompress in seconds. A bloody mess, but you’ll be dead. No more worries, no more regrets. Nothing but peace.

He fingered the catch. No more anything, he thought. Are you ready for that? Are you ready for death?

He was surprised to realize that he wasn’t. Despite everything, despite losing Katrina and his life on Earth, he was not ready to die. Damn Eberly! he snarled inwardly. He’s right! This habitat may be a prison but it’s a soft one. Life here can be good if you’ll just open your heart to it.

Life or death.

Can you build a life for yourself without Katrina? he asked himself. And answered, What have you been doing for the past two and a half years?

He looked out at the stars again, his back to Saturn and the habitat’s dark bulk. The stars stared back at him, unblinking, uncompromising. You can look Death in the face, he said to himself, but that’s close enough. Close enough. Life is too precious to throw away.

With a sigh he turned and began to pull himself along the buckyball tether back to the airlock.

The answer is life, Timoshenko realized. Choose life. You can always kill yourself if things get really intolerable. In the meantime, maybe I can make something of myself here. Maybe life can be worth living, after all.

Negroponte knocked softly on Urbain’s office door. When no one answered she rapped harder.

So much to tell him, she thought. But he’s so wrapped up with his Titan Alpha that nothing else matters to him.

Still no response.

“Dr. Urbain,” she called. “It’s Dr. Negroponte. I must speak to you. We’ve made an enormous discovery.”

Silence. She felt resentment simmering inside her. The pompous fool, she said to herself. So focused on that precious probe of his he doesn’t care if hell freezes over.

Angrily she slid the door open and strode into Urbain’s office. He sat slumped over his desk, his head in his arms, quite dead.