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.”