Now he basked in the attention of the solar system’s most important scientists as his creation, his offspring, his dream come true—Titan Alpha—began to send data from its sensors on the frozen surface of Titan.
Urbain held his breath. The jam-packed control center went eerily silent.
The wall screen lit up to show: SYSTEMS ACTIVATION.
Deep inside Titan Alpha’s armored hide, its central computer began to receive commands through its downlink antenna.
Command: Systems activation.
Communications downlink confirmed. Code accepted. Systems activation procedures initiated.
Main power on.
Auxiliary power standing by.
Central computer self-checking. Self-check completed. Central computer functional.
Command: Check structural integrity.
Initiating structural integrity check. Outer shell intact. Structural members intact. No deformities beyond allowable limits. interior compartments intact and pressurized.
Command: Test propulsion system.
Propulsion system test initiated. Reactor within nominal limits. Main engine within nominal limits. Drive wheels functional but not engaged. Plates four-fourteen through four-twenty-two of left forward tread slightly deformed but within operational limits.
Command: Retract descent parachute shroud.
Descent parachute shroud retracted.
Command: Retract descent retro rocket pod.
Descent retro rocket pod retracted.
Command: Activate sensors.
Sensors activated.
Command: Uplink sensor data.
UPLINK SENSOR DATA.
Except for those bright yellow block letters the main wall screen in the command center remained blank. Several seconds ticked by. Urbain felt perspiration break out on his brow. Wexler, the ICU president, stirred uneasily. Muttering broke out in the crowd behind Urbain’s back. He even heard a hurtful snicker.
A full minute passed.
“We should be receiving data,” Urbain said in a deathly whisper.
Wexler said nothing.
“Is it workin’?” a woman asked loudly. Pancho Lane, Urbain realized.
DATA UPLINK ABORTED.
Urbain stared at the words, hard and bright on the dark blue background of the wall screen. My death sentence, he said to himself. It would have been kinder to take a pistol and shoot me through my head.
25 December 2095: Christmas dinner
You mean nothing came through?” Kris Cardenas asked.
“Not a damn thing,” said Pancho. “The probe went silent soon’s they ordered the data uplink.”
This Christmas dinner in the habitat’s quiet little Bistro restaurant had been intended as a reunion. Pancho hadn’t seen Cardenas in nearly five years.
Holly had brought her friend, a silent, morose-looking young man named Raoul Tavalera. With his long, horsy face and mistrustful brown eyes he reminded Pancho of Eeyore, from the old Winnie-the-Pooh vids. Tavalera said very little; he just sat beside Holly looking sad, sullen, worried. It’s Christmas, Pancho scolded him silently. Lighten up, for cripes’ sake. But Holly seemed quite happy with the lug. No accounting for taste, Pancho thought. Maybe he’s good in bed.
Wanamaker sat beside Pancho, while Cardenas had brought a hunky guy wearing faded jeans and a mesh shirt that showed off his pecs nicely. She introduced him as Manuel Gaeta.
“The stunt guy?” Pancho had asked, recognizing his rugged, slightly beat up face.
“Retired stunt guy,” Gaeta had replied with an easy smile.
“You flew through the rings of Saturn,” said Wanamaker in his deep gravelly voice, “without a spacecraft.”
“I was wearing a suit. A pretty special suit.”
“The ice creatures that live in the rings almost killed Manny,” Cardenas said. “At one point he was totally encased in ice.”
“So you’re the one who really discovered the ice bugs,” Pancho said, reaching for her wine. “How come they gave the credit to that woman?”
“She’s a scientist,” Gaeta replied easily. “I’m just a stunt stud.”
The three couples were sitting at one of the Bistro’s outdoor tables, on the grass. The restaurant’s special holiday menu featured faux turkey, faux goose, and faux ham—all derived from the genetically modified protein that the biolab produced. The vegetables, sauces, and desserts were fresh from the habitat’s farms, however.
As they relaxed over a bottle of local Chablis, Pancho leaned back in her yielding plastic chair and admired the view. Everything’s so damned clean and tidy: the grass is manicured and the trees prob‘ly drop their leaves in neat little piles so you can vacuum ’em-up one-two-three. And instead of sky overhead there’s more land! Clean little whitewashed villages and roads in-between ’em. She could see the lights marking the paths like stars as the big solar windows shut down for the night. You can have an outdoor restaurant here without ever worryin’ about rain, she said to herself. They don’t even use sprinklers for the grass; underground drip hoses instead.
Wanamaker, looking overdressed compared to Gaeta and Tavalera in a neatly pressed short-sleeved shirt and dark blue slacks, mused aloud, “I wonder if the Titan probe touched down in one of the methane seas and just sank to the bottom.”
“That’s a navy man talkin’,” Holly joked.
Pancho said, “They know where it landed. It’s on solid ground. The dingus sent telemetry confirming its landing and checked out all its internal systems. Then it shut itself down; won’t talk to Urbain’s people. Not a peep all day.”
“Poor Urbain,” Cardenas said. “He must be going crazy.”
Jeanmarie Urbain stared at her husband. She had never seen him like this. Ever since returning from the control center he had paced about their apartment, his face dark as a thundercloud, his eyes sullen, accusing. He cancelled the Christmas dinner that had been scheduled with Wexler and the other visiting notables. When she asked him what had gone wrong, all he did was snap at her.
This was not the Eduoard she knew, not the patient, gentle man who had spent his life watching others climb past him, not the man who was content to allow younger scientists to advance while he stayed in place, who timidly acceded to the directives and procedures of the university hierarchies. I have misjudged him all these years, Jeanmarie realized. He was not being timid; he just didn’t care. As long as he was allowed to pursue his own research interests, none of the politics mattered to him one iota. Even when I nagged him to seek advancement, he shrugged it off as if it meant nothing to him.
Jeanmarie had refused to go with him on this five-year mission to Saturn. It was the final blow. He had no self-respect, she felt, and no appreciation for her feelings. He was being sent into oblivion, a second-rate scientist assigned to obscurity in the farthest reaches of the solar system. She was still young, desirable. Some called her vivacious. Even among the sharp-clawed faculty wives she was considered attractive. Too bad Jeanmarie’s burdened with that husband of hers, she had overheard more than once. She could do much better.
But he had unexpectedly returned from Saturn full of fire and confidence. One of his scientists had made an important discovery, which made him an important person. He dined with the head of the International Consortium of Universities; he was invited to lecture at the Sorbonne. He stayed on Earth only long enough to accept acclaim for the discovery of the ice creatures in Saturn’s rings and to reveal his plans for exploring Titan with the robotic vehicle he had built. And to sweep Jeanmarie back into his life. She realized that she loved him, that she had put up with his failings and lack of drive all those years because she truly loved him. When he returned to the habitat orbiting Saturn she was at his side.