“We must determine why the data uplink was aborted,” he said, trying to explain the problem. “All of Alpha’s systems seem to be functioning as designed and now we know that the uplink antenna is not physically damaged. The problem is with the central computer’s master program, I’m certain of it.”
Look for anomalies, Habib told himself even as he was speaking to Gaeta. He looked out at the other consoles; all their screens were filled with the central computer’s data flow. The control center buzzed with nervous energy now. The engineers had something to do, a task to accomplish, and they were all bending over their screens, searching for answers. Habib was certain that somewhere in the master program was a contradiction, a programming error. We’ve got to find it, he told himself.
The lean, spare man who was head of Gaeta’s team of technicians was walking purposively toward him. Von Helmholtz looked determined, humorless, like an inflexible schoolmaster or the martinet who commands a squad of elite commandos.
Gaeta’s voice came through the console’s speaker. “So why don’t you ask the fregado computer why it’s screwed up?”
Habib felt his brows shoot up. “What? What did you say?”
Before Gaeta had a chance to hear his question and reply, von Helmholtz leaned over Habib’s shoulder and said stiffly, “He has only forty-seven minutes to remain safely on the ground. After that we must extract him, bring him back to the transfer vessel.”
Habib nodded. “I understand.”
Gaeta repeated, “I said, why don’t you ask the computer why it shut down the data uplink.” He sounded irritated. Fritz stared at the speaker’s minuscule grill. Gaeta continued, “I mean, the computer’s got voice recognition circuitry, doesn’t it?”
Habib stared at von Helmholtz who, surprisingly, made a tight little smile.
“He’s no fool,” Fritz whispered.
Habib pointed to an extra chair at the next console; Fritz pulled it up and sat next to him.
“We could interrogate the central computer,” he said to Gaeta, “but the questioning would have to go through you. You are linked to the computer; our connection is indirect, through you.”
“Is that the best you can do?” von Helmholtz asked.
Shrugging, Habib replied, “We expected that once we had reestablished contact with the central computer we could analyze its responses.”
“And Manuel would leave the communications gear plugged in to the comm port after he left, is that it?”
“Yes, but if we can interrogate the master program directly, there’s a voice subroutine built into it. We might be able to get to the heart of the problem before he has to leave.”
Gaeta’s voice came back. “Okay, you tell me what to ask the computer. I’ll be your dueña.”
“Dueña?” Habib felt puzzled.
“Go-between,” said von Helmholtz. “Translator. He’s using the term quite loosely.”
Nodding, Habib said into his console microphone, “Good. We’ll send you the questions that we want to ask the computer.”
“This isn’t going to be easy,” von Helmholtz said. “And you have less than forty-six minutes for the task.”
But Habib felt buoyant. We can access the master program’s self-diagnostic routine, he thought. Perhaps we can solve this problem in less than forty-six minutes.
Timoshenko, meanwhile, was pulling on his hard suit. He had thought about sending a final message to Katrina, something like Cyrano de Bergerac’s, “Farewell, Roxanne, for today I die.” But then he thought better of it. Too melodramatic. Why burden her with it? They probably won’t even tell her I’m dead.
Then he realized, Of course she’ll know. When the news reaches Earth that the entire habitat was killed off, she’ll know I’m dead.
Maybe Katrina will cry for me, he thought. That’s the most I can hope for now.
28 May 2096: Contact
Sitting spraddle-legged on Alpha’s roof, Gaeta counted the seconds until Habib’s reply. In the distance he saw the black snowstorm approaching, a wall of inky darkness. He pulled both his arms inside the suit’s chest cavity again and flicked through his life-support diagnostics. Everything okay, he saw. No malfs. Got more’n six hours of air and water, with recycling.
The yellow light of his comm system’s alternate frequency began blinking for attention. Gaeta said, “Freak two,” and Berkowitz’s voice came through his earphones. “Can you give us some first-hand impressions of Titan?” Gaeta could almost hear the man’s perpetual smile in the tone of his voice.
What the hell, he thought. I got nothing better to do until the geniuses in the control center start sending me the questions they want to ask.
“Okay,” he said, looking out toward the horizon again. “The first impression you get down here on the surface of Titan is gloom and darkness. This place looks like a midwinter day in northern Manitoba. Only colder, a lot colder. Clouds cover the sky. No sign of the Sun or even Saturn. Which is a shame, ’cause the planet and those rings would be a spectacular sight from here.”
“Any signs of life?” Berkowitz asked, and Gaeta realized the man must have asked his question even before he himself had started talking.
“The life-forms here are microscopic, like bacteria or amoebas. They live in the ground at temperatures close to two hundred below zero. Just ahead of the rover’s front end, the ground seems to be covered by some black goo. Looks like tar or maybe oil that’s thickened by the cold. Seems to extend all the way out past the horizon.”
Habib’s voice broke in on the first channel. “We have a list of questions for you. With the communications lag, we decided to send a set of questions instead of sending one at a time. I’m sending the list to you via your data link. The questions are arranged in a logical sequence. They’re rather rough, but we’re working on refining them.”
“Okay,” Gaeta said, glancing at the communications panel built into the suit’s chest wall. The yellow INCOMING light was flickering furiously. He manually clicked off Berkowitz’s frequency. No time for PR fluff now, he said to himself. There’s work to be done.
Urbain sat slumped at his desk, his arm throbbing, his face sheened with perspiration. I should go back to the control center, he told himself. I am their leader, I should be I charge.
But he didn’t have the strength to get out of his swivel chair. Habib is conducting the mission; this is his domain, Urbain thought. Let him handle it. I can monitor the control center from here. No need to show myself. No need to let them all see how much this means to me, how much pain I am suffering.
This is my entire life, he reflected. If they cannot bring Alpha back online my career, my entire life, is finished.
He licked his parched lips and wished it didn’t hurt so much.
Standing in the cramped bridge of the transfer craft, Pancho listened to the chatter between Gaeta and Habib.
“They’re gonna try to talk to the rover’s main computer,” she said to Wanamaker, who stood beside her slightly hunched over, his arms floating weightlessly in the semifetal crouch typical of zero g. Pancho realized she too was making a pretty good imitation of an ape-woman.
“Call coming in,” Wanamaker said, pointing to the comm panel.
Pancho clicked the incoming frequency. Holly’s face filled the panel’s small screen. She looked eager, excited.
“Panch,” Holly said without preamble, “how’d you like to go comet hunting?”
Before Pancho could reply, Holly went on, “We don’t need to mine the rings! We can get water from comets and sell it! I’ve been talking it over with Doug Stavenger at Selene and he thinks it’s a good idea. You could start an operation that’ll sell water all across the system, from Mercury to Saturn and back again!”