Raven saw that Tómas was not happy, but he didn’t object to Waxman’s decision.
DOGWORK
Raven spent the next week and a half staring at the desktop computer screen in Tómas’s living room. She had asked the computer to review the logs of all the missions sent into Uranus’s ocean and highlight any mention of jettisoning anything from one of the subs.
Nothing. As far as the computer records showed, each submarine mission into the ocean refrained from throwing anything overboard. Even the waste gases from the propulsion systems were kept inside each submarine until it surfaced and rejoined the orbiting spacecraft it had been launched from.
As far as the submarines’ logs were concerned, Uranus’s ocean was as pristine and unbefouled as it had been the day humans from Earth first reached the planet.
Gomez sat beside Raven for long hours, but instead of staring endlessly at the computer screen as Raven did, he spent most of his time holding his personal computer to his lips and whispering into the machine.
Late one afternoon, Raven pushed herself back from the desk they were using and got slowly to her feet. She could feel tendons popping along her spine as she stretched.
“I feel like I’m turning to stone,” she muttered.
Gomez, sitting beside her chair, didn’t respond. He was intent on his PDA, whispering to the computer like a lover murmuring into his darling’s ear.
Raven shook her head at his intense concentration.
Leaning slightly toward him, she said loudly, “I’m going to the cafeteria for a few minutes, Tómas. Can I bring you something?”
He jerked erect and looked up at her. “Huh? Oh, nothing. I’m okay.”
Curiosity getting the better of her, Raven asked, “What are you doing?”
He held his PDA in one upraised hand. “Checking on the varieties of steel each of the submersibles was made of.”
“Each submersible?”
“All those that were sent into the ocean. And their consumables, too.”
“Must be a long list.”
“Yeah. But so far, none of the steels they carried had the exact same composition as our sample.”
Raven sat down again, next to him. “None of them?”
“That scrap of steel we found didn’t come from any of our submarines,” Gomez said firmly. “It’s a local product, made by inhabitants of Uranus.”
Evan Waxman was sitting before Reverend Umber’s handsome desk.
“They’re going to send a shipload of investigators here, Kyle,” Waxman said.
Umber’s brows knit slightly. “Investigators?”
“Scientists.”
“Oh.”
“Gomez’s discovery has stirred up the scientific establishment back on Earth.”
“I see. Understandable. If Uranus was once populated by intelligent creatures, naturally our scientists would be interested. Aren’t you?”
Waxman hesitated a moment before answering, “I’m just concerned about how it might affect our operations here.”
“I’m sure we could continue as we have been. How many people are they sending?”
“A couple of dozen, I believe, to start with. If Gomez’s suppositions turn out to be correct, there’ll be hundreds more.”
“Could we house them on Haven II?”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps we could. Or we could ask them to remain on the ship that’s carrying them here. Keep them completely separated from our people.”
Umber’s round face puckered into a frown. “That wouldn’t be very hospitable, would it?”
“No, I suppose not. But do you really want them mingling with our people?”
“Why not?”
Waxman suppressed an annoyed sigh. Patiently, he explained, “Kyle, most of our people are very lower class—”
“We have no class distinctions here!”
“I know, but, well—our people are mostly uneducated, lower class. They’re refugees, for God’s sake!”
“We’re educating them,” Umber insisted. “We’re training them. We’re creating a new society for them.”
“Yes, I know. But how would they mix with a group of astronomers… scientists, PhDs, highly educated men and women.”
Strangely, Umber’s roundish face eased into a quizzical little smile. “Think of this as a test, Evan. It will be interesting to see how your educated scientists interact with our unwashed masses.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“God works in mysterious ways.”
Waxman shook his head slowly. “This is going to cause problems, Kyle.”
“Of course,” Umber replied, his smile unwavering. “And problems arise to be solved.”
Pigheaded idiot! Waxman said to himself. But as he said it, he made a smile for Reverend Umber and got up from his chair.
“I think it’s a mistake, Kyle. But if this is what you want…” He shrugged and turned toward the door.
Umber watched him leave, then turned to the small frame hanging on the wall behind his desk. He had to squint to make out the faded words printed over the photo of the statue:
His eyes misted over as Umber whispered to himself, “I lift my lamp beside the golden door. That’s a calling worth a man’s life.”
RECEPTION CENTER
Tómas Gomez stood in Haven’s main reception center, his innards twisting and throbbing uncontrollably. In a few minutes, he knew, he would be greeting the team of astronomers arriving from Earth.
He had spent the night in his darkened bedroom studying their resumés on his handheld computer. Fourteen men and women with impressive curricula vitae; not the top people in their fields, but eager young up-and-comers who had flown to Uranus to evaluate Gomez’s discovery.
To pick it apart, Tómas told himself. To tell me I’m wrong, I’m dreaming, I’m trying to make a mountain out of less than a molehill.
We’ll see, he said to himself as he stood waiting in the reception center, unconsciously drawing himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders like a soldier facing a firing squad. I’ve got the evidence, let them try to deny that!
Tómas’s eyes were fixed on the hatch where the new arrivals would enter the habitat. Fourteen of them. And their leader, Professor Gordon Abbott, chairman of the Astronomical Association’s planetary studies committee. Big brass. His fourteen associates might be small potatoes, but Abbott is a major force in the Association. He’s the one I’ve got to convince, Gomez told himself.
At last the hatch swung inward and the team of astronomers entered the reception center, Gordon Abbott at their head. The team members were youngish, not much more than Tómas’s own age, he figured. Their heads swiveled as they took their first look at the habitat’s interior.
Gordon Abbott did not waste his time ogling.
My god! Gomez said to himself. He looks like a general out of some old army campaign.
Abbott was a big man, close to two meters tall, broad in the shoulders and thick in the waist. The creases on his light tan trousers and loose-hanging safari shirt looked razor sharp. Silver-gray hair shaved down to a buzz cut. Bushy moustache drooping past the corners of his mouth. He strode into the reception area as if he were marching at the head of a parade. Gomez thought, all he needs is a swagger stick.