—First Officer Finn requests admittance.
“Open door!” He stared in surprise as the door slid aside and Hanna’s green eyes and freckled smile came floating up the Gut to him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, my lady?”
“We began to wonder if you’d done a bunk.”
He gave her a hand to steady her over the awkward threshold and turned the master’s chair—the only chair—to her. She accepted it as a handhold but did not sit; he crossed his legs and floated in front of her. “Not yet,” he said. “I’m an obsessive guy. Once I start doing something, I can’t stop until I’m satisfied.”
“So I’ve heard.” That was as close to a mention of sex as he had ever heard Hanna utter.
Pity, that. Hanna still inspired fantasies. Jordan, that first day, had promised him four tickets in the lottery. Two of them, Maria and Jordan when female, had proved to be all a guy could hope for. Hanna and Reese were not even also-rans. They stayed in the gate.
“As a complaint?”
She ignored the question. Hanna was a puzzle. At thirty-two subjective age, she was slightly plumper than was fashionable but very comfy to look at. This was her second voyage into the Big Nothing. Her first had been a routine and uneventful return to a known world, but the ship had encountered some time slip and she had collected eight years’ wages, which had made her independently wealthy. She was always gracious, although she had no use for stupidity. Normally she was so prim and reserved that she seemed almost stupid herself. In fact, she had a laser sense of humor, but most of her barbs would slip by unseen unless one watched for them. She was a genius at interstellar navigation, and when she said that Galactic must have cut dangerous corners to get to Cacafuego first, he believed her.
“Seth, dear, I came to remind you that the planet is still flying a warning flag. If JC insists you go downside and you obey him, Jordan and I will lose our licenses and ISLA will confiscate the Mighty Mite shares we hope to earn.”
“I would never let that happen to you!”
“Then why are you wasting all day up here? Jordan cooked dinner for us.”
Seth realized that he was starving. “What did she produce?”
“Chili con pseudo-carne, one of my favorites. I didn’t know it was on the machines’ menu.”
“Because I don’t like beans,” he admitted. “But if there’s any left, I’ll make an exception.”
She moved to block the exit and almost overshot it. “First tell me what you’re plotting!”
“I plot not, Your Firstness.” Private chats with Control did not count, and Hanna could command a replay of those if she wanted to pry. “JC was right in saying we should go in for a close look. Then we can work out what the threat is. Or let Galactic’s beacon tell us, as it should do very shortly. I’m gathering information. After that we can make our own decision.”
She stared at him suspiciously for a moment, and he sensed the penetrating academic mind she usually concealed. “You think you already know.”
He nodded. “I’ve a theory. The weather down there is Satanic. Maybe Galactic lost a few shuttles and decided the grapes were sour. If that’s all it is, then the only one at risk will be me.”
“And Reese.”
“If they want to come, yes.” Seth still did not expect heroism from the biologist.
“Be honest. What are your odds of landing safely?”
“Not bad, if we pick a calm moment. I’m working on it.”
Hanna smiled. “I know you are. Now come along. We saved some chili for you.”
He straightened his legs, but continued to float. “Wait. You’re rooming with JC just now.”
Green eyes glinted. “Platonically, of course.”
He couldn’t resist the opening: “You mean he’s impotent?”
“No, I do not! Don’t you ever think of anything else but lust?”
“I just spent ten hours without doing so, and the strain is telling. I’m told that in JC’s stateroom there is a table with a thick top but no drawer.”
She waited, studying him. “And?”
“I suspect a secret drawer. I’d like to know what’s in it.”
“You want me to spy for you?”
“Yes, please.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. What do you think he’s got in there?”
“Weapons.”
“No.” Hanna pushed out of the chair and floated over to the door. “Come to supper…”
He caught her arm. “First tell me what he does have hidden in there.”
“Porn,” she said, turning away to hide her blush. “And stiffener.”
There was plenty of chili left. Seth took the whole pot plus a spoon and went into the control room. Everyone else was there, gathered around the console table. Above their dirty dishes floated Cacafuego, ballooned to about two meters. Half lit, half dark.
He was greeted with welcoming smiles from all except Reese, who despised people who ate out of cooking pots, which was probably why Seth was doing it.
“Hanna tells us you can land on the planet!” JC boomed.
Seth nodded with his mouth full and sat down. He didn’t mention how risky it would be. Maria filled up her empty glass with red wine and pushed it over to him.
Between mouthfuls of chili he said, “What’s new?”
“It’s mid-July in the northern hemisphere,” she said. “Roughly, it is. We’re calling that side north; it’s pretty arbitrary in this system. But the axis is still pointing almost directly at the star, so the other hemisphere is in darkness.”
“Overall it’s a hot world,” Jordan said. “Permanent ice on most equatorial landmasses; a lot more ice in the southern hemisphere, but that’s seasonal. That big island near the north pole—JC’s named it Greenland—is reading more than fifty degrees Celsius in the shade.”
Reese next: “And the only shade is under trees, if there are any trees. Unending sunshine for about half the year; humidity close to a hundred percent. Oh, the biota that baby must have!”
Jordan called for a map. The globe projection became cartographic, with green, brown, or white lands in a uniform blue ocean, names in black. Clouds and the day-night distinction vanished. About a third of the southern hemisphere had not yet been visible to Golden Hind’s sensors, and remained blank. Most of the world was ocean, more than Seth would have expected—he would have to ask Maria about that. Small equatorial ice caps were starkly obvious.
Voices began arguing about landing sites, gloating over the prospect like children in a toy store. They were all assuming that the shuttle could meet its design parameters, going downside twice, visiting four sites each time. Seth knew otherwise.
He must catch some sleep before he was due on watch. He finished the last of the chili, drained the wine, and began collecting plates. When he tried to take Reese’s glass, the astrobiologist grabbed it away from him and pulled the bottle to safety too.
“This happens to be a perfect Feigned 2223 Chateau Lavoir classic Bordeaux! It cost hours of simulation. It is to be sipped and savored, not swigged like some ghastly cola.” Even Reese was rarely so bitchy. The knowledge that he might have to go downside on an allegedly killer planet must be working on his nerves.
Seth shrugged. “It all comes out of the recycler. I pissed it four days ago.” He was letting the sneers get to him, but in his case that was due to excitement, not fear. The difference was quite obvious, at least to him.
Day 404
Prospectors are the wildcatters’ heroes, but prospectors’ heroes are the first-footers, the select few who have been first to step out on a new world and stake it. I once met the legendary Gabriel Leigh Sullivan, who did that six times and lived to a ripe old age. I asked him how it felt.