As the forecasts became less erratic—they would never be truly reliable—Seth kept perfecting his plans. He could hope for a minimum stay downside of three hours, but he must allow for eight or nine as more likely. That was half a day for Cacafuego’s nineteen-hour rotation. If the weather turned nasty all bets were off, but he would die of thirst or infection before he starved. His K333 suit would protect him from heat stroke, and the climate was not as extreme at that latitude as it was at the poles.
The main reason for choosing Apple, of course, was that Galactic had chosen it, and their fleet would have had more advanced remote scanning equipment than Golden Hind did. Apple had one of the cryptic “villages” and Maria was offering fifty-fifty odds that there was a pool of open water beside the wrecked shuttle. Pools were always promising collection sites.
The team conferred and chose alternative target sites: Banana, Cherry, and Damson, all selected more because they lay along an extension of the likely flight path to Apple, than because they seemed any better. Cherry offered another of the strange “villages”. Banana and Damson lay in the lea of mountain ranges, which might provide some shelter from storms.
Seth spent hours in the prospector’s storeroom, deciding what he must take with him, adding and subtracting gadgets and equipment. Nobody bothered him there, but the choices did. How many spare breathing filters? He must take a stun gun in case he saw some small fauna that he could capture. Was taking the blazer as well worth the extra weight? In the end he decided to leave out the blazer. Golden Hind’s telescope should detect any animal life larger than a small pony and had not done so. A stun gun would stop anything smaller than that. How much drinking water? How many samples would he be able to carry?
Maria cornered him in the showers that evening while he was cleaning his teeth.
“Seth? Lover boy?”
He cocked an eyebrow at her image in the mirror, admiring the way her nipples stretching the thin fabric. She idled fingers down his bare back.
“Apart from JC,” she said, “everyone aboard is totally opposed to what you’re planning: Jordan, Hanna, Reese, and me.”
“Whittington’s cool. I promised you’ll feed her double while I’m gone.”
“Is there anything we can offer to make you change your mind?” She was wearing a come-on expression, but Maria always wore a come-on expression. She honestly didn’t know that, and never understand why men pestered her so much.
“Nothing. Not a trillion dollars.” What in space would impress Maria? “Even you can’t offer me what Cacafuego offers—fame, immortality! There will be species named after me, chemicals, minerals. And my humble contribution may lead to great scientific discoveries!”
She did not seem impressed. Her fingers slid around to his abs. “You’re such a great stud, Seth, the most exciting man I’ve ever—”
She was interrupted by an announcement from Control.
—Prospector, as requested, this is a four-hour forecast of a window of calm conditions at Site Apple. Launch window is open for next twenty-two minutes.
Seth’s heart leaped. His groin thrilled. He forgot Maria; this was better.
“Control, start loading shuttle fuel. Excuse me, love. That’s my cue.”
He was still pulling on his top when he reached the mess. Everyone else was there, having been playing a four-handed game of 3-D backgammon. Obviously they had heard the forecast, or else they had primed Control to warn them when it warned him, because they all tried to crowd around and speak at once.
“Sorry, can’t stay! Business.” He plowed through them, heading for the elevator. He was stopped at the galley door by JC’s mighty bellow:
“Prospector!”
“Sir?”
“It is traditional that the master names the shuttle.”
Recalling Reese’s sneer about barrels, Seth said, “Niagara.” He stepped through the door and was gone.
Launching a shuttle ought to be a deliberate, meticulous procedure. In this case he and Control had already done everything that could be done in advance. By the time he scrambled into his chair, Control was showing the remaining items of the checklists on the display and proceeded to read them out as they were completed or reached significant marks.
—Fuel loading, sixty percent complete.
—All hatches secured.
—Sixteen minutes left in launch window.
—Battery power ok.
—Fuel loading, seventy percent complete.
—External radiation acceptable.
—Fuel loading, eighty percent complete.
—Ten minutes left in launch window.
—Revised weather forecast: unacceptable.
That was a punch he had not seen coming. For a moment he was tongue-tied. When he found words, they came out in a croak. “What’ja mean ‘unacceptable?’”
—Torrential rain and winds above shuttle specifications are now predicted for Site Apple at estimated time of touchdown.
“How much above spec?”
—Double.
If that were a human voice, he would think it was mocking him.
“Abort launch. Unload fuel.” He was dismayed to realize that he was soaked in sweat and his heart was racing around his chest, beating on his ribs as if trying to escape. Shame on him!
“Tough one,” Jordan’s voice said from the screen. “But the stars will line up again soon.”
About four hours into Day 412, the stars did line up and Seth had to start over, running along the corridor before he was properly awake. That time the launch was aborted even before he reached the cab. He went back to bed happily, knowing that he would have a few hours’ respite now, while Golden Hind’s orbit took it out of shuttle range of Site Apple. When he awoke, the downside weather was worse than ever. Close to noon he was called again and had to abort at T minus three minutes—another hurricane winding up.
Jordan called a conference that evening.
Seth saw no smug faces around the table. They were all feeling the strain, but they all seemed sympathetic, even JC. No one suggested he give up. They knew he wouldn’t.
“You can’t keep on like this,” Jordan said. “I know you’ve got titanium nerves and antifreeze blood, but no one can take this kind of jacking around for long without losing their edge. You’ve got to have some down-time. Ten hours off every night, at least.”
He nodded. It made sense. The planet wouldn’t go away. “I’ll make that change tomorrow, if I’m still here. I’m not starting to crack yet.” He forced a grin. “But I am really getting pissed off!”
Maria said, “We’ve checked Control’s weather records, and there truly are no patterns, as the Galactic commodore said. The Coriolis forces are huge and the temperature gradients enormous. Control’s invented the Category Seven hurricane, and tracked three of them.”
Hanna took over. “The problem is that the weather cannot be predicted more than three hours in advance, at best, which isn’t long enough for your needs. Another strategy would be to launch to an unstable orbit that would take you down slowly, over two or three days. From there you could make a faster approach when the weather looked good.”