Phytosphere

“Gerry,” said the mayor, “the decision’s yours. You’re the head of this thing. If you think we should pull out… I mean, if you think you and your brother will be working at… cross-purposes…”

“I can understand some of what he’s saying. They might use an agent against the shroud, but then we might go ahead and use a different agent, and the two might cancel out, or combine in some unexpected and dangerous way. But until we know exactly where Neil’s research is going—until the NSF communicates that to us—I think it would be foolhardy to stand down. As for this thing about my qualifications… I haven’t been a complete failure. I’ve had some small successes in oceanic research. I’m recognized as North Carolina’s number-one hydrographer. And I’ve always believed in myself as a scientist.” He motioned at the waferscreen. “No matter what anybody else says.”

“If that’s your decision,” said the mayor, his brow rising.

“I just don’t think we should stop when all we’ve got is a bunch of ifs, maybes, and mights. I believe we should go ahead and see what we can find out about this damn thing. At least for the next little while.”

The way to go was small. Gerry knew no other way. But as he rode the sky elevator to AviOrbit’s launch platform, he couldn’t help noting the misgivings on the mayor’s face. Mitchell Bennett, of AviOrbit, kept staring down at the Moon—which was now forty miles below—as if he, too, were embarrassed by the Smallmouth. Gerry inspected the probe one more time, and now he also had his doubts.

About three times the size of a bleach bottle, and roughly the same shape, its outer shell was matte black

and composed of the most advanced stealth alloy AviOrbit had in stock. Airfoils jutted on either side.

The instrument module, something he was extremely proud of, rode at the front, a payload of standard and advanced electronics that he’d ingeniously linked to some nifty software Mitch had helped him develop. Proton microthrusters—really braking thrusters from bigger craft—provided the primary means of propulsion and navigation. At the back…well…nothing more than a crude nuclear bomb, the thrust device for when the Smallmouth had to escape Earth’s gravity well and return to the Moon.

“Why did you call it Smallmouth?” asked the mayor. “Other than the fact that it has a small mouth. I mean, no complaints. I like weird names, but I…” The mayor trailed off, all his doubt implied.

“In a lot of ways, the probe is going to act like a smallmouth bass,” said Gerry, now feeling self-conscious about the name. “It’s going to putter about like a smallmouth bass in a bunch of weeds, conduct its experiments, and then come back with its sample. I fish in Jordan Lake for bass, that’s why.”

“It’s just that… I don’t know… it doesn’t seem like much of a spacecraft.” The mayor turned to Mitch.

“Mitch, maybe we should have tried something bigger.”

“Trust me, it’s going to work,” said Gerry. “You know what I like about it? It’s simple. It’s cheap. And I think Mitch and his team did a great job.”

“I hope it comes back,” said Mitch, giving the probe a reluctant glance.

“The NSF already has their sample,” said Hulke. “We got the drop this morning. They still want us to butt out.”

“There’s no harm in us taking our own look,” said Gerry. “No one’s going to notice the Smallmouth. Especially not the Tarsalans.”

“Your brother sent three special atmospheric aircraft with Air Force cover. Apparently there were some casualties, but they didn’t say how many.”

Gerry turned his attention to the Smallmouth. “At least no one’s going to get hurt if this probe goes down.”

The sky elevator continued to rise until it was fifty miles above the lunar surface. At this altitude, Gerry saw the curve of the Moon, and the vast panorama of the moonscape below. The terminator cut a dark line over the surface, but beyond it craters, ejecta patterns, mountains, and plains came into sharp relief, lit by the sun.

The sky elevator at last came to the launch platform, and the doors opened on a large hangar area with a huge polycarbonate pressure door at the far end. Through this pressure door Gerry saw stars in the blackest sky he had ever seen. Was this black sky what the shroud looked like from Earth? he wondered. Had the green gotten so dark it was now black?

Technicians took charge of the Smallmouth, wheeling it away.

Gerry, the mayor, and Mitch found their way to the observation tower, where they saw the entire launch facility spread out below. Several interplanetary craft lay floating in orbit, tethered to workbays that were themselves linked to the platform by flexible pneumatic lifts. The launch facility, shaped like a kidney, measured two square miles, and had a number of hydralike extensions at the ends—tethers that were currently empty. The sun hit the facility with bristling light, but the yellow-tinted visor of Gerry’s pressure suit blunted its brightness. He felt queasy because of the weightlessness, but not overtly so. Immediately below him he saw the small-components launch area. It was here that the Smallmouth would begin its voyage.

The technical crew wheeled the probe along magnetic rails to Platform 5. Once there, they unlatched the Smallmouth from its dolly and connected it to release hooks. They backed the dolly away and disappeared into a nearby hangar.

The countdown began, and when it was finished the probe puttered slowly upward, traveling at no more than a few miles per hour, at last disappearing out of sight as it angled into the transit orbit that would take it to Earth.

Gerry glanced at Hulke. “We have liftoff.”

Hulke sighed. “In a manner of speaking.”

PART TWO

8

Neil met with the president, the national security advisor, and the secretary of defense at Camp David.

As Neil entered the meeting room, he saw that Tony Bayard was giving him a good looking-over, as if the president expected nothing but the best news from him. National Security Advisor Julia Petrov’s lack of sleep was painfully apparent in her haggard appearance. Secretary of Defense Joe Sidower sat at the end of the table, his bald head bowed as he went over some waferscreen notes. The White House photographer took stills.

Neil’s previous mood of unshakable optimism had now turned to one of cautious pragmatisim. He couldn’t help thinking of the Cameron Chess Study, and how even the smartest human beings hadn’t yet beaten a Tarsalan at chess.

The president sat, and Neil followed suit. Julia Petrov took her seat as well. One of the kitchen staff came around and poured coffee. A plate of Danishes sat in the middle of the table. The food-distribution network was breaking down day by day, its decline driven relentlessly by the growing certainty that there would be no crops next year, which in turn engendered mass hoarding, and people were already going hungry. Yet this morning he was having coffee and Danishes with the president.

“Neil,” said the president, breaking into his thoughts. “Can you give us an update? Your original two-week deadline has come and gone, so I hope the news is good. Your preoccupation… is making me…” The president trailed off.

Neil prided himself on always giving it straight to the president. Yet he began tentatively, and without his usual bravado. “My team and I… we’ve had some time to study the retrieved shroud samples, more than my original two weeks, yes, and the initial results show that the shroud is made primarily of plant material.

On a chromosomal level—and I don’t want to get too technical here—it resembles some of the more common forms of phytoplankton we have in our oceans. The shroud is a living, breathing, growing entity, Mr. President, and it knows how to heal itself.”