baked dry. Except for the ice caches near the poles there’s not a drop of water anywhere, not even deep underground.”
“Then what makes you think—”
“PAHs,” said Molina.
“I beg your pardon?”
“PAHs,” Molina repeated.
The bishop frowned. “Are you being deliberately rude to me, Victor?”
“I believe,” Yamagata intervened, “that our noted astrobiologist is referring to a certain form of chemical compound.”
“Polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons,” Molina agreed. “P-A-H. PAHs.”
“Oh,” said Bishop Danvers.
“You have found such compounds on the surface of Mercury?” Yamagata asked.
Nodding vigorously, Molina replied, “Traces of PAHs have been found in some of the rock samples sent for analysis by the people building your base down there.”
“And you believe this indicates the presence of life?” Danvers challenged. “A trace of some chemicals?”
“PAHs are biomarkers,” Molina said firmly. “They’ve been found on Earth, on other planets, on comets—even in interstellar clouds.”
“And always in association with living creatures?” Yamagata asked.
Molina hesitated a fraction of a second. “Almost always. They can be created abiologically, under certain circumstances.”
Danvers shook his head. “I can’t believe anything could live on that godforsaken world.”
“How do you know god’s forsaken this planet?” Molina challenged.
“I didn’t mean it literally,” Danvers grumbled.
“How strong is this evidence?” Yamagata asked. “Does the presence of these compounds mean that life is certain to be found on Mercury?”
“Nothing’s certain,” Molina said. “As a matter of fact, the PAHs deteriorate very rapidly in the tremendous heat and totally arid conditions down there.”
“Ah,” said the bishop, smiling for the first time.
Molina’s answering smile was bigger, and fiercer. “But don’t you see? If the PAHs deteriorate quickly, yet we still find them present in the rocks,
The bishop’s face blanched. Yamagata suddenly foresaw his sun-power project being invaded by armies of earnest environmentalists, each eager to prevent any activity that might contaminate the native life-forms.
GOETHE BASE
Dante Alexios sat rigidly in his chair and tried not to let his satisfaction show on his face. The wall screen in his office clearly showed the earnest, intent expression on Molina’s face.
He wants to come down to the base, Alexios said to himself, delighted. He’s asking me for permission to come down here.
“My mission is sanctioned by the International Astronautical Authority,” Molina was saying, “as well as the International Consortium of Universities and the science foundations of—”
“Of course,” Alexios interrupted, “of course. I have no intention of interfering with your important research, Dr. Molina. I was merely trying to explain to you that conditions down here on the surface are rather difficult. Our base is still fairly rugged, you know.”
Molina’s intent expression softened into a smug smile. “I’ve been in rugged places before, Mr. Alexios. You should see the site on Europa, with all that radiation to protect against.”
“I can imagine,” Alexios replied dryly.
“Then you have no objection to my coming down to your base?”
“None whatsoever,” said Alexios. “Our facility is at your disposal.” Molina’s bright blue eyes sparkled. “Wonderful! I’ll start the preparations immediately.”
And with that, Molina ended the transmission. Alexios’s wall screen went suddenly blank. He didn’t bother to thank me, or even to say good-bye, Alexios thought. How like Victor, still as impetuous and self-centered as ever.
Alexios got up from his chair and stretched languidly, surprised at how tense his body had become during his brief conversation with the astrobiologist.
Victor didn’t recognize me, Alexios said to himself. Not the slightest flicker of recall. Of course, it’s been more than ten years and the nanosurgery has altered my face considerably. But he didn’t even remember my voice. I’m dead and gone, as far as he’s concerned.
All to the good, Alexios told himself. Now he’ll come down here on his fool’s errand and destroy himself.
I’ll hardly have to lift a finger. He’s eager to rush to his own annihilation.
Alexios dreamed troubling dreams that night. The steel-hard determination that had brought him to Mercury and lured Victor Molina to this hellhole of a world softened as he slept, thawed slightly as he sank into the uncontrollable world of his inner thoughts, the world that he kept hidden and firmly locked away during his waking hours.
In his dream he was standing once again at the base of the sky-tower, craning his neck to follow its rigidly straight line as it rose beyond the clouds, up, up, farther than the eye could follow, stretching up toward the stars.
Lara was standing beside him, her arm around his waist, her head resting on his strong shoulder. The diamond ring on her finger was his, not Victor’s. She had chosen him and rejected Molina. Alexios turned to her, took her in his arms, kissed her with all the tenderness and love his soul could contain.
But she pulled away from him, suddenly terrified. Her lovely face contorted into a scream as the proud tower began to slowly collapse, writhing like an immense snake of man-made fibers, coiling languidly, uncontrollably, unstoppably, as it slowly but inexorably crashed to the ground. All in silence. In utter silence, as if he had suddenly gone completely deaf. Alexios wanted to scream, too, but his throat was frozen. He wanted to stop the tower’s collapse with his bare hands, but he could not move, his feet were rooted to the spot.
The immense collapsing tower smashed into the workers’ village and beyond, crushing houses and cinderblock work buildings, smashing the bodies of men, women, and children as it thundered to the ground, pulverizing dreams and plans and hopes beyond repair. The whole mountainside shook as dust rose to cover all the work, all the sweat and labor that had raised the tower to its full height. Alexios’s mouth tasted of ashes and a bitterness that went beyond human endurance.
Lara had disappeared. All around him, as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but devastation and the mangled bodies of the dead.
My fault, he told himself. The sin of pride. My pride has ruined everything, killed all those millions of people. Covered with ashes, his soul crushed along with everything else, he screamed to the vacant sky, “My fault! It’s all my fault!”
He awoke with a start, covered with cold sweat. In the years since the skytower’s destruction, Alexios had learned that the catastrophe was not his fault, not at all. The soul-killing guilt he had once felt had long since evolved into an implacable, burning hatred. He thirsted not for forgiveness, nor even for the clearing of his name. He lived for vengeance.
THERMOPHILES
