“No,” Torre and Archer said in unison.
“But you told me—”
“Maybe I gave you the wrong impression,” Torre said. “Nanomachines are machines. They’re designed to do a specific job and that’s all they can do. Once they’re specialized they don’t change or mutate on their own. They’re not dangerous.”
Tapping a lacquered fingernail on the stainless steel vat, Westfall insisted, “But you said the ones in here aren’t specialized. They could eat up a large variety of materials.”
“They never get out of this laboratory,” Torre explained, with some impatience showing in his reddening face. “Not until they’re fine-tuned for a specific type of molecule.”
“Aren’t they called gobblers?” Westfall asked in her hushed, little-girl voice. “Haven’t they been used to kill people?”
Torre’s face was flushed. But before he could reply, Archer said, “Yes, nanos have been used to murder people. They were deliberately designed to attack any carbon-based molecules they encountered. They were designed and used by madmen.”
“That’s why they’re banned on Earth,” Torre said, controlling himself with obvious effort. “Plenty of madmen back there.”
“Yes, of course,” Westfall murmured. Then, “So the gobblers you’re building here can only attack rabies viruses.”
“The specific type of virus that’s infecting Deirdre Ambrose,” Torre said.
“And it couldn’t get loose and attack anything else?”
“No, it couldn’t,” Torre said firmly.
“Besides,” Archer put in, “the nanobugs couldn’t survive outside this laboratory environment. The passageway outside is drenched in high-intensity ultraviolet light that will deactivate the nanos on contact.”
“Ultraviolet light,” Westfall murmured.
“We design the nanos to be deactivated by UV,” Torre said. “It’s a standard safety precaution.”
Westfall nodded, apparently satisfied. “Thank you for a very enlightening tour, Mr. Torre,” she said.
His composure recovered, Torre extended his hand as he said, “If there’s anything else you want to know, just give me a holler.”
“Yes. I’ll do that.” As she approached the door, one of her guards opened it for her and she swept regally out of the lab.
Archer puffed out a breath of air. “I wonder how she found out that you were here,” he muttered.
Torre waggled a hand in the air. “Well, she seems satisfied that we’re not going to destroy everything in sight.”
Archer looked at the still-open door. “I hope so.”
But as she stepped into the elevator with her two assistants, Katherine Westfall was thinking, There’s no security at that lab at all! Anyone could walk right in and take a sample of their nanomachines. They must lock the door at night, but we could get through without any real trouble.
Then she asked herself, How can I get a sample of the gobblers that haven’t been specifically programmed yet? I’ll need some nanos that can attack a wide variety of things.
MISSION CONTROL CENTER
Max Yeager was surprised to see Linda Vishnevskaya sitting at the central console in the otherwise empty control center. All the other consoles were dead and quiet, the big wall screens also blank, except for the one at the front of the chamber that showed
“What’re you doing here?” he asked, almost in a growl.
She turned, her violet eyes wide with surprise.
“What are
He sagged into the chair of the console closest to her. Jabbing a thumb toward the image on the wall screen, he explained, “Big meeting tomorrow morning to decide the date for launching her back into the ocean.”
Vishnevskaya’s face relaxed into a warm smile. “So the little father has come to check out his baby one more time.”
Yeager made a sour face. “I’m an engineer, not a sentimental old fart.”
“No, not sentimental,” she said, straining to keep her face serious. “Not at all.”
“I’m trying to work out a defense system for her. Something that’ll keep those damned sharks off her.”
“You want to protect your baby,” said Vishnevskaya, with an impish gleam in her eye.
“She’s a machine, a ship,” Yeager protested. “I’ve got a couple of daughters, you know. I can tell the difference between a machine and a human being.”
“You are married,” Vishnevskaya said.
“Divorced. Almost twenty years ago.” Yeager looked uncomfortable, but he added in a near-whisper, “Who could put up with an engineer for a husband?”
Vishnevskaya lapsed into silence.
“I was figuring,” Yeager said, getting back to business, “that we could rig the outer shell with a high- potential electric field. Shock anything that comes within a dozen meters of her skin.”
“A dozen meters?” Vishnevskaya shook her head slightly. “Electric fields dissipate rapidly in water, don’t they?”
“The water’s slightly conducting. It’s laced with ammonia and other ions. Acidic.”
Arching her brows, Vishnevskaya admitted, “It might work, then.”
“I think I can make it work. Just enough to keep those damned sharks off her.”
“Could you use the light panels on the outer hull?” she suggested.
“The light panels?” Yeager thought about it for all of a second. “Nah. Archer and the science guys wanted them so they could flash pictures at the leviathans. Try to communicate with them visually.”
“Yes, but—”
“No, I need something more than a bunch of blinking lights to defend her,” Yeager said.
“You’re going with her, aren’t you?”
Yeager flinched with surprise. “Going with her? What do you mean?”
Smiling almost sadly, Vishnevskaya said, “You’re going to insist that you be one of the crew. You can’t let her go down there without you.”
He tried to frown, but instead his expression melted into an admission of defeat. “Yeah, I want to go with her. I don’t know if Archer and the other paper pushers will let me, though.”
Vishnevskaya gave a little sigh, then said, “It would help if you volunteered to be immersed in the perfluorocarbon. You could show Archer and the others that you can stand the physical pressure.”
Yeager brightened slightly. “You’re right. I ought to get some time in at the immersion center.”
He got to his feet and headed for the door, leaving Vishnevskaya sitting in the emptied control center, wishing she had kept her mouth shut.
Red Devlin was startled when Katherine Westfall suddenly showed up in his kitchen.
It was well after midnight. The rest of the kitchen crew had gone to their beds, but not Devlin. This was his domain and he worked his own hours. He had been tinkering with one of the serving robots, replacing the LED display screen that covered its flat top.
“Mr. Devlin?”
He jerked erect, dropping the pliers he’d been holding; they clattered onto the tiled floor. The kitchen was in its off-hours lighting, pools of brightness separated by swaths of dark shadow. The woman stood in shadow, silhouetted against a cone of light.
