LAUNCH PARTY
The largest conference room in the station’s first wheel had been cleared of its furniture by Katherine Westfall’s assistants, except for the long conference table, which had been pushed against one wall and loaded with drinks and trays of finger foods.
Red Devlin stood at one end of the table in a spanking clean white outfit, smiling benignly at the crowd of scientists, engineers, technicians, and administrators who crowded the room. The wall screens displayed views of Jupiter as seen from the station, and scenes of the leviathans recorded by the robotic probes that had been sent into the ocean.
Katherine Westfall, the party’s hostess, stood by the door, graciously greeting each new arrival. She wore a splendid gown of shimmering blues and indigos that shifted and sparkled with each move she made. Grant Archer and his wife stood beside her, smiling and chatting amiably.
Deirdre was off in a corner, feeling self-conscious from the feeding port that had been implanted in her neck. She knew that her high-collared dress covered the site, but still felt that it bulged noticeably. She glanced at Dorn and Max Yeager, standing beside her; their shirts covered their ports completely. Andy Corvus, standing halfway across the room deep in conversation with one of the launch controllers, scratched unconsciously at his port.
Andy and Max had both been shaved bald. The mission protocol required it: Living for days on end in the perfluorocarbon meant that all excess hair had to be removed from their bodies. Andy looked like a scrawny newborn chick without his thick mop of red hair. Max somehow looked nobler, wiser, more serious, almost like a bust of some august Roman emperor. Dorn, of course, had no body hair to shave off.
Deirdre had put off her own shearing to the last possible moment. She dreaded losing her thick shoulder- length auburn locks. At least she wouldn’t have to go completely bald, Isaac Lowenstien had told her.
“You can go with a buzz cut,” the head of the station’s safety department had allowed. “That’ll be good enough.”
When he saw the unhappy expression on Deirdre’s face, he tried to console her. “Hey, you’re lucky. In the old days they depilated you completely, head to toe. Took months to grow your hair back.”
Deirdre thought that it was scant consolation.
A petite woman in a form-hugging jade green jumpsuit stepped up to Yeager, smiling brightly at him. Deirdre noticed that she had a splendid crown of radiant golden curls.
Tipping her fluted glass toward Max, she said, “To you, little father.”
Yeager looked embarrassed, but touched his glass to hers. Turning to Deirdre and Dorn he introduced, “Linda Vishnevskaya, mission control chief.”
Vishnevskaya said, “You are going on the mission with Max. Take good care of him, please.”
Deirdre thought that the woman was slightly drunk. She herself was drinking only fruit juice; she didn’t want alcohol in her bloodstream, not with the mission launch less than forty-eight hours away.
“We will take good care of each other,” Dorn replied, very seriously.
“Of course, of course,” said Vishnevskaya. Patting Max’s shoulder, she went on, “But Max is very special. He cares about his ship like a loving father.”
Yeager’s face reddened noticeably.
Standing at the end of the laden conference table, Red Devlin watched the partygoers with professional interest. Food’s holding out all right, he said to himself. Archer unbent enough to let me rustle up some faux champagne and rocket juice, but nobody seems to be getting sloshed too badly. Of course, the night is young.
He saw that Grant Archer had moved slightly away from Mrs. Westfall and was deep in conversation with Dr. Johansen, the scientist who headed the group studying Jupiter. Mrs. Archer and Westfall were yakking away at each other like old friends. Funny, Devlin thought, how two women can both talk at the same time and keep the conversation going without missing a beat.
Michael Johansen was still less than happy with Archer’s decision to send Corvus and the other three on the mission.
“That ship was built for scientists to go into the ocean,” he was telling Archer, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the chatter of the crowd.
“We’ve been through all this, Mike,” Archer said gently. “The decision has been made. And implemented.”
Shaking his head, Johansen said, “You can still add a man to the crew. One scientist. There’s room—”
“I’m sorry, Mike, but the answer is no,” said Archer. “This mission is strictly to see if Corvus can make any meaningful contact with the leviathans.” He hesitated, then added in a lowered voice, “And to see if the ship works without killing anybody.”
Johansen frowned. “You’re wasting an opportunity to acquire more scientific data, Grant. Corvus isn’t going to get bubkes, you know that.”
Archer grinned at him. “You’ve been hanging around Ike Lowenstien too long, you’re starting to speak Yiddish.”
“This isn’t a joke, Grant.”
More seriously, “Only God knows what Corvus will accomplish, Mike. I don’t know and neither do you. That’s what research is all about. If you already know the answer, you’re not doing research.”
Johansen’s long, angular face settled into a gloomy pout. Even Katherine Westfall, halfway across the crowded room, could see that the scientist was displeased.
Westfall turned back to Marjorie Archer, who was still going on about some biochemical studies she was undertaking. “Would you excuse me, Marjorie? Now that everyone is here I ought to offer a toast to the mission’s success.”
Marjorie looked more relieved than displeased. “Oh. Of course. I’ve been bending your ear long enough.”
“Not at all,” said Westfall. “Not at all.” But she stepped away gladly and headed toward Rodney Devlin, who was still standing at the far end of the table, like a sentry in a white apron.
Devlin saw her coming and recognized the little nod that Westfall gave him. He quickly poured two champagne flutes. Handing them to her one by one, he said, “This one’s for you, ma’am, and this one’s for Ms. Ambrose.”
Smiling knowingly, Westfall took the glasses and made her precarious way through the crowd toward Dierdre, Dorn, and the others. Devlin was right behind her, clutching three more of the long-stemmed glasses. Westfall handed one of the flutes to Deirdre as Devlin passed out the other three to Yeager, Dorn, and Corvus.
Then Devlin emitted an ear-piercing whistle that stopped every conversation dead in its tracks.
Into the sudden silence, Westfall said in her little-girl voice, “I want to propose a toast to the crew of the good ship
Everyone in the crowded room raised their glasses and repeated the toast. Deirdre, Max, Andy, and Dorn smiled appreciatively and sipped.
That’s a good girl, Westfall said silently as she watched Deirdre down her faux champagne. Drink it down. The nanomachines will do the rest.
IV
THE MISSION
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
