Why dost Thou hide Thyself in times of trouble?
INTO THE CLOUDS
“Disconnect,” Krebs ordered.
Grant hovered uncertainly in the viscous perfluorocarbon atmosphere of the bridge, his feet anchored in the floor straps, his arms floating chest high, his mind battling against the seductions of power.
“Disconnect!” Krebs insisted. “Now!”
The flight plan was for them to orbit Jupiter at least twice, long enough to make certain that all the ship’s systems were indeed functioning properly. Only then would Krebs give the order to descend into the clouds.
Grant turned off the linkage with all the reluctance of an addict withdrawing from his drugs. He was alone again, separate, nothing more than a blob of protoplasm inside a shell of flesh.
“How do you feel?” Muzorawa asked as he slipped his feet free of the floor loops and bobbed gently in the viscous liquid.
“A little shaky,” Grant admitted.
Karlstad floated up to them. “I don’t see why we have to orbit around the damned planet like this. Why don’t we stay linked and get on with the job?”
“You must rest,” Krebs answered from over their shoulders. “Eat. Take a nap. Staying linked with the ship for too long is not good.”
O’Hara, still at her comm console, said, “Captain, Dr. Wo wants to speak to you on the private channel.”
Krebs nodded and slipped a headset over her bald pate.
“When does she sleep?” Karlstad whispered.
Muzorawa nodded. “I don’t think she’s disconnected herself since we first linked up.”
Grant shrugged and headed for the food dispensers. He felt jumpy inside, weary yet keyed up. Maybe a nap is what I need.
It still made him squeamish to plug the feeding tube into the socket in his neck, but Grant did it. When the counter on the dispenser’s metal face clunked and the flow of liquid shut off, he pulled the tube free with a shuddering grimace.
“What’s the matter, doesn’t it taste delicious?” Karlstad jibed.
Grant headed for his berth without answering, leaving the three others huddled at the dispenser.
Knowing that he’d have to be awake and alert in a few hours, Grant could not sleep. He kept thinking about the thrill of power he’d felt when linked to the ship. Will it get easier as we go on, he wondered, or will it become more seductive, more corrupting? God, help us! he prayed. Give us the strength to resist temptation.
He thought about composing a message for Marjorie, even though he wouldn’t be able to send it until they returned from this mission.
Grant gave them enough time to fall asleep, then crawled out of his bunk as quietly as he could and swiftly stripped off his tights and pulled a fresh pair from the storage bin in the common area. Wide awake, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to sleep, he slid the screen open and floated into the bridge.
Krebs was sleeping, bobbing gently up near the overhead, eyes closed, a soft burbling noise that might have been a snore in normal air emanating from her half-open mouth. And she was still connected to the ship. Grant saw that the wires from the overhead compartment were still firmly linked to the electrodes in her chunky, hairless legs.
She sleeps connected, Grant said to himself, wondering what that must be like. Then he wondered if that was a good thing. Is she addicted to it? He asked himself. Is that the joy she gets out of life?
One by one Muzorawa, Karlstad, and O’Hara returned to the bridge, almost like sleepwalkers, and took their stations at their consoles. Krebs still snored gently, bobbing up near the overhead. Grant slipped his feet into the floor loops and saw that his console was showing all systems normal. Nothing but green lights. He ran a finger across the console’s central touchscreen to check the subsystems. He frowned, slightly nettled at the cumbersomeness of the manual procedure. If we were linked I could
But they would not engage the linkage unless Krebs gave the command, and she was still asleep, floating behind the four of them.
“Well, at least we knows she sleeps,” Karlstad stagewhispered.
“That’s good,” O’Hara whispered back. “Everyone needs to sleep sometime.”
“You are eager to work.” Krebs’s cold, hard voice slashed at them. “Good.”
Karlstad rolled his eyes toward heaven.
“Connect your linkages,” Krebs commanded.
Grant linked up smoothly this time, actually finishing before Karlstad. He felt a glow of anticipation warming him, saw that O’Hara looked the same way.
“Engage linkage,” said Krebs.
Again Grant felt the power of the fusion generator surging through him, felt the music of electrical currents racing through every section of the ship. The thrusters, he begged silently. Ignite the thrusters.
Instead, Krebs patiently checked through the navigation system, waiting to reach the precise point in their orbit around Jupiter’s massive bulk where they were to insert the ship into its deorbit burn and plunge toward the hurtling, multihued Jovian clouds.
“Approaching the keyhole,” Muzorawa called out.
Without asking permission, Grant closed his eyes and linked momentarily to Zeb’s sensors and saw what they were showing: the racing multihued clouds of Jupiter, streaming madly as the planet’s tremendous spin whirled them into long ribbons of ocher, pale blue, and russet brown. Lightning flickered through the clouds, crackles of vast electrical energy. He felt the heat radiating up from those clouds, he heard the eternal wailing of winds that dwarfed the wildest hurricanes of Earth.
And he realized that there was a storm, a vast swirling whirlpool of dazzling white clouds, screaming its fury in the area where they had expected to make their entry into the cloud deck.
“The entry area’s covered with a cyclonic system,” Muzorawa said tightly.
Grant opened his eyes. Zeb’s face was set in an expressionless mask. Turning, he saw that O’Hara and Karlstad both looked concerned.
Krebs made a sound that might have been a grunt. Or a suppressed growl. “Very well. We’ll go on to the alternate injection point.”
Grant glanced up at the main wallscreen display. It showed their orbital path against the swirling clouds. The alternate entry position was a quarter-orbit away. Closer to the Red Spot, Grant saw. Not close enough to be dangerous, he knew. Still, getting closer to that titanic storm was unsettling.
No one spoke for the forty-nine minutes it took to reach the alternate insertion point. Grant occupied himself by concentrating on the fusion generator; it was like standing by a warming, crackling fireplace on a cold winter’s day. Soon we’ll be in the clouds, he told himself. And then the ocean. That’s when we’ll see how accurate my mapping of the currents has been.
“Automated countdown,” Krebs called out at last.
Grant unconsciously licked his lips as the countdown timer began clicking off the seconds. For the first time since their immersion, Grant consciously thought about the taste in his mouth. It was odd, not unpleasant, but the perfluorocarbon liquid was unlike anything his taste buds had encountered in the past. He had no memory references for it, down at the cellular level where instinct lived.
“Retro burn in ten seconds,” the computer’s synthesized voice called out. Despite himself, Grant trembled inwardly with the anticipation of the thrusters’ power.
