“You might say that,” Grant replied as he hefted the tray.
“You need help with that?” Devlin called after him as Grant made his way past the incoming people and started down the main corridor.
“No thanks,” he yelled over his shoulder, nearly bumping into a technician coming up the corridor.
Feeling like a lackey instead of a scientist, Grant juggled the heavily laden tray all the way back to the control center. This is why they call us scooters, he guessed.
As he slid back into his console chair, munching a sandwich, he saw on the wallscreen that Krebs was starting to organize the crew for linking electronically with the ship’s systems.
Muzorawa had taken up his station at the control panel, with O’Hara and Karlstad flanking him. Pascal was nowhere in sight. Grant thought that Lane looked tense, perhaps worried. It was harder to read Zeb’s expression; he seemed totally focused on the controls.
Four hairless humans, naked except for their skintight bodysuits, electrodes studding their legs. Hair-thin fiberoptic wires led from the implants to sets of plugs in the consoles. The wires seemed to float gently in the liquid-filled chamber.
Krebs hovered behind and slightly above the crew, like a levitating sack of cement, watching everything they did. Wires trailed from her stocky legs to a panel set into the ceiling above her.
“Remember,” she said, her voice oddly booming, “that once we are linked, the manual controls will be used only as a backup.”
The four crew members nodded. Grant found himself folding his hands in his lap, to keep them off the controls on his console. This is for real now, he told himself. This isn’t a simulation anymore.
Dr. Wo said, “Proceed with systems linkup.”
It was eerie. Grant watched as, one by one, the crew members activated their implanted chips. Nothing seemed to happen. There were no sparks, no lights, no changes of expression on any of their faces. Maybe they stiffened a little, when the linkage first came through their nervous systems. He thought he saw a slight tic in Karlstad’s cheek. But nothing more.
He forced himself to look down at his console. All the telltales were green: all systems functioning within their design parameters.
“Begin systems checkout,” Wo said. His voice seemed weak, breathless, as if he were excited.
“Systems checkout,” Krebs repeated.
It went very smoothly; flawlessly, Grant thought, except that Quintero, monitoring the sensor array, reported that coolant on one of the infrared telescopes was low. Karlstad was assigned to check it out after separation.
“It might be a leak,” Krebs warned.
“More likely it merely was not filled properly to begin with,” said Wo.
Karlstad said, “I’ll attend to it. It’s not vital, in any case. The backup is functioning in the green.”
Grant thought that Egon was showing some real professionalism. He hates being on the mission, but as long as he’s in, he’s going to conduct himself like a pro. Good for Egon!
The crew finished its checkouts and retired to their privacy compartments for the night. Dr. Wo stayed at his console in the mission control center but allowed the other four controllers to leave for the night. Grant got up and left the cramped chamber, feeling tired and sweaty.
He argued with his conscience about going down to see Sheena. No, he decided. She’ll still be flared up over the burned-out electrode. Still associating me with pain and betrayal. The image of her rearing up in fury, fangs bared, made Grant’s stomach twist. Better to let her cool off for a while, he convinced himself. I’ll see her tomorrow night—or maybe after the ship’s gone.
The entire next day was spent slowly ratcheting up the pressure inside the sub. Free to inspect the ship’s schematics from his console in the control center, Grant saw that it was built of four separate hulls, nested inside one another, with high-pressure liquid between each of the hulls.
That’s why it looks so small inside, he realized. The section where the crew worked and lived was only a tiny part of the submersible’s total volume.
The reason for immersing the crew was to allow them to withstand the immense pressure of the Jovian ocean. The higher the pressure that the crew could take, the deeper the submersible could go into the Jovian ocean. So, under Wo’s watchful eyes, the pressure of the perfluorocarbon mixture in the crew’s space was gradually increased.
With all his lights green, Grant spent the time watching the crew on the wallscreen display. Lane looked a little apprehensive, he thought, although that might have been merely a projection of his own tension. Zeb was checking out the computer programs that digested the sensors’ inputs. He looked as calm and at ease as always, methodical, capable. The only difference that Grant could see was that Muzorawa’s trim beard was gone.
Patti Buono, at the medical console, peered fixedly at her readouts. “Any discomfort?” she called out again and again. Karlstad complained of a headache. Pascal said she felt a tightness in her chest.
“Psychosomatic,” Buono proclaimed. “The monitors show blood pressure, heart rate, all your physical readings are well within normal range.”
Pascal, looking strangely gnomish without a wig covering her bald dome, turned to look into the camera. “And just what is normal range under immersion?” she asked, her voice a deep baritone.
Krebs snapped, “Stop this bickering.”
Pascal shook her head but said nothing.
When the pressure reached 90 percent of the design goal, Krebs said, “Hold it there for one hour. Give them a chance to adjust.”
Wo agreed, “We will hold at ninety percent for one hour.”
The next morning Buono asked each crew member how they had slept. The worst impact of the full pressurization, apparently, was that O’Hara suffered a slight nose bleed and Muzorawa—of all people-reported he had experienced a nightmare.
Buono had no interest in Zeb’s dream; she concerned herself only with the crew’s physical condition. After a careful check of her medical sensors, she pronounced the crew fully fit for duty.
“In that case,” Krebs announced, “we are ready to begin separation sequence.”
“Wait,” said Dr. Wo, raising one hand, palm out, fingers splayed. “This is the proper moment to name the ship.”
“Name it?” Krebs stared into the camera. Grant could not tell from her frowning expression whether she was perplexed or irritated.
“Yes,” Wo replied, perfectly serious. “On the first mission the ship had no proper name. That was unfortunate. The ship should have a name of its own, a name that will be propitious.”
Krebs’s frown soured. Grant could see that she was annoyed with the director’s sudden burst of Chinese superstition.
Unperturbed, Dr. Wo announced, “The name of this vessel will be Zheng He.”
No one said a word. They’re all puzzled, Grant thought. What in the world does “Zheng He” mean?
At last Krebs said, “Very well. Zheng He is ready for the separation sequence.”
“Proceed,” said Wo.
Grant felt a tightening in his chest. The ship’s disconnecting from the station, going out on its own. They’ll be heading down into Jupiter’s clouds and then deeper, into the ocean. If they get into trouble we won’t be able to help them. They’ll be on their own.
The separation sequence was automated. Grant could not hear the latches releasing or the connectors unsealing themselves. He watched the wallscreen, with quick glances at his console board to make certain all the propulsion and power systems were functioning properly. Zheng He disconnected from the access tube and used the station’s magnetic shield to push it free of the great toroidal mass of Research Station Gold.