Grant almost smiled. That magnetic screen was intended to repel energetic subatomic particles that the Jovian magnetosphere sometimes spat out during a magnetic storm. Now it was pushing a somewhat larger “particle,” Zheng He, away from the station’s hull.
The submersible and the station remained side by side, separated by a mere kilometer, for two orbits of Jupiter, slightly more than six hours. Grant watched the wallscreen that showed the sub, a tiny metallic lenticular shape against the gigantic, overwhelming background of Jupiter’s tumultuous, turbulent cloud deck. The crew rechecked all the ship’s systems. Then Krebs reported they were ready for entry into the Jovian atmosphere.
“Insertion burn,” Krebs ordered.
Grant saw a tiny flicker of light at one side of the saucer. For a heart-stopping moment he thought the insertion rockets had failed. Zheng He seemed to remain alongside them, hovering helplessly. But within a few eyeblinks he could see that it was indeed moving away, faster now, allowing Jupiter’s powerful gravity to pull them along, down into those swirling clouds.
Dr. Wo said something aloud, in Chinese.
“Good luck,” said Frankovich, his voice slightly husky.
“Safe journey,” Kayla Ukara called to the departing crew.
Grant licked his lips. His throat was suddenly dry. Then he found his voice and said, “Godspeed.”
REVELATION
All five of the controllers watched Zheng He disappear into the clouds of Jupiter. For several minutes Grant simply stared at the wallscreen showing the planet’s colorful cloud deck. The ship had gone. It was as if it had never existed.
But my friends are in that submersible, Grant said to himself. They’re going down through those clouds right now, while I sit here with nothing to do but watch over this dumb console. If anything happens to them, I’ll be powerless to help them.
“Status reports,” Dr. Wo called out, his rasping voice sharper than usual. “Life support?”
“Functioning within nominal limits,” replied Frankovich.
“Structural integrity?”
Nacho Quintero answered, “No problems.”
The medical monitors and sensor systems were all showing completely normal performance. Even the troublesome infrared telescope’s coolant level was back to normal. When Wo asked for the power systems, Grant swiftly scanned his monitor.
“Power all green,” he reported.
Wo swiveled his gaze across the cramped, stuffy compartment, from one controller to another, and then looked up at the wallscreen. It still showed nothing but Jupiter’s endless clouds.
“Should we call them?” Patti Buono wondered aloud. “Make voice contact?”
“They are due to report in three minutes,” Wo pointed out, gesturing to the mission schedule timeline displayed on his main console screen.
The time ticked by so slowly that Grant thought his console clock might have stopped. Not a word was spoken in the control center. No sound at all except the electrical hum of the monitors and the distant whisper of the air circulation fans. Wo seemed to turn into a block of wood, a statue, unmoving, unblinking. Grant wondered if the man was even breathing. Sweat beaded his own upper lip and brow; he felt it trickling along his ribs.
“Control, this is Zheng He.” Krebs’s voice shattered the silence.
“I hear you,” Wo said, as calmly as if she were sitting next to him.
“All systems functioning normally. No problems.”
“Good,” said Wo, with a satisfied nod of his head.
“We are preparing for the descent. Communications blackout will prevent further”—she seemed to search for a word—“further communications.”
“I understand,” Wo replied. “We will track your beacon as long as possible.”
The sub actually carried two beacons, Grant knew: a long-wave radio transmitter and an infrared communications laser. Both would be absorbed by Jupiter’s deep, turbulent atmosphere, swallowed up in the raging storms and lightning strokes that awaited Zheng He’s crew. By plotting the signal strength and dispersion of the beacons, though, Grant and the other scooters aboard the station could learn more about the dynamics of the Jovian atmosphere.
Even if it kills the crew, Grant heard a sardonic voice in his head whisper.
The submersible also carried half a dozen “torpedoes”: small, self-propelled automated capsules that could be fired from the sub to pop up to the top of the cloud deck and broadcast a prerecorded message.
None of the controllers left their consoles as long as the submersible maintained communications contact. But after six more hours, even the radio beacon was drowned out by the constant flicker of Jovian lightning. They would hear nothing more from Zheng He unless and until the crew popped a message-bearing capsule.
Wo pushed his wheelchair back from his console. “There is nothing more to do here,” he said, sounding tired, weak. “They are on their own now.”
He wheeled himself out of the control center. The plan was to have one person at the central console— Wo’s usual post—throughout the mission. Quintero had drawn the first four-hour shift; Grant was last.
“Let me make a quick run to the toilet,” Quintero said, squeezing his bulk past Grant’s console.
“I’ll sit in until you get back,” Grant said to Nacho’s rapidly disappearing back.
“Even Macho Nacho has to pee sometime,” Patti Buono said, trying to lighten the tension that had smothered them all.
“Don’t you?” asked Ukara, heading for the corridor right behind Quintero.
“Now that you mention it …” Buono got up and followed her.
Grant didn’t bother bringing a chair to the central console, he simply stood in front of its darkened lights and stared up at the wallscreen. Might as well turn it off, he told himself. The radio speaker built into Wo’s console hissed static that crackled every few seconds from a lightning bolt.
Quintero came back and hauled his own chair over to the central console. “Thanks, amigo. I’m okay now.”
“Good,” said Grant, suddenly realizing that his own bladder needed relief.
The nearest rest room was a dozen meters down the corridor. Grant headed for it, but saw that Dr. Wo was sitting in his powerchair near its door.
“Uh … do you need help, sir?” Grant asked.
Wo looked up at him disdainfully. “What I need—” he began in a snarl, then stopped himself. For a moment Grant didn’t know what to expect. Then, much more softly, Wo said, “Come with me, Mr. Archer.”
He followed Dr. Wo to the director’s office. As always it was overheated, uncomfortably warm. But Grant saw that the vase atop Wo’s desk was empty.
Wheeling himself behind the desk, Wo gestured Grant to sit, then said, “I understand you have run into a setback with the gorilla.”
Nodding, Grant admitted, “I’m afraid I’ve thrown away several weeks’ work.”
“Patience, Mr. Archer. Patience.”
“Checking the neural net before I put it on her would have saved me this setback,” Grant muttered.
Wo nodded. “So you must start over.”
“I suppose so.”
“Just as the crew is doing in Zheng He. We failed in our first attempt to explore the ocean, and now they are trying again.”
“Before the IAA inspectors can stop them,” Grant said.
Wo exhaled a sigh and nodded once.
“May I ask a question, sir?”
“You may ask,” said Wo.
“What does ‘Zheng He’ mean? Is it the name of a person, or what?”