Enormous, they were—like Jupiter—and
unutterably terrifying to Joan—
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Comet January 41.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
CHAPTER I
OUT IN SPACE
I was out in space with Joan for the sixth time. It might as well havebeen the eighth or tenth. It went on and on. Every time I rebelled Joanwould shrug and murmur: "All right, Richard. I'll go it alone then."
Joan was a little chit of a girl with spun gold hair and eyes thatmisted when I spoke of Pluto and Uranus, and glowed like live coalswhen we were out in space together.
Joan had about the worst case of exploritis in medical history. Toexplain her I had to take to theory. Simply to test out whether shecould survive and reach maturity in an environment which was hostileto human mutants, Nature had inserted in her make-up every recklessingredient imaginable. Luckily she had survived long enough to fall inlove with sober and restraining me. We supplemented each other, and asI was ten years her senior my obligations had been clear-cut from thestart.
We were heading for Ganymede this time, the largest satellite ofvast, mist-enshrouded Jupiter. Our slender space vessel was thrummingsteadily through the dark interplanetary gulfs, its triple atomotorsroaring. I knew that Joan would have preferred to penetrate theturbulent red mists of Ganymede's immense primary, and that only mysettled conviction that Jupiter was a molten world restrained her.
We had talked it over for months, weighing the opinions of Earth'sforemost astronomers. No "watcher of the night skies" could tell usvery much about Jupiter. The year 1973 had seen the exploration of themoon, and in 1986 the crews of three atomotor-propelled space vesselshad landed on Mars and Venus, only to make the disappointing discoverythat neither planet had ever sustained life.
By 2002 three of the outer planets had come within the orbit of humanexploration. There were Earth colonies on all of the Jovian moons now,with the exception of Ganymede. Eight exploring expeditions had setout for that huge and mysterious satellite, only to disappear withoutleaving a trace.
I turned from a quartz port brimming with star-flecked blackness togaze on my reckless, nineteen-year-old bride. Joan was so strong-willedand competent that it was difficult for me to realize she was scarcelymore than a child. A veteran of the skyways, you'd have thought her,with her slim hands steady on the controls, her steely eyes probingspace.
"The more conservative astronomers have always been right," I said."We knew almost as much about the moon back in the eighteenth centuryas we do now. We get daily weather reports from Tycho now, and thereare fifty-six Earth colonies beneath the lunar Apennines. But theastronomers knew that the moon was a sterile, crater-pitted world ahundred years ago. They knew that there was no life or oxygen beneathits brittle stars generations before the first space vessel left Earth.
"The astronomers said that Venus was a bleak, mist-enshrouded worldthat couldn't sustain life and they were right. They were right aboutMars. Oh, sure, a few idle dreamers thought there might be life onMars. But the more conservative astronomers stood pat, and denied thatthe seasonal changes could be ascribed to a low order of vegetativelife. It's a far cry from mere soil discoloration caused by meltingpolar ice caps to the miracle of pulsing life. The first vessel toreach Mars proved the astronomers right. Now a few crack-brainedtheorists are trying to convince