Cold as Ice (27 page)

She felt it now, the lines were drawing closer. But her sense of impending action could not tell her what would lie at the focal point. So far, she had found nothing worth reporting. There were small points of interest, such as the way that Von Neumanns were used throughout the Jovian system in situations where Earth workers would automatically do a genome boost to a natural form. But that would make at best a three-minute "Them and Us" comparison clip.

An Outward Bound robot mission to a nearby star had an even lower rating potential, but she had attached herself to Tristan because he was her only local contact. She had endured a couple more of the awful meetings of the Immaturity-of-the-Year awards ceremony that called itself Outward Bound, then leaped at the chance of a trip to the deuterium-separation facility on Ganymede. They had moved from there to the main plant, on a big ice fragment beyond Callisto, and then to an observers' visit to Hebe Station. During the Hebe landing, the price for Nell's ticket had at last been made clear: She was to serve Tristan as Mother Confessor.

Before that thought could emerge in full flower, it was pushed aside by another one.

"Tristan, we've flown to three different locations. But you've never once called through for permission to go anywhere, or permission to land."

"I know. It's because this ship and I are part of a
Starseed
troubleshooting group, and we have to go all sorts of places in a hurry. So we have a special deal where we act first, then fill out the paperwork afterward. Otherwise we'd never get anywhere in time to be useful."

It took a minute for his words to sink in; she must be getting as old as Tristan seemed to think she was. "Are you telling me that you have an automatic permit to go
anywhere
in the Jovian system?"

"Pretty much anywhere. I don't know what would happen if I tried to land someplace exclusive, like the General Assembly's private recsat."

The first rule of the business:
Go take a look.

"Tristan, instead of standing around worrying about how Wilsa feels about you, why don't you
ask
her?"

"I'd love to. But she's on Europa."

"That's no more than three or four hours away. So why aren't
we
on Europa? You just told me that you can go there if you want to. Can you?"

He rubbed at a rounded cheek. "Well, I suppose so. Go talk to Wilsa directly, you mean? That's a pretty attractive idea. I guess I ought to put in a call to Hilda Brandt—we get on real well—just to make sure it's all right."

He was already reaching for the communication panel when Nell grabbed his hand. Damn it, she
was
experienced and understanding and ancient beyond belief—compared with some people she could mention.

"Tristan, don't you dare.
She might say no.
And then where would you be? Let's just up and
go.
It's a whole lot easier to get absolution than permission."

He was nodding, slowly. "Do you really think it's all been some sort of misunderstanding?"

I wouldn't take odds on it.
"I can't say. But what I can say is that we'll know for sure—as soon as we arrive on Europa and talk to Wilsa and Jon."

* * *

To Nell, everything about Europa was no more strange than any totally new experience had to be. What made less sense to her was Tristan's obvious sense of uneasiness when the ship landed at Mount Ararat spaceport and a little robot car growled them along through a warren of underground tunnels.

"You said this is just a small outpost research station." Nell wondered when it would be safe to remove her suit; they ought to be far enough under the surface by now to be shielded, and there was already air around them. "And you told me not to expect a welcoming committee. So why does it worry you if we don't have one?"

"You've got it backwards." Tristan kept his gaze on the tunnel ahead. "I'm worried because there
will
be a bunch of people to meet us, as soon as we get off this car. You didn't see the answer to my last message. When I gave our ID and expected time of arrival, they fired back a reply saying they'd be here waiting. That never happened to me before. Makes me wonder if they checked and found out we're not approved to come here."

For once, Nell was forced to agree with Tristan. Attention from the Mount Ararat staff was the last thing she needed.

But they didn't have a choice. When the car finally halted, eight people came to surround it. By Europan standards, that was a crowd scene. A crowd, however, that did not include either Wilsa Sheer or Jon Perry. Nell climbed down and was suddenly glad that she and Tristan still wore their suits. If there were guilt on his face, it wouldn't be seen for another few minutes.

Except that quite enough guilt was already visible in the waiting group. Nell knew how to read body language. Without even thinking about it, she turned on her midget video camera.

"Welcome to Mount Ararat." The man standing at the middle of the group didn't sound welcoming at all. "I'm Buzz Sandstrom. I must say I didn't expect you'd be here so quickly. Now I'm wondering if we've dragged you all the way from Ganymede for nothing."

Tristan was silent. Shocked to silence? Nell nodded, encouraging the man to continue.

"We can't be sure," Sandstrom went on, "but we suspect that something bad must have happened to her. If anyone should get the blame for what happened," he added grudgingly, "I suppose that I'm the one."

Nell nodded again, still not speaking. Sandstrom was swallowing, obviously uncomfortable. Confession time was not yet over for the day.

"But I mean . . ."He gazed at Nell for absolution. "I didn't mean no harm. When she came here, out of the blue like that . . . well, I just got mad. Who wouldn't have? She didn't come here to
help
Europa, see? She came to ruin all our work. Or to try to. So I got mad, and I guess I got everyone else feeling the same way. And then—"

"What do you mean,
something bad
happened to her?" Tristan had seized and fixed on that one phrase, and he couldn't bear to wait any longer. "Is Wilsa in trouble?"

It was Sandstrom's turn for confusion. "Huh? Wilsa?"

"Wilsa Sheer. You said something bad happened—"

"Not Wilsa Sheer. She's fine, or I guess she is. She went down under the ice with Dr. Perry, and they're still there. I'm talking about Camille Hamilton."

The name registered with Nell, because she was still receiving briefings and updates on Mobarak's Jovian system activities. But she was willing to bet that it meant not a thing to Tristan Morgan. He had removed his suit helmet, and now he was gaping at Buzz Sandstrom, who seemed to mistake his popping eyes for strong disapproval.

"Hey, she may be just fine." Sandstrom was scowling but defensive. "We wouldn't have sent that emergency message at all, you know, except like I said, it
has
been over twenty-four hours. And we got no idea which way she went, or why her ground car isn't broadcasting an automatic positional signal. And we don't know how much experience she has—nothing about her in our records, no reply yet to our Ganymede inquiries. She could be dead already out there and we'd never know it. She shoulda' left a message where she was heading, but she didn't. And Dr. Brandt isn't on Europa, and we haven't been able to reach her."

Sandstrom was becoming increasingly tense, and so was Tristan. But Nell was finally relaxing. Hilda Brandt was far away, and the way things were going there was no danger that anyone on Europa was going to tell her and Tristan to leave. Quite the contrary. The staff of Mount Ararat was desperate for someone—anyone—to take over and tell them what to do.
No problem at all.

Nell kept her video running, removed her helmet, scanned the group standing in front of her, and smiled pleasantly at Buzz Sandstrom.

"I'm Nell Cotter, and this is Tristan Morgan." She held out her hand. "Let's do introductions. But before that, let's go someplace where we can all sit down. I feel sure that we can help you—just as soon as you give us a few more facts."

* * *

Camille Hamilton was not dead. Not yet. But she was not sure how much longer she could remain alive. She was realizing, rather too late, that she was in over her head. Literally.

The first twenty kilometers toward Skagerrak Station had been easy. The sun was up, reflecting from Europa's grainy surface with a bright but oddly cold light. After a few minutes Camille came across a group of tracks. She realized that they must be those of previous travelers who had been making their way toward Blowhole. The path ought to be the safest and the easiest. She followed the same route, and for three-quarters of an hour had nothing to worry about except boredom. She itched to get a look at the data from DOS, tucked away inside her pocket, but there was no way that she could drive and operate the car's computer at the same time.

A kilometer from Blowhole, the boredom ended. Camille could see through the car's front window, all the way to the open circle of water. The chances of being spotted by someone working at Blowhole were too high to risk. She waited until the car came to a smooth, shallow valley in the surface, then cut away along it to the left, on a path that ought to skirt Blowhole at a comfortable distance.

And at that point she realized how spoiled she had been for the first hour of her journey. She had traveled almost a third of the way to Skagerrak Station in smooth and carefree comfort. But the next kilometer taught her what most of Europa was really like. She followed her chosen valley, only to find that it grew steeper-sided and at last pinched down to a width too narrow for her car. She had to go into reverse—which meant tricky and slow progress—until she reached a place where she could head up the valley side and over to seek a better route. Ten minutes later, that route too was narrowing. She cut her losses while there was still enough room to turn the car around and decided on a new strategy. If the valleys were not obliging, she would try the hills.

At first it seemed an excellent decision. She could spy out the lay of the land far ahead, look for breaks and crevasses, and make her moves accordingly. Soon she was running along a broad arcuate ridge that stretched like a dark-backed snake as far as she could see. Her inertial guidance system told her that she was heading in just the right direction for Skagerrak. She ran on smoothly for over five kilometers.

It was the sound of the car's engine that finally told her something was wrong. Its higher-pitched tone and the increased power draw insisted that the car was moving uphill. Except that the car's instrument panel insisted, just as firmly, that it was traveling dead level.

Camille knew within a matter of seconds what must be happening. Under its own weight, the car was sinking a few inches into the spongy, sputtered ice cover; in moving forward, it was compressing the ice just in front of itself. Thus it was always climbing, but also always traveling level.

Solving the problem, though, was another matter. She had no idea if the surface was more or less firm down in the valleys to her left and right. For the moment, it made more sense to live with slower progress and increased power drain and just keep going as she was.

Except that option was about to disappear. A couple of hundred meters ahead, the smooth ridge ended in a murderously steep escarpment. Camille edged the car forward until she could see the severity of the slope, and decided at once that there was no way she would take a ride down that.

Which left three choices: go down to the valley on her right; go down to the left; or turn and go back the way she had come.

Camille stopped the car, climbed out, and examined the treads. They were embedded to a depth of a few inches, but there was no danger that they would lock permanently in the bubble-grained ice. She set off on foot down the left-hand slope and found that it easily held her weight. Behind her, the impression of her suit's boots left only a faint indentation, maybe a centimeter deep. She continued almost all the way to the valley floor and found it easy going. On the other side of the long depression there was an equally gentle slope, leading up to another powdery dark ridge.

She started back. It would do. And if she had to, she could always ascend the slope once more and try the right-hand side.

She started the car again, but instead of heading directly down the slope as she had done on foot, she angled it so that she would be making some forward progress at the same time.

It went easily for twenty meters. Then the car began canting to the left, and the tilt steadily became more pronounced. The weight on that side was driving the treads deeper. The farther the car inclined, the greater the imbalance of left and right.

But Camille was not greatly worried. If she had to, she would simply halt her forward progress and go into steady reverse. And if, in the worst possible case, the car became totally jammed in the ice, Blowhole was within walking distance of anyone with the protection of a suit.

The first inkling that there might be more to it than that came when the car began to descend into the ice, quite steadily and at a fixed angle. Camille realized that she had struck a patch of ultra-porous and weak surface, crumbling and soft enough for the whole car to sink into it as much as a meter.

Or two meters.

But still she did not realize the full extent of the trouble that she was in. Only when the view from the forward screen vanished, in favor of a dirty grey frost, did she wonder how far this could go.

She turned off the engine, and the only sounds in the car were those of the scrape and creak of ice, fracturing and failing beneath the car. That sound ended, but it was no relief. Camille was suddenly in free-fall for what felt like minutes; she later calculated that it was for just over three seconds.

The car landed with a final crunch, hard enough to jolt her but not to injure her. She was at last sitting level, and she heard and felt no sign of further settling.

Camille waited for a full minute to be completely sure. The car door slid open easily enough, but she was facing a wall of grey ice. In order to get out, she had to crawl to the rear and open the hatch that led through the roof.