Moonseed (5 page)

“I was trying to advance my career. What else?”

“At my expense?”

“Look, Henry, it could be worse. You got your lunar bedrock, haven’t you? The most important unanalyzed Apollo sample left, so they tell me.”

“86047? It’s a piece of shit.”

“How can you say that? It’s
bedrock.
”

“But that asshole Jays Malone didn’t do his documen
tation right. I don’t have the context.”

She knew enough geology to understand him. The geologists had been complaining about the astronauts’ performance on the Moon since 1969. Without its context—knowing exactly where a sample had come from, how it was positioned, all the rest—a rock’s value was hugely diminished, for a geologist. Maybe that was why they fobbed off Henry with it.

He was still talking.

“…And I have to go to Edinburgh to work on it. The only place that would have me.”

“Come on, Henry.”

“Where the hell is Scotland anyhow?” He waved an arm vaguely. “Some Scandinavian country, thataway somewhere.”

“You need a change, Henry. A career break. Face it. All this bitterness—”

“The thing of it is,
we’ll never know.
Don’t you get it yet, Geena? We’ll never know, about the South Pole ice. Not in my working lifetime. That’s what is killing me.”

She tried to focus, to stay sympathetic, but her attention drifted.

She’d heard this before, too.

Was this the definition of the end of a relationship? When you’ve heard everything the other person has to say—not once, but many times?

She started to think ahead to her appointments later in the day.

Henry had, she realized guiltily, stopped talking.

He turned, and walked back to his work.

The
Shoemaker
had been Henry’s project, the centerpiece of his career. It had actually got farther than most. Two prototype landers had been built for real, by the Jet Propulsion laboratory out in Pasadena. Now, as far as she knew, they were being put in storage, or maybe cannibalized for other missions…

For the
Shoemaker
program had been canned. The
manned program—delays to the Space Station, cancellations by the cash-strapped Russians—had taken too much out of NASA’s budget.

It had always been thus, Geena knew. A single Shuttle launch, of whatever value, cost as much as both Henry’s unmanned science missions put together.

The project on 86047 was no sop, though. The mother rock was being broken up and sent around the world to top geophysics labs for independent analysis. Edinburgh was just such a lab. They’d done the same, for instance, with the famous meteorite from Mars which had looked as if it held life traces; Edinburgh had got a piece of that too.

And Henry was being sent along with the rock. There was valuable work to be done here, genuine research. But…

But she’d been with him long enough to understand how he felt.

The cancellation of
Shoemaker
was like the cancellation of his whole career; it meant he wasn’t likely to meet the long-term objectives he had set himself, like all scientists, objectives which underlay his choice of particular projects.

Digging aimlessly into 86047 was, by comparison, no consolation.

The visitors were still here. A tech opened a cylindrical case inside a glove box, and pulled out a Moon rock: small, fist-sized, nondescript, sawn in half. Geena could see the vertical burns of the saw. The visitor had his picture taken with it, his grinning face outside the glass, the rock held by a black-gloved hand inside the glass, the camera angled so as to avoid the flash’s reflection from the glass.

And in the sterile light of the lab, the ancient rocks from the Moon—many of them older by a billion years than
any
rock that had survived on Earth—sat, wizened and lumpy and willfully irregular, like resentful old men in a rest home.

3

Monica Beus was with Alfred Synge, on the Hawaiian island of Oahu.

She emerged from the dark crater into the blinding light of the sun. She pulled on her sunglasses and checked her floppy hat. She’d snapped Alfred’s head off when he showed up with this big hat for her. For the sun, he said. But he was right, of course; the chemotherapy had left her so bald her scalp would fry like an egg, and she was too damned stubborn, naturally, to wear a wig.

So be it. She wore the damn hat, and forgave Alfred for his residual love for her.

Breathing hard from the climb, she clambered on top of an old gun emplacement with a bunch of other tourists and studied the view.

She was at the highest part of Diamond Head crater, here on Oahu. She was surrounded on three sides by Pacific Ocean. The water was royal blue, laced with whitecaps, in its beauty showing no signs of the problems Venus had brought: the plankton die-backs, the collapse of the food chain in some parts of the oceans, depletion of stocks of fish and mammals. In the south she could see windsurfers skimming over the waves, radiation-proof skinsuits gleaming, their elegance and speed a balance between forces, aerodynamic and gravitational. In the west, the sun was already dropping toward the horizon. To the north the Miracle Mile along Waikiki Beach was a thin, golden strip of sand walled off from the interior by slab-like high-rise hotels. Sun, sand, sea, tourists.

And when she looked back she could see into the crater of a volcano two million years dead.

They found a seat. Alfred dug under his poncho and pulled out a laptop; without preamble, he started showing her images of Venus.

“Before and after,” he said dryly. He retrieved a classic Venus-from-space image, the featureless pool ball.
“Venus was our neighbor,” he said. “At its closest, only a hundred times as far away as the Moon. And it wasn’t so different from Earth in size. But that’s as good as it gets. Otherwise, it was a hell-hole. Fifty miles of carbon dioxide, laced with a little sulphuric acid. So hot the rocks
glowed,
dull orange.”

He showed her surface images, craters and domes and valleys and mountains, constructed from a radar survey by the
Magellan
spacecraft. “Venus was covered by volcanism. There were flood lavas and volcanic cones and domes, and other features which don’t have any analogues on Earth. We didn’t see plate tectonics, like Earth; we think Venus was a one-plate planet dominated by hot-spot volcanism. My favorite hypothesis is that there was a catastrophic global resurfacing every half-billion years.”

“A what?”

“The crust melting, globally. There are problems with the heat flow from the interior otherwise…It would be like five hundred million years of geology crammed into a few centuries. Now,” he said. “
After.
An image taken by the Hubble this morning.”

There was no evidence of a spherical shape. She made out a crudely defined, blurred oval, with extensive tails, like a comet’s.

Alfred said, “You’re looking at a cloud of atmospheric gas, mostly frozen, and ground-up rock.”

“The rock’s from the surface?”

“Mostly the mantle, as far as we can tell. Most of the mass is still concentrated near the point where the center of gravity of the planet used to be. We tried radar pulses from Arecibo, and…Well. Monica, we can’t find a solid object there any more. The substance of the planet is spreading out along the orbit. The ring probably won’t stay stable; the perturbation by Earth’s gravity will—”

“Hold it. Alfred, I can’t follow you. You’re saying that Venus no longer exists.”

“Not as a coherent solid, no.”

“That’s impossible. How much energy would it take to destroy a
planet
?”

He considered. “Well, roughly speaking, you would have to lift every piece of rock to escape velocity, out of Venus’s own gravity well. There’s a quantity called the gravitational binding energy…For Venus, which had eighty percent of Earth’s mass, it works out as ten to power thirty-two joules—umm, something like a thousand billion times our nuclear arsenal.”

“Just for the record, we aren’t talking about your global volcanic resurfacing here, are we?”

He smiled. “Even that would be quite a spectacle, if it occurred in the lifetime of this astronomer. But no, it’s orders of magnitude beyond that.” He rubbed his nose, smearing the gaudy sun block there. “Those are big numbers. But there’s another way of looking at it. If you consider the energy
density
required, averaged over the planet’s volume, it isn’t so high. Something like a tanker of gas per cubic yard or so, I guess.”

“What are you telling me?”

“We think we are looking at some funny physics over there, Monica. Which is why you and the rest of the particle physicists are going to have to work on this with us.”

“Funny physics?”

“Look at this.” He pulled up results from a cosmic ray detector, tracks left in bubble chambers, accompanying analysis. “We’ve found some strange products from the Venus event. Some exotic beasties, escaping from that particular zoo. Have you seen this result?”

A spiderweb of tracks, of splits and decay events and spirals and tiny explosions.

She whistled. “No. I’d
remember.
”

“Well, the results haven’t made it onto the nets yet. The authors are still checking.”

“I don’t blame them,” she said. “If this is right—”

“You’re looking at a particle with a charge a fraction of an electron’s. Which is something we’ve never seen before.”

“And this mass—” She looked at him. “Alfred, this is the signature of an elementary particle with a fractional charge, and the mass of a
bacterium.
Now, what processes do we know of which could produce such a thing?”

“We don’t know of anything since the Big Bang.” He studied her. “We’re measuring the symptoms here. Guessing at a cause isn’t so easy.”

“A cause?”

“A purpose, then. Something has taken Venus apart. It seems to have transformed the planet’s own mass energy to use against it.” He grinned, uneasily. “We’re speculating. Maybe there is something out there that doesn’t like planets, deep gravity wells. Something that prefers thin matter clouds. Like the primordial cloud from which the Solar System formed in the first place.”

“
Something?
You make it sound as if this was somehow deliberate.”

He didn’t reply to that.

“Listen,” he said. “We’re on Hawaii. We should have ice cream. You want some ice cream?”

She shrugged, indifferent, and he went anyway.

After the Venus event Alfred had come here to the islands to work at the observatory on the summit of Mauna Kea, fourteen thousand feet above sea level. Up there, the air was so rarefied it was as clear a sky as anywhere on Earth, but human lungs only received forty percent of their normal intake of oxygen. Nobody slept at the summit; the astronomers came down four thousand feet every dawn to sleep over at Hale Pohaku.

Alfred had come down to meet her. Monica knew there was no way she would be able to tolerate the summit conditions.

Thus, death was already closing in on her, already cutting the options available to her, the circles closing in. She would never see another mountaintop.

Bullshit, she thought.

She tried to focus on Hawaii.

This island, Oahu, was dying too, though a little more slowly than she was. It had bloomed out of the sea in a fiery birth, amid gouts of lava and steam. But every year erosion dragged it down toward the water, and there was nothing, no process, to restore it.

It had happened before. There was a flaw in Earth’s mantle here, a great plume of magma which had welled up steadily for a hundred million years. It had generated Oahu; right now the Big Island was over the plume, and was being pushed toward the sky by that lithic fountain. But the relentless sliding of the tectonic plates beneath the Pacific would eventually, in a few million years, take the Big Island away from the plume. The volcano at its heart would die, and the island would be abandoned to the forces of erosion.

Thus there was a chain of dying islands tailing off to the northwest, Oahu and Kauai and Niihau, and beyond that a trail of corpses, nameless undersea mountains, each of which had once been a paradise of forests and beaches, just like this one.

Somehow it seemed an appropriate place to come to talk about the death of Venus.

Alfred returned, bearing two immense cones of ice cream. He was wearing a broad, floppy hat, a garish shirt, and shorts that made his legs look as if he had spent ten years in space.

They found a seat, and ate up the ice cream companionably.

Small talk:
How are Garry and your grandkids? Fine, Alfred, when I get to see them…he’s flying out of Edwards now…I don’t think Jenine is enjoying life as an Air Force wife…

She let her attention drift. A part of her mind was already composing the report she would have to pass up to the Administration.

She wondered about telling the President about the funny physics results. Was it appropriate to include something so exotic, something nobody yet understood, some
thing it wasn’t even possible yet to check?

On the other hand, she thought bleakly, suppose Alfred’s wilder speculations have some bearing on reality. If there is something loose in the Solar System, something
transforming,
something powerful enough to destroy a planet like Venus—won’t it be seen immediately in terms of a threat to the Earth?

And if it was a threat, how could they possibly deal with it, even recognize it?

“You know,” Alfred was saying around his ice cream, “no matter what the other implications of this event, one thing’s for sure.”

“What?”

“We’ve lost Venus. Forever. Although I suppose the truth is we lost it a long time ago, when the first space probes got there. I’m old enough to remember—”

“You’re younger than
me,
Alfred.”

“—when Arrhenius’s theory was still the paradigm. He thought the clouds were water droplets. The land was choked by swamps. A hothouse, with amphibians and dinosaurs and cavemen. Even later, when it became clear from the spectroscopic evidence there was no water in the cloud tops, we still thought there might be a loophole. Maybe a world-spanning ocean of Perrier water. Or seas of oil. Why the hell not?