Heart of the Comet Page 6

  Plateau Three was a dream, a political issue, an economic sore point, a faith—all rolled into one. But big rotating colonies were possible now. The colonists now looked on the Birth and Childhood Rules as symbols of apronstrings they had long out-grown. They wanted to exploit the rocky asteroids and moons, but needed volatiles as well, for propellants and for biospheres. They’d even funded a small Ganymede ice mine, but that hadn’t worked out well.

  Some saw comets as the key, and fervently believed that humans could scatter through the solar system like dandelion seeds, if they could only learn to herd the ancient snowballs to orbits where they were usable.

  Virginia leaned back languidly in her web-chair. “You can’t expect Mother Earth to let go so easily.”

  “They have everything to gain! We’ll bring them asteroids galore, raw materials, provide new markets—”

  She held up her palm. “Please, I know the litany.” An amused expression of feigned longsuffering patience flitted across her face, instantly disarming him. Perhaps It wasn’t t intended that way, but with a single gesture she could make him see himself as gawky, thick-wilted, too obvious. Well, maybe I am. I’ve lived in space over half my adult life. ,

  “Just ‘cause it’s familiar doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

  “Carl, do you really think mining comets for volatiles is going to ring in the millennium?”

  “Where else can we get cheap fluids?” To him this was the trump card, a cold economic fact. At the very beginning of the solar system, the hot young sun had blown most of the light elements outward, away from the inner solar system. Only Earth had retained enough volatile elements to clothe its rocky mantle with a thin skin of air and water. When humans ventured into space to exploit the resources there,—asteroids, the moon, Mars-they had to haul their liquids up from Earth.

  “Sure,” Virginia said. “Get ice from comets! In eighty years we’ll be back, Hail the conquering heroes! But by then somebody may’ve discovered frozen lakes deep in our own moon. Or even found a cheap way to chip iceteroids out of the Jovian moons—who knows?”

  Carl was startled. “That’s crazy! No way you can pay the expense of dipping into Jupiter’s grav well, just for water and ice. Jupiter Project is proving that.”

  She smiled impishly. “So? Chasing comets is easier?”

  Her dark eyes teased, and Carl knew it, but he couldn’t let go.

  “It’s worth a try, Virginia. Nobody’ll find a way to steer comets unless we make the outgassing method work. Nobody’ll find volatiles hiding on the moon or Venus because they’ve been baked out. You can’t prospect and mine the asteroids with mechs alone—because finding metals is still a craft, not a science. Dried-up comets like Encke can’t be herded precisely because there’s no way to use their outgassing to steer them. So—”

  “I surrender, I surrender!” She held both hands high.

  Carl blinked. Oh hell, he thought. Why do I always get carried away?

  A deep male voice said from over Carl’s shoulder, “Do not rush into defeat, Virginia. Ask for reinforcements first.”

  Carl turned as Saul Lintz settled into a soft green web-chair nearby and put his drink into a hold notch on their table. He was lean and weathered, his movements in low gravity deliberate.

  “You’re too late,” Carl said, searching for something witty to say to redeem himself. “She’s already conceded that I’m a bore.”

  “Then my help is unneeded.” Saul chuckled as he said this, but Carl felt a quick jolt of irritation.

  “I was arguing that we’re all going to get rich out of this expedition, if we’re patient,” Carl said evenly. “And we should leave politics behind us.”

  Saul nodded, took a long pull at his drink. “Admirable sentiments.”

  “We’ve got to. Halley Core is too small for the kind of petty-”

  “Insert coin for Lecture Twelve,” Virginia said lightly.

  “Well, it’s true.” Carl did not know how to take her, didn’t like the way her attention had swerved to Saul Lintz the moment he joined them. She had turned halfway in her chair, nearly facing Saul, and barely glanced back as Carl finished. “And any hints that some people are going to profit more than the rest of us—well it’ll cause trouble “

  Saul lifted an inquiring eyebrow. He seemed to know how to comment on what you’d said with a minimal gesture or shrug, an economy of expression Carl envied.

  ‘He refers to scuttlebutt below decks,” Virginia explained. “The fact that, ah, non-Percells hold all the important slots.”

  “Non-Percells such as myself?”

  “Now that you mention it,” Carl said.

  “Seniority. After all, none of you genetically preselected people are over forty.”

  “You sure that’s all?” Carl leaned forward, hands knitted together, elbows on knees.

  The older man frowned, sensing something in Carl’s voice. “What else do you think it could be?”

  “How about Earthside not wanting any of us where we could make trouble?”

  Saul carefully put his drink down and sat back. “Exiles are ill powered to cause Pharaoh grief,” he said as if to himself.

  The remark seemed irritatingly opaque to Carl. “Why don’t you just answer my question?”

  “Was that a question? It sounded like an accusation.”

  Carl’s voice had been more harsh than he had planned, but he’d be damned if he’d back down now. “Look at Life Support Installation, my group. Our section head is Suleiman Ould-Harrad, an…..”

  “Ortho?” Saul supplied quietly.

  “Well, that’s the slang, yeah.”

  “So he is. Genetically orthodox.” Saul leaned back, making a steeple of his fingers “Meaning an untampered zygotic mix from the sea of human genes-no more. Genes do not carry opinions.”

  Carl shook his head. He disliked the pedantic manner the scientists always adopted, as if all that jargon made them better, smarter, wiser. “Look—the outgassing work, the slot studies—all in the hands of . . . you people.”

  “So you surmise that they will clutch these fruits to themselves? To sell their skills upon our return?”

  Virginia said mildly, “It’s not an impossible scenario, Saul.”

  Saul looked surprised to hear this coming from her. “I’m afraid for me it is. The direct implication that there is some conspiracy of the normal contingent—”

  “See?” Carl pounced. “He calls his people `normal’—so we’re not.”

  Saul said stiffly, “I did not mean it that way.”

  “That’s the way it came out.”

  Virginia said, “Carl, you can’t jump on every—”

  “I’m not. I’m just looking to see if where there’s smoke there’s fire.” He felt warm, gulped his drink.

  Saul paused, running his tongue meditatively over his lower lip. “Let me begin afresh. Carl, if you knew anything about me, you would understand that I am not hostile to you people. Precisely the opposite, in fact.” He looked steadily at Carl. “I suppose you would find out sooner or later anyway . . . I worked for years with Simon Percell. “

  Carl was stunned. Virginia gasped and said, “You did? I’d heard rumors, but . . . I didn’t believe them.”

  “Merely as a postdoc.” Saul shrugged. “Our last project together studied deviations in the activation level of lupus erythematosus. You may remember that was one of the principal diseases Percell freed you people from. That awful, untreatable thing that attacked skin, connective tissue, spleen, kidneys.”

  Virginia nodded. “My mother died from it.”

  “Yes,” Saul said. “And your grandmother as well.”

  Virginia’s lips pursed in surprise. Saul shrugged. “I remember your case. Simon carried out the necessary alterations of your mother’s DNA while I was first learning the techniques.”

  Virginia leaned forward. “Did you . . .”

  “Do the actual work? I cannot remember, honestly. I performed as assistant for marry gene-tail
oring methods, some experimental, some fairly straightforward.”

  “Then you . . . could be . . .”

  Saul blinked, sitting back in his chair, avoiding her rapt gaze. “It was a purely mechanical task by that time. Very little research to it, other than my part. I did studies of how the resulting . . . cells . . . responded to chemical incursions which, for normal lupus, would cause a spontaneous rise in the disease.”

  Virginia said slowly, “And mine . . . did not?”

  “Obviously, you were one of our successes. You have no trace of lupus, I trust?”

  She shook her head. “Because of you.”

  “No; Simon Percell. I merely went to him to learn his techniques. It was during those few years when he enjoyed full support, when all things were possible. Or so we thought.”

  Carl said, “Still . . . I didn’t know you’d worked with Percell.” He felt chagrined. Saul had probably been present when Carl’s mother’s genes were delicately trimmed, freed of the microscopic molecular constellation that carried heritable leukemia. Then the gene wizards had added expert snippets of DNA to give him the suite of physical improvements that now marked every Percell. To Carl, that small, brave band of genetic engineers was legendary. He had never met one before.

  Saul crossed his legs, smoothed his pants leg, visibly uncomfortable. Carl realized that the man must have been through similar meetings often, and was wary of the pent-up emotion that might burst forth from any Percell.

  “I . . . I’m sorry about what I said,” Carl murmured.

  Saul nodded silently. He, too, was holding feelings behind a tight-lipped dam.

  Virginia’s eyes brimmed. “You . . . could be . . .

  Carl saw that she wanted to say You are my father, too but could find no way to state the complex blend of emotions she felt. Saul had helped give life to thousands who would have been blighted, killed, maimed. Those years could not be forgotten—except by the braying, suspicious, hate-filled majority Earthside.

  That kind had killed Percell, as surely as if they had pressed the muzzle of the .32 revolver to his temple. Simon Percell himself had pulled the trigger, driven into a depression over what was now obviously an unavoidable mistake.

  One gene-editing error in a treatment to eliminate an inheritable kidney disease had killed an entire year’s program of children.

  Worse, they had not died until the age of three. Then it struck suddenly.

  The sight of so many writhing in agony, yellow-skinned and gnarled, their kidney and liver functions stopped abruptly—it had been torture. Media bigots flashed the images around the globe. Coupled with the growing public chorus against him, the threats of prosecution, and the sudden cuts in his research support, it had been too much for a man who held himself to the very highest standards.

  Carl shook himself. It was still so easy to touch off the memories. His own mother dying miserably. The years of waiting to see if he, too, would begin to show the signs. The final liberation when he knew it was all right, that he could go into space with a clean genetic record. Those memories cut deeply in him still.

  “I . . . Look, let me buy you another drink,” Carl said lamely.

  “Why, sure,” Saul said with a wobbly smile.

  “Maybe a chess game later?”

  “Certainly!” Saul said heartily. “This time, no quarter I’m defending the honor of normal people.” The Saul paused, quickly turned aside, and sneezed. Both Carl and Virginia jumped slightly. Then they all laughed, the tension relieved.

  “Well now,” Saul said expansively as he put away his handkerchief “that’s one Percell modification I will take credit for. Tailoring in a suppression of the histamic response. Doesn’t do me any good, but you people don’t suffer as I do from pesky colds. I’ll be envying you every time Akio Matsudo releases one of his damn challenge viruses!”

  But years afterward, Carl would well remember that convulsive, startling eruption, the first—but certainly not the last—time he had heard Saul’s explosive sneeze.

  SAUL

  Newsflash—WorldNet4—The International Olympic Committee, meeting today in Tokyo, bowed to pressure from the League of the Arc of the Sun and voted to bar genetically altered persons—so-called “Percells”—from participating in the 2064 Games in Lagos.

  Members of the Progressive Bloc were the only nations to vote in opposition to the proposal. Bloc leaders Denmark, Hawaii, Indonesia, Texas, and the NearEarth Cluster emphasized their objections by withdrawing from the competition, which now promises to be the most controversial since the fractious Olympics of 2036.

  Said IOC chairman Asoka Barawayandre, “The decision of these particular territories is no great surprise. They have received great numbers of Percells as immigrants from lands that no longer welcome that kind. Their national sports teams were already compromised by this questionable element.”

  Members abstaining included Greater Russia, the United States of America, Royal Wales, Soviet Georgia, and the Diasporic Federation.

  Observers expect the decision will be appealed to the World Court.

  Saul finished reading the printout and looked up at the man who had thrust it upon him.

  “For this you waste paper in a printout, Joao? You could have fast-faxed it to my console just as easily.”

  Joao Quiverian was a slender, sallow-faced man with an untamable shock of black hair and a Roman, almost hawklike ornament of a nose. The man was not distracted by Saul’s banter. He insisted on an answer.

  “You’d just ignore a fast-fax. I want to know right away what you think of this vote, Saul.”

  “Where does my opinion matter?” Saul shrugged. “I’m disappointed the Diaspora only abstained. A worldwide federation of refugee peoples ought to take a stand on something like this. But they’re trying so hard to win acceptance that it’s really no surprise.” He handed back the sheet. “Other than that, I’d say the world is acting true to form.”

  The answer obviously did not satisfy Joao, who had been made chief planetologist only three weeks ago when a freak accident killed Professor Lehman. Saul knew this had to be a frustrating time for the Brazilian, anyway. Here he was, only a few score kilometers from a truly great comet, and orders were that science would have to give way to engineering for weeks to come.

  Quiverian had to rely on part-time help from Saul and a few other “amateur cometologists” who had been trained in the field as a second specialty. No doubt he looked forward to the awakening of some of the sleepers from the slot tugs and discussing cometary arcana with fully accredited peers.

  Saul generally got along with the man, as long as they were discussing the primordial matter of the ancient solar system. This time, however, Quiverian was in a political mood.

  “Come now, Saul. This news from Earth is important, a milestone! I had expected more out of you. An indignant protest. Perhaps a declaration that Percells are actually human beings.”

  Saul was here in the planetology lab to help analyze the delicate ice cores the spacers were bringing back from Halley—the “second hat” he had been assigned because of his laboratory skills. He had not come to be goaded by Quiverian. He looped his left foot under the chair stanchion. “Come on, Joao, you wanted me to examine some organic inclusions for you. Let’s look at the sample.”

  He held out his hand for the slender, sealed, eight-foot tube the Brazilian had laid on the table behind him.

  But Quiverian was insistent “Nobody’s saying that these poor mutants are unhuman. Only that they were a horrible mistake. You cannot blame the people of Earth-with the nations of the Arc of the Sun in the vanguard-for calling for controls.

  “I see.” Saul nodded. “Controls like banning Percells from the Olympics. What’s next, Joao? Segregated restrooms? Special drinking fountains? Ghettoes?”

  Quiverian smiled. “Oh, Saul. It wasn’t just those athletic records a few Percells had broken—freakish performances that raised the ire of millions. Those were only the last straw. Your creation
s—”

  “Not my creations.” Saul shook his head insistently.

  Quiverian held up a hand. “Very well, Simon Percell’s creatures—his monsters—these people are living reminders of the arrogance of twentieth-century northern science, which nearly destroyed the world!”

  Saul sighed. “Come on, Joao. You can’t blame science and the Old North for everything. True, they used up more than their share of resources, but you talk as if the nations of the Arc were completely guiltless for the Hell Century. After all, who cut down the tropical forests in spite of all the warnings? Who raised the carbon dioxide levels—”

  Quiverian interrupted him, red-faced: “You think I am unaware of that, Saul? Look at my homeland, Brazil. Only now, after massive struggle, are we beginning to recover from an environmental holocaust which wiped out a third of the Earth’s species . . . all sacrificed at the altar of thoughtless greed.”

  “Very well, then the guilt is distributed—’

  “Yes, certainly. But technology itself was partly at fault! We simply barged ahead with the best of intentions”—Quiverian arched his eyebrows sardonically—”doing good to the detriment of Nature herself!”

  Obviously, the man believed this, passionately. Saul found it ironic. Back before the turn of the century, the nations of the Old North had preached environmentalism to an unheeding Third World—after already reaping most of the planet’s accessible wealth. Now, the pendulum had swung. The equatorial peoples in the Arc of the Sun seemed obsessed with a mystic passion for nature that would have astonished their land-hungry grandparents.

  Why must conversions always come so late? Why do people apologize to corpses?

  He was spared having to reply as a thickly accented voice rose from beyond a table stacked high with core samples.