Arthur Clarke - 2061 - Odyssey Three

'Bill,' he said, 'what do you think?'

His son (steady and reliable, but lacking that vital spark which was perhaps no longer needed in this generation) gave him the answer he expected.

'The theory is quite sound. Universe can do it – on paper. But we've lost one ship. We'll be risking another.'

'She's going to Jupiter – Lucifer – anyway.'

'Yes – but after a complete checkout in Earth orbit. And do you realize what this proposed direct mission will involve? She'll be smashing all speed records – doing over a thousand kilometres a second at turnaround!'

It was the worst thing he could possibly have said; once again the thunder of hooves sounded in his father's ears.

But Sir Lawrence merely answered: 'It won't do any harm for them to make some tests, though Captain Smith is fighting the idea tooth and nail. Even threatens to resign. Meanwhile, just check the position with Lloyd's – we may have to back down on the Galaxy claim.'

Especially, he might have added, if we're going to throw Universe on to the table, as an even bigger chip.

And he was worried about Captain Smith. Now that Laplace was stranded on Europa, he was the best commander he had left.

'Sloppiest job I've seen since I left college,' grumbled the Chief Engineer. 'But it's the best we can do in the time.'

The makeshift pipeline stretched across fifty metres of dazzling, chemical-encrusted rock to the now quiescent vent of Old Faithful, where it ended in a rectangular, downward-pointing funnel. The sun had just risen over the hills, and already the ground had begun to tremble slightly as the geyser's subterranean – or subhallean – reservoirs felt the first touch of warmth.

Watching from the observation lounge, Heywood Floyd could hardly believe that so much had happened in a mere twenty-four hours. First of all, the ship had split into two rival factions – one led by the Captain, the other perforce headed by himself. They had been coldly polite to each other, and there had been no actual exchange of blows; but he had discovered that in certain quarters he now rejoiced in the nickname of 'Suicide' Floyd. It was not an honour that he particularly appreciated.

Yet no-one could find anything fundamentally wrong with the Floyd-Jolson manoeuvre. (That name was also unfair: he had insisted that Jolson get all the credit, but no-one had listened. And Mihailovich had said: 'Aren't you prepared to share the blame?')

The first test would be in twenty minutes, when Old Faithful, rather belatedly, greeted the dawn. But even if that worked, and the propellant tanks started to fill with sparkling pure water rather than the muddy slurry Captain Smith had predicted, the road to Europa was still not open.

A minor, but not unimportant, factor was the wishes of the distinguished passengers. They had expected to be home within two weeks; now, to their surprise and in some cases consternation, they were faced with the prospect of a dangerous mission halfway across the Solar System – and, even if it succeeded, no firm date for a return to Earth.

Willis was distraught; all his schedules would be totally wrecked. He drifted around muttering about lawsuits, but no-one expressed the slightest sympathy.

Greenburg, on the other hand, was ecstatic; now he would really be in the space business again! And Mihailovich – who spent a lot of time noisily composing in his far from soundproof cabin – was almost equally delighted. He was sure that the diversion would inspire him to new heights of creativity.

Maggie M was philosophical: 'If it can save a lot of lives,' she said, looking pointedly at Willis, 'how can anyone possibly object?'

As for Yva Merlin, Floyd made a special effort to explain matters to her, and discovered that she understood the situation remarkably well. And it was Yva, to his utter astonishment, who asked the question to which no-one else seemed to have paid much attention: 'Suppose the Europans don't want us to land – even to rescue our friends?'

Floyd looked at her in frank amazement; even now, he still found it difficult to accept her as a real human being, and never knew when she would come out with some brilliant insight or utter stupidity.

'That's a very good question, Yva. Believe me, I'm working on it.'

He was telling the truth; he could never lie to Yva Merlin. That, somehow, would be an act of sacrilege.

The first wisps of vapour were appearing over the mouth of the geyser. They shot upwards and away in their unnatural vacuum trajectories, and evaporated swiftly in the fierce Sunlight.

Old Faithful coughed again, and cleared its throat. A snowy-white – and surprisingly compact – column of ice crystals and water droplets climbed swiftly towards the sky. All one's terrestrial instincts expected it to topple and fall, but of course it did not. It continued onwards and upwards, spreading only slightly, until it merged into the vast, glowing envelope of the comet's still expanding coma. Floyd noted, with satisfaction, that the pipeline was beginning to shake as fluid rushed into it.

Ten minutes later, there was a council of war on the bridge. Captain Smith, still in a huff, acknowledged Floyd's presence with a slight nod; his Number Two, a little embarrassed, did all the talking.

'Well, it works, surprisingly well. At this rate, we can fill our tanks in twenty hours – though we may have to go out and anchor the pipe more securely.'

'What about the dirt?' someone asked.

The First Officer held up a transparent squeeze-bulb holding a colourless liquid.

'The filters got rid of everything down to a few microns, To be on the safe side, we'll run through them twice, cycling from one tank to another. No swimming pool, I'm afraid, until we pass Mars.'

That got a much needed laugh, and even the Captain relaxed a little.

'We'll run up the engines, at minimum thrust, to check that there are no operational anomalies with Halley H20. If there are, we'll forget the whole idea, and head home on good old Moon water, fob Aristarchus.'

There was one of those 'party silences' where everyone waits simultaneously for someone else to speak. Then Captain Smith broke the embarrassing hiatus.

'As you all know,' he said, 'I'm very unhappy with the whole idea. In fact – ' he changed course abruptly; it was equally well-known that he had considered sending Sir Lawrence his resignation, though in the circumstances that would have been a somewhat pointless gesture.

'But a couple of things have happened in the last few hours. The owner agrees with the project – if no fundamental objections emerge from our tests. And – this is the big surprise, and I don't know any more about it than you do – the World Space Council has not only okayed but requested that we make the diversion, underwriting any expenses incurred. Your guess is as good as mine...

'But I still have one worry -' he looked doubtfully at the little bulb of water, which Heywood Floyd was now holding up to the light and shaking gently. 'I'm an engineer, not a damn chemist. This stuff looks clean – but what will it do to the tank linings?'

Floyd never quite understood why he acted as he did; such rashness was completely uncharacteristic. Perhaps he was simply impatient with the whole debate, and wanted to get on with the job. Or perhaps he felt that the Captain needed a little stiffening of the moral fibre.

With one quick movement, he flicked open the stopcock and squirted approximately 20cc of Halley's Comet down his throat.

'There's your answer, Captain,' he said, when he had finished swallowing.

'And that,' said the ship's doctor half an hour later, 'was one of the silliest exhibitions I've ever seen. Don't you know that there are cyanides and cyanogens and God knows what else in that stuff?'