Ben Bova: Jupiter

“And after the four years is over we can apply to have a child,” Grant said.

“A boy,” said Marjorie.

“Don’t you want a daughter?”

“Afterward. After I learn how to be a mother. Then we can have a daughter.”

He smiled in the darkness of their bedroom and kissed her and they made love. It was a safe time of Marjorie’s cycle.

They both graduated with high honors; Grant was actually first in his class. Marjorie received her Public Service commission with the Peacekeepers, as expected. Grant, though, was shocked when his orders sent him not to the Farside Observatory on the Moon but to Research Station Thomas Gold, in orbit around Jupiter, more than seven hundred million kilometers from Marjorie at its closest approach to Earth.

Grant’s father counseled patience.

“If that’s where they want to send you, they must have their reasons. You’ll simply have to accept it, son.”

Grant found that he could not accept it. There was no patience in him, despite earnest prayers. His father had been a meek and accepting man all his life, and what had it gotten him? Obscurity, genteel poverty, and condescending smiles behind his back. That’s not for me, Grant told himself.

Despite his father’s conciliatory advice, Grant fought his assignment all the way up to the regional director of the New Morality’s Northeast office.

“I can’t spend four years at Jupiter,” he insisted. “I’m a married man! I can’t be that far away for four years! Besides, I’m an astrophysicist, and there’s no need for my specialty at Jupiter. I’ll be wasting four years! How can I work on my doctorate when there’s no astrophysics being done there?”

The regional director sat behind a massive oak desk strewn with papers, tensely upright in his high-backed chair, his lean, long-fingered hands steepled before him as Grant babbled on. His name was Ellis Beech. He was a serious-looking African American with dark skin the color of sooty smoke. His face was thin, long with a pointed chin; his eyes were tawny, somber, focused intently on Grant without wavering all through his urgent, pleading tirade.

At last Grant ran out of words. He didn’t know what more he could say. He had tried to control his anger, but he was certain he’d raised his voice unconscionably and betrayed the resentment and aggravation he felt. Never show anger, his father had counseled him. Be calm, be reasonable. Anger begets anger; you want to sway him to your point of view, not antagonize him.

Grant slumped back in his chair, waiting for some reaction from the regional director. The man didn’t look antagonized. To Grant’s eyes, he looked as if he hadn’t heard half of what Grant had said. Beech’s desk was cluttered with paper, from flimsy single sheets to thick volumes bound in red covers; his computer screen flickered annoyingly; he was obviously a very important and very busy person, yet his phone had not beeped once since Grant had been ushered into the warmly paneled, carpeted office.

“I was supposed to go to Farside,” Grant muttered, trying to get some response out of the brooding man behind the desk.

“I’m fully aware of that,” Beech said at last. Then he added, “But unfortunately you are needed at Jupiter.”

“How could I be needed—”

“Let me explain the situation to you, young man.”

Grant nodded.

“The scientists have had their research station in Jupiter orbit for nearly twenty years,” Beech said, stressing the word “scientists” ever so slightly. “They have been poking around with the life-forms that exist on two of the planet’s moons.”

“Three,” Grant corrected without thinking. “Plus they’ve found life-forms in Jupiter’s atmosphere, as well.”

Beech continued, unfazed. “The work these scientists do is enormously expensive. They are spending money that could be much better used to help the poor and disadvantaged here on Earth.”

Before Grant could respond, Beech raised a silencing hand. “Yet we of the New Morality do not object to their work. Even though many of those scientists are doing everything they can to try to disprove the truth of Scripture, we allow them to continue their godless pursuits.”

Grant didn’t think that studying the highly adapted algae and microbes living in the ice-covered seas of the Jovian moons was a godless pursuit. How could any attempt to understand the fullness of God’s creation be considered godless?

“Why do we not object to this enormously expensive waste of funds and effort?” Beech asked rhetorically. “Because we of the New Morality and similar Godfearing organizations in other nations have seen fit to establish a compromise with the International Astronautical Authority—and the global financial power structure, as well, I might add.”

“Compromise?” Grant wondered aloud.

“Fusion,” said Beech. “Thermonuclear fusion. The world’s economic well-being depends on fusion power plants. Without the energy from fusion, our world would sink back into the poverty and chaos and corruption that spawned wars and terrorism in earlier years. With fusion, we are lifting the standards of living for even the poorest of the poor, bringing hope and salvation to the darkest corners of the Earth.”

Grant thought he understood. “And the fuels for fusion—the isotopes of hydrogen and helium—they come from Jupiter.”

“That is correct,” Beech said, nodding gravely. “The first fusion power plants ran on isotopes dug up on the Moon, but that was too expensive. Jupiter’s atmosphere is thick with fusion fuels. Automated scoopships bring us these isotopes by the ton.”

Grant asked, “But what’s that got to do with the scientific research being done at Jupiter?”

Beech spread his hands in a don’t-blame-me gesture. “When we of the New Morality pointed out that the money spent on those scientists could be better spent here on Earth, the humanists of the IAA and the major money brokers of our global economy demanded that the research be allowed to continue. They absolutely refused to shut down their research activities.”

Good, thought Grant.

“So the compromise was struck: The scientists could continue their work, as long as it was paid for out of the profits from the scoopship operations.”

“The fusion fuels pay for the research operations,” Grant said.

“Yes, that’s the way it’s been for the past ten years.”

“But what does all this have to do with me? Why are you sending me to Jupiter?”

“We know what the scientists are doing on the moons of Jupiter. But last year they sent a probe into the planet itself.”

“They send lots of probes to Jupiter,” Grant pointed out.

“This one was manned,” said Beech.

Grant gasped with surprise. “A manned probe? Are you certain? I never heard anything about that.”

“Neither did we. They did it in secret.”

“No! How could—”

“That is why you are being sent to Jupiter. To find out what those godless humanists are trying to achieve,” Beech said flatly.

“Me? You want me to spy on them?”

“We need to know what they are doing—and why they are not reporting their activities, not even to the IAA.”

“But I’m no spy. I’m a scientist myself!”

Beech’s solemn expression deepened into a scowl. “Mr. Archer, I’m sure that you assume that you can be a scientist and a Believer, both at the same time.”

“Yes! There’s no fundamental conflict between science and faith.”

“Perhaps. But out there at the research station in Jupiter orbit, scientists are doing something that they don’t want us to know about. And we must find out what they’re up to! ”