Ben Bova: Leviathans of Jupiter

“But my medical records—”

“Not good enough,” said Dr. Pohan, almost jovially. “You see, we have had a death aboard ship on our way out here from Earth. It is my duty to make certain we don’t have any others.”

“A death? Someone died?”

“One of the passengers. Most unusual. And most puzzling. If I can’t track down the reason for it, we will not be allowed to disembark our passengers. We will have made the long voyage to Jupiter for nothing.”

Australia was a passenger vessel, designed to carry paying customers swiftly from the Earth/Moon system out to the rock rats’ habitat in orbit around the asteroid Ceres. It was built like a slim tower, with a dozen decks between the bridge in the ship’s nose and the fusion propulsion plant at its tail. Unlike the cumbersome ore ships that plodded across the inner solar system, Australia drove through space under constant acceleration, usually at one Earth-normal gravity or close to it, accelerating half the distance, then flipping over and decelerating the rest of the way. Except for the brief periods of docking or turn-around, the passengers would feel a comfortable one g environment for the entire voyage. Comfortable, that is, for those who were accustomed to Earth-normal gravity.

This trip was special, though. Instead of terminating at Ceres and then heading back Earthward, Australia was going on to the research station in orbit around the giant planet Jupiter, a journey that would take an additional two weeks from Ceres.

Captain Tomas Guerra’s quarters were up at the top of the stack, within a few steps of the bridge. The rooms were comfortable without being overly sumptuous. Guerra did not believe in showy displays of privilege: He kept the décor of his quarters quite simple, almost minimalist. Bulkheads covered in brushed aluminum. A few silk screen paintings of misty mountains and terraced rice paddies on the display screens. Spare, graceful Scandinavian furniture. His one obvious display of luxury was his set of solid gold cups in which he served sherry to special guests.

Katherine Westfall was indeed a very special guest. Reputedly the wealthiest woman in the solar system, she was a member of the powerful governing council of the International Astronautical Authority, the agency that controlled all spaceflight and much of the scientific research done off-Earth. Rumor had it that she was being considered for the chairmanship of the council.

“It’s very good of you to invite me to dinner,” said Katherine Westfall, in a hushed, little-girl voice.

Captain Guerra dipped his gray-bearded chin once. “It is very good of you to take the time to join me.”

Katherine Westfall was as slender and petite as a ballerina, and like a dancer she calculated virtually every move she made far in advance—as well as every word she spoke. She should have been at ease in the comfortably upholstered recliner in the captain’s sitting room, but as she smiled demurely at the man he got the impression from her steel gray eyes that she was wary, on guard.

“I hope you weren’t inconvenienced by the lower gravity while we were docked with Chrysalis, ” the captain said politely. “The rock rats keep their habitat at lunar g .”

Katherine Westfall thought a moment, then replied, “It was rather exhilarating, actually.”

“Low g can be stimulating, can’t it?” the captain said. “But we make better time under a full gravity. Once I had to make an emergency high-thrust run to the research station in Venus orbit: two g .” He shook his head. “Not comfortable at all. Good thing it was only for a few days.”

Captain Guerra had lived on his ship since receiving his commission from the IAA many years earlier. The ship was home, his life, his reason for existence. Rarely did he go down dirtside at the Moon or Earth. He had never deigned to set foot on the Chrysalis II habitat orbiting Ceres in the Asteroid Belt or the Thomas Gold research station at Jupiter. Nor the scientific bases on Mars, or orbiting Venus. To say nothing of the massive habitat in orbit around Saturn, which he regarded as little more than a penal colony. Mercury he had visited once, briefly, because he had to oversee the unloading of a cargo of construction materials there. But most of his time he spent aboard his ship, his mistress, the love of his life.

Of course, he did not lead a completely celibate life. Sometimes very attractive women booked passage on Australia, and rank has its privileges. He wondered if Katherine Westfall would succumb to the romance of interplanetary flight. She hadn’t given a hint of such interest over the weeks since they’d left the Earth/Moon system, but still it was a pleasant possibility.

He had once been lean and sinewy, but the years of easy living as he ran Australia across the solar system had plumped his wiry frame. Now, as he sat facing the IAA councilwoman, he looked as well padded as the seat he reclined in.

Guerra poured two heavy gold cups of sherry, handed one to Mrs. Westfall, then touched the rim of his cup to hers.

“To a pleasant journey,” he said.

“It’s been quite pleasant so far,” Katherine Westfall said, with a smile. She sipped delicately.

“I am curious,” said the captain, “as to the reason for your traveling all the way out to Jupiter.”

For a moment she did not reply, simply gazed at the captain with her gray eyes half closed, obviously thinking about what her answer should be. Her face was long and narrow, with a pointed chin and nose so perfect it could only be the product of cosmetic surgery. Her hair was the color of golden brown honey, stylishly cut to frame her face like a tawny helmet. She wore a pale blue business suit, simple and unadorned, except for an egg-sized sapphire brooch on its lapel.

“As a member of the International Astronautical Authority governing council,” she said at last, so softly that the captain had to lean toward her to hear her words, “I feel it’s my duty to personally review each major research facility the IAA is supporting throughout the solar system.”

Captain Guerra nodded. “Starting with Jupiter?”

“Starting with the Gold station,” Katherine Westfall concurred. Then a slightly impish smile curved her lips. “I feel one should always go for the gold.”

She had been born Kate Solo, named thus by the mother who’d been abandoned by the man she had thought loved her. Growing up in the underground warrens of Coober Pedy, in the heart of Australia’s forbidding outback, little Kate swiftly learned that determination and courage could make up for lack of money and social position. While her mother slaved away in restaurant kitchens, Kate strove to be the best student in the region’s far-flung electronic school system, consistently at the head of her digital classes, even if she had to cheat a bit now and then. She won a university scholarship by the time she was fifteen and moved to Sydney. With her mother.

It was at a party on campus that she met Farrell Westfall, twenty-seven years her senior, quite wealthy from old family money. He was a university regent, she an economics major in her second year of study. “Go for the gold,” her mother advised her.

Kate married Westfall before she graduated, and lived in a fine house hanging over the rocks on a rugged beach north of Sydney. With her mother.

Kate Solo became Mrs. Katherine Westfall. He was more interested in polo than the business world; she was determined to make certain that the family fortune she had married into was not dissipated in the ups and downs of the global economy—or by the importunings of her husband’s lazy and whining relatives. She guided her feckless husband through the booms and busts of the next quarter century, and by the time he died of an unexpected massive coronary she was one of the wealthiest women in Australia. By the time her mother died, a decade later, Katherine Westfall was one of the wealthiest women on Earth.