The Space Opera MEGAPACK ®. Jay Lake
she said. “Tough, a good-looker. For most girls that would be reason enough. But they would want something. I don’t. Instead, I can offer you the biggest thing you’ve ever met in your life. A chance at the jackpot. Money enough to set you up on Earth, a farm on Mars, a dome on Venus—you name it and it’s yours.”
Durgan was ironic. “Sure—and all I have to do is to give you a stake so you can go and collect the lost treasure of Ma Kalah. Bury it, girl! You’re talking to the wrong man!”
“And you’re jumping to conclusions.” Her hand lifted, caught his wrist as he lifted the glass, twisted so that the zulack fell in a glinting stream to the surface of the table. “What are you, a sponge? Has that stuff rotted your mind and blocked your ears? I’m talking, Brad, can’t you even listen?”
“To what?”
“A proposition. A trip to Callisto—all expenses paid, and a bonus for wasted time if you turn down the offer.”
“And that is?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes were frank. “I was sent to collect you, and that’s all. But it’s something big, that at least I know. Agree and we can leave within the hour.”
Durgan shook his head.
“You’re turning me down?”
“No,” he said. “But we can’t leave until tomorrow. I’ve got money owing and I want to collect.”
* * * *
Distances are relatively unimportant in the Jovian system, only time is of value. Time to skirt the mammoth globe of the primary, to edge along the trap of its gravity well, to juggle speed and direction so as to reach where you wanted to go. Other things were minor but ever-present hazards: the threat of solar flares, trapped debris that added to the multiple moons, wandering fragments of interstellar rubbish which had been snared by the giant planet.
Durgan slept the major part of the journey, waking hours before landing, joining the girl in the compact lounge of the inter-moon transport. She had changed and now wore a short dress of glittering fiber; matching boots clung high on her thighs, a belt of synthetic gems accentuating the swell of her hips. Her hair, groomed and curled, hung like a curtain of shimmering gold on the rounded smoothness of her shoulders.
To his questions she said, “Wait. You’ll get all the answers after we land.”
Callisto wasn’t Ganymede, though both had much the same mass and bulk. Here the big companies had established their franchises, terraforming the globe with imbedded devices, setting up domed cities of sterile glass and plastic which reared in startling contrast to the gaping pits of tremendous workings.
Durgan watched as they landed, seeing men tending machines, ant-like in their ordered confusion, slave-like in their dependence on one or the other of the great combines which owned the satellite and permitted grudging entry to those unattached. Yet despite their control, some freedom remained. The freedom to range outside the cities and workings, to starve for want of employment, to die unnoticed and ignored.
In a small room in one of the featureless buildings, Durgan met the man who held all the answers.
He was a small, wrinkled, shrewd-eyed man with a suit of expensive fiber and a heavy ring, which winked with flashing colors as he moved his hand. He nodded to the girl, and she left; then he gestured towards a table loaded with a dozen kinds of liquor.
“You are a drinking man, Mr. Durgan. What is your pleasure?”
“Brandy,” said Durgan and added, “The real stuff. From Earth.”
“A test, Mr. Durgan?” The man smiled. “If it is, I can pass it. My name, by the way, is Creech. I take it that you are interested in my proposition?”
“I can tell you that when I’ve heard what it is.” Durgan tasted his brandy, finding it insipid after zulack. “But, of course, you know how much I was told. Your messenger was most discreet.”
“Not without reason.” Creech took a chair, waited until his guest was seated and then said, “How are your nerves, Durgan?”
“Good enough.”
“Good enough for what? Could you ride a bucket boat again?”
Could he dip once more into hell? Durgan leaned back, eyes veiled, listening again to the screaming threnody of Jupiter’s atmosphere tearing at the skin of his boat, seeing the swirl and twist of vapor against the screens, feeling the bucking confusion and horrible disorientation. Each ride had been a gamble. Every trip had meant running the gauntlet with death waiting a hairsbreadth away. To ride a stream of fire down into the tremendous gaseous envelope, to level out at a selected depth, to trip the opening of the bucket, the huge plastic envelope trailing after the vessel, to cram it full of compressed gases—ammonia, methane, hydrogen even—a slew of elements waiting to be gathered—to seal the bucket and then to drag it up and out of the atmosphere and back to the depot on Amalthea.
Could he do it again?
“They said I was past it. That my reflexes had grown too slow. They ended my contract on three days’ notice.”
Creech leaned forward. “Did you agree with them?”
“No.”
“But there was more, wasn’t there? The last trip you took. You returned empty. Why?”
“I hit a bad spot. The convection currents were all to hell. When I tried to level out, I couldn’t hold the boat steady enough to open the bucket. Had I tried, it would have dragged me out of control. So I gave up and got out.”
“Right out.” Creech bit thoughtfully at his lower lip. “I’ve read the psych-reports, and they say you lost your nerve. That you turned coward. That you aborted the dip without really giving yourself a chance. Are they wrong?”
Durgan looked at his brandy then set aside the glass.
“They weren’t down there,” he said. “They didn’t feel what I felt. All they had to go on was the relayed instrument-readings, and they aren’t to be trusted. I could have taken a gamble and probably died because of it. I figured that it was better to be a live coward than a dead hero. Alive, I could try again. Dead, they would have lost the boat.”
“And so they kicked you out. You went to Ganymede and lived as a harvester.” Creech picked up the glass of brandy and handed it back to Durgan. “Drink it. It may be your last for some time.”
“Meaning?”
“I’ve got a job for you. I’ll say it quick. I want you to drop down to the bottom. To hit the core of Jupiter. Right down through the envelope until you reach solid ground.”
“No,” said Durgan.
“You mean you won’t do it?”
“I mean that it can’t be done. Can you even begin to realize what the pressure is like down there? The bottoms of terrestrial oceans would be a vacuum in comparison. Down there hydrogen and nitrogen would be compressed into liquid ammonia, the—”
“I know about the pressure,” interrupted Creech. “And about the gravity, two and a half Earth normal, but it can be done and I have the vessel to do it. All I need is a pilot with guts enough to handle it. Guts and experience so that he can ride the winds and stay in one piece. In return, I’ll make that man rich for life.”
Durgan looked at his glass, at the brandy it contained. A bottle of the stuff would cost more than he could harvest in a week. The girl hadn’t lied, she had shown him the jackpot; from now on, it was up to him if he hoped to collect.
Quietly he said, “When do I learn the rest?”
“You don’t. Not unless you agree to ride all the way. Bucket riders are scarce. Most of them die young and the rest are broken. You didn’t break. The fact that you managed to survive on Ganymede proves that. That’s why I sent for you. Are you with me?”