Titan (51 page)

“Visors closed,” he said. Rosenberg was sitting behind Mott and Benacerraf, in the flight engineer’s seat.

Bill Angel was the only member of the crew not on the flight deck; he was back on the orbiter’s mid deck.

“Bill?” Benacerraf called. “How about you? Bill, do you copy about the visor? Respond, Bill, you asshole.”

“Copy, copy. Jesus, Benacerraf, give me a break.” On the loop now there came the sound of humming: fragments of song, mostly unrecognizable, jumbled up and reassembled as if at random.

“I’ll take that as a rog,” Benacerraf said.

Rosenberg laughed. “He won’t close his suit. He told us so; we ought to believe him. Who cares? Let him play with himself all the way through the burn. Let him—”

“Can it,” Benacerraf said sharply.

Crazy or not, Benacerraf didn’t want Angel’s death on her conscience. And besides, there were no scenarios which showed how just three of them, of the five nominal crew, could expect to survive on Titan’s surface. Angel was a resource she needed, and she had to protect him.

For now, however, they had a checklist to get through.

One step at a time, Paula.

“Load the SOI software, Niki.”

“Rog.” Her gloved fingers clumsy, Mott entered a sequence of commands into the computer keyboard. OPS 702 PRO. This was a chunk of a new software mode written by the ground crews and loaded up into the Shuttle’s guidance computers. OPS 7: software to control SOI, Saturn Orbit Insertion.

The light was changing. Benacerraf looked up from her checklist.

Mott said, “Time for the maneuver to the burn attitude. Track me, Paula.”

Benacerraf glanced at Mott. She could see Niki’s face framed inside her white helmet: calm, almost expressionless, a hint of fear about her eyes.

She reached over and, briefly, closed her glove over Mott’s. “You’ll be fine, Niki. Just like the training.”

“Sure.” Mott laughed weakly. “Just like the training.”

Neither Mott nor Benacerraf had piloted a Shuttle before, though both had worked as flight engineers. If the prelaunch plans had worked out, Bill Angel and Siobhan Libet would be sitting here now, as prime orbiter commander and pilot.

But Libet was long gone. And, after a lot of agonizing—and solitary, time-delayed conversations with the ground—Benacerraf had taken the decision that Angel couldn’t be trusted near the controls of the orbiter any more.

So, absurd as it was, Mott and Benacerraf had to pilot
Discovery
through its most crucial maneuver since leaving Earth orbit. All the good pilots were nearly a billion miles away, or dead, or half-crazy.

Mott reached forward. “Flight control power switch to on.”

“Copy that,” said Benacerraf. “ADI ATT switches—”

“Attitude switches to inertial, panels F6 and F8. ADI error to median. ADI rate to median…”

Mott reached for her hand controller, and pulsed the RCS jets. Benacerraf could hear the hard click of solenoids, feel the soft shudder of the little jets as they shoved at
Discovery
’s mass.

The light started to change.

As
Discovery
turned, the sun was crossing the window, right to left. It was a shrunken disc. Pale, yellowish light played directly into the cabin, the window struts casting long, sharp shadows over Benacerraf’s lap. False images sparkled in the scuffed plexiglass of her helmet visor.

Diminished since Jupiter, the sun was still more brilliant than any star or planet seen from Earth, ten thousand times brighter than a full Moon. It was a little like looking directly into an approaching headlight.

And now the limb of Saturn, a thin crescent, reached into the window frame. Precise and huge and intimidating, it reared up before the sun. It was a yellow arc, obviously flattened from the circular, blistered with turbulence. The colors were subtle, and she found she had to shield her eyes from the glaring yellow and white and green of the orbiter’s instrument lights.

Saturn was no gaudy pyrotechnic display, but an autumn-color sculpture wrought of the soft light of the remote sun. It was, Benacerraf thought with a shiver, utterly unearthly.

Mott had to turn the orbiter so it was flying tail-first.
Discovery
had accelerated as it had fallen into Saturn’s gravity well. Already deep within the planet’s magnetosphere the spacecraft was now plunging towards Saturn itself; it would make its closest approach over the dark side of the giant world, just a sixth of a Saturn radius above the cloud tops. And there, at the lowest point in the gravity well, the SOI burn would be initiated.

After a six year space soak, the orbiter’s OMS engines, the small orbital maneuvering system, had to burn for a hundred minutes, sucking fuel and oxidizer out of the big supplementary tanks that were strapped to the orbiter’s wings, like two fat bomb pods, slowing the craft into a looping, five-month orbit around Saturn.

The burn had to work. Otherwise,
Discovery
would not shed enough velocity to be captured by Saturn’s gravity. They wouldn’t make it to Titan. Not only that, the orbiter would be hurled onward in an involuntary slingshot, towards the stars.

Benacerraf had privately calculated they might make it one-tenth of the way to the orbit of Uranus, the next giant planet, before their consumables finally gave out.

And—although it hadn’t been expressed—she was sure nobody had forgotten that it was the OMS burn which had been ultimately catastrophic on
Columbia’s
last flight.

But whether they survived all this or not, this battered old space truck had come a hell of a lot further than had been dreamed by those old guys who had devised the Shuttle in the 1970s.

Saturn drifted out of the window frame.

“Maneuver to burn attitude complete,” Mott said.

Benacerraf forced her attention to the checklist, and to the instruments on the panels before her. She compared the attitude shown on the CRT display with that given by the eight-ball, the attitude direction indicator. They matched each other and the predictions in the checklist, to several decimal places.

“Good work, Niki,” she said. “Maneuver complete, confirm.”

“All right,” Mott said evenly. Under strain, she was visibly turning her attention to the next obstacle.

One step at a time, Benacerraf thought.

Mott said, “Let’s go for single APU start.”

“Rog. Number one APU fuel tank valve to open. Control switch to start/run, number one APU.”

“Confirm hydraulic pressure indicator one is green,” Mott said.

“Hydraulic circulation pump switches to off, one, two, three.”

“… Okay, we have single APU start.”

“Good. We’re doing fine, Niki. Now. Arm the engines.”

Mott reached forward, and over her head. “Auto pilot to auto. OMS helium pressure switches to GPC, left and right engines. OMS engine switches to arm.” She looked across at Benacerraf “Engines armed.”

“Good girl.”

The routine, the checklists and procedures for just another OMS burn, was comforting. It allowed her to forget what they were doing here: firing rocket engines to go into orbit around
Saturn,
for God’s sake.

“One minute to the burn,” Rosenberg said.

Mott reached forward to the computer keyboard. She pressed the EXEC key, and the computer began its countdown to the burn.

… And suddenly, light exploded into the flight deck, for
Discovery
was sailing above the plane of Saturn’s rings.

To Benacerraf the rings looked like a broad sheet of colored light, as if
Discovery
were a mote of dust flying high above some elaborate laser display. This close, it was impossible to see their full extent; Benacerraf could see only a portion of the ring disc framed in her window. Though the lighting was dim, the different bands within the rings were clearly visible, distinguishable by their faint, yellow-brown colorations, separated by dark gaps.

“Incredible,” Rosenberg said. Benacerraf could see the rings reflected from his visor, precise stripes of smoky, washed-out light. “It looks like an artifact, doesn’t it? Something
made
… But if those rings were transplanted home, they would fill up the space between Earth and Moon. Think of that. And look.” He pointed. “You can see a moon, buried in there in the structure. That’s the E ring; the moon must be Enceladus, I think. See how bright it is?”

After some searching she made out the moon, barely discernible as an icy spark, suspended in one of the dark ring gaps.

The giant shadow of Saturn, blunt and physical, lay across the rings, casting a precise terminator across their structure: perhaps the longest straight line in the Solar System. Earth itself could have rolled around that ring disc, like a ball bearing on a plate. Space here was filled by huge shapes, Benacerraf thought, like gigantic machinery.

Mott said, “Ten seconds to the burn. Five, four, three, two, one.”

The orbiter shuddered, and Benacerraf thought she could hear a remote bass roar, transmitted through the structure of the craft.

“Ignition,” Mott shouted.

“Copy OMS ignition.”

“Building up to full thrust. Point zero five G. Point zero eight. Zero nine. Stabilizing there…”

Benacerraf felt herself sink back into her seat. It was as if the orbiter was tipping up, and she was lying on her back in her couch. The metal of her couch, folds in the fabric of her pressure suit, dug painfully into her flesh. And now there was a dark fringe to her vision, as if she was looking along a tunnel. The colors seemed to leach out of the control panel before her.

My God, she thought. I’m graying out.

She was experiencing acceleration, for the first time since the CELSS farm had been transferred to the centrifuge, more than three years ago.

The checklist fell from her lap against her chest, landing with a thud that knocked the air out of her. Her arms were across her chest, and she could feel where they lay, like concrete beams compressing her lungs, her gloved hands huge and massive. And her internal organs, her heart and guts and lungs, were settling out, moving to some new equilibrium inside her. She couldn’t have moved, reached up to a control, to save her life.

And this is only a tenth of a G. We’ll be incapacitated on the surface of Titan. Even if we survive the reentry.

“Holy shit,” Mott said. Her voice was remote, weak.

Benacerraf tried to turn her head to see Mott, but her skull felt as heavy as a ball of concrete. “Take it easy, kid,” she said.
“Discovery
can fly itself; we don’t have to do a damn thing.”

The burn went on and on.

Discovery
sailed into the shadow of Saturn. The darkness seemed cool, immense, deepening their isolation. It was the first time in six years that the orbiter had not been bathed in sunlight.

And now, with the instruments in the payload bay gaping at the planet,
Discovery
fell through the plane of the ring system. The rings were less than a mile thick, and at
Discovery
’s interplanetary velocity, the plane was crossed in a fraction of a second.

Benacerraf, staring back along the path of
Discovery
, could see the shadowed rings above her. They were a huge roof of darkness, occluding the patchy stars. Here and there she thought she could see a gap in the ring system, a fine circular arc, full of stars. The bulk of the planet was to her right, a flat-infinite wall of shadowed cloud, just a sixth of Saturn’s radius away.

Discovery
was a fly circling the flank of an elephant.

And now, as her eyes continued to dark-adapt, she saw that there was a patch of light tracking over the shadowed ceiling of the ring system: a diffuse circle, like the image of the sun seen through fog. It seemed to he matching the movements of
Discovery.

It was the light of
Discovery
’s engines—the burning of monomethyl hydrazine and nitrogen tet, hauled out here all the way from Earth, reflecting from the icy rings of Saturn.

Then, as
Discovery
fell beneath Saturn’s equatorial plane, the diffuse glow faded out—

There was a bang, sharp, muffled by the thickness of her helmet.

It was gone so quickly she wasn’t sure if it had been real.

“Niki. Did you hear that?”

“No.” Mott hesitated. “But I felt something. A shudder.”

A bang, a shudder. Put it together, Paula.

Benacerraf felt fear gather like a sharp knot in her stomach But she was helpless, trapped in her seat by this minuscule gravity.

The sounds of the cabin, the whir of the pumps and fans—already subdued by the helmet around her head—died away.

“We’re losing pressure,” Mott said, her radio-transmitted voice full of wonder.

Rosenberg started yelling. “Bill, close your eyes! Bill, if you can hear me, close your eyes!”

… Light seeped into the cabin. Above Benacerraf, the ring-plane terminator was sliding into view, a geometrically straight line that could have stretched from Earth to Moon. The subdued gold-brown light of the rings soaked over her face.

Rosenberg, with no reply from Angel, quit yelling.

“What the hell happened, Rosenberg?”

His voice was fragile. “We got hit by a ring fragment.”

“But we’d already passed through the plane of the damn rings. And besides, we aimed for a gap.”

“But the rings we see are patterns imposed on a complex, chaotic cloud of particles or dust and ice. This is a crowded part of space, Paula. We only came this deep because we needed the benefit of a low periapsis. We gambled we wouldn’t hit anything on the way through.”

“Lucked out,” Nicola Mott said.

Rosenberg pointed out, “Bill isn’t answering.”

“How long until the burn’s done, Niki?”

“Eight more minutes, Paula.”

Rosenberg said, “Look, we have to go down and help Bill. Vacuum exposure will kill him.”

Mott said, “Sit still.”

“She’s right,” Benacerraf said wearily. “If you try to get out of your couch you’ll just fall the length of the cabin. Rosenberg, we have to wait.”

“If we wait, we’ll find him dead,” Rosenberg said. “Damn it, Paula. If Bill is dead I hope you can live with yourself.”

Benacerraf felt herself smile, tiredly. And there’s my function on this flight, she thought.
Blame Paula:
not that asshole Angel for endangering his own life by his madness and stupidity, not the confluence of forces which delivered us to this perilous point in space and time in such a fragile craft, not the malevolent God who put that fragment of primordial ice right in our path in the middle of the one and only traverse, by humans from Earth, of the rings of Saturn…