The Jupiter Theft

There was consternation among the ranked consoles down below. The flight controllers, some of them half out of their seats, were scrabbling over their buttons and dials. One of the systems-operation engineers had left his chair entirely and was leaning over the telemetry officer, yelling in his ear.

“It’s dead, sir,” Bedford’s voice came over the speaker. “The probe’s dead. The instruments say that everything heated up—fast! Then it died on us.”

Chapter 6

For a moment, as the ablative port shields shredded and whipped away into the wind, Jameson caught a fine view of Greater Houston spread out below him: a glittering sprawl of bright cuboid shapes stretching for a hundred miles along the Gulf Coast. Inland, at the center of that vast multicolored jumble, was the graceful mile-high stalk of the Federal Tower, its entire south face a shimmering parabolic cliff reflecting the sunlight of the hundred acres of solar collectors skirting its base toward a focus at the Houston Electrical Authority plant across the river. It was still in use after forty years, despite the gradual conversion to fusion power that had begun in the early decades of the century.

Offshore, rising from the rich blue waters of the Gulf, he could see the moored ranks of thousands of wind machines bobbing on their submerged floats: delicate-looking lattices hundreds of feet high, with propeller blades spinning like bright dewdrops all across the spider-web surfaces.

As far as the eye could see, across the surrounding Texas countryside, were the shining spokes of the solar farms, alternating with green strips of cropland growing chimeric soycorn and peanuts and wingbeans—food and energy for the megalopolis and its satellite cities. More than a hundred million people, the largest urban population in North America, lived in the Houston-San Antonio-Dallasworth triangle.

The horizon tilted as the great shuttlecraft banked toward the Dallasworth spaceport. Jameson settled back and watched the landscape flash by beneath him. The solar farms gave way to a drab patchwork of farmland dotted with small skyscrapers. After another ten minutes the green became increasingly pebbled with dull gray, as Dallasworth’s outskirts yearned toward merger with Houston. Then the shuttlecraft banked again and dropped like a stone as it entered its final glide path. There were audible gasps from the more inexperienced travelers. Jameson had a glimpse of looping freeways, a blurred impression of serried roofs, horizon to horizon, and then the huge mantawinged craft dipped and skidded to an abrupt stop.

The pilot was skillful; reentry vehicles have all the responsiveness of a brick at their 200-mph landing speed. Only a mild jolt threw Jameson and the other passengers forward against the corsets that encased them from armpit to hip. He could see his seatmate, a pert little brunette from the Moon, wince as the stretchband briefly flattened her breasts, and then the automatic clamps snapped free, a chime sounded, and the passengers began peeling themselves out of their cocoons.

“Please stay in your seats, ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice came over the com. “The conveyer will hook up as soon as our outer skin cools off a bit.”

No one paid attention. The passengers were struggling to their feet, jolly and befuddled by the drinks and joints they’d been served before reentry. More than a hundred of them were milling noisily in the narrow aisles: tourists returning from Mare Imbrium and Eurostation’s vacation inn, lunies, scientific and support personnel. They clutched their little souvenir packs with the ounce of Moon rock and the bottle of vacuum, and called back and forth to one another.

“How does it feel to have Earthweight on you again?” Jameson said to the woman. She very sensibly had remained in her seat while they were waiting.

“Good,” she said, flashing him a smile. “I haven’t been back for almost a year.”

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “I thought you Farside people got terrestrial furlough every six months.”

“I … I couldn’t get away,” she said. There was an awkward silence. She suddenly seemed preoccupied.

“Well…” Jameson said. “Planning to spend your leave in this area? There’s certainly a lot to do. You’re just in time for the start of the Houston theater season, and the San Antone Fiesta—”

“No,” she said. “I’ll be taking the tube to Nevada.” She stood up. “It was nice meeting you, Commander Jameson. Have a good leave, and good luck on your mission.”

She shook hands with him and disappeared into the crowd that was flowing toward the exit. The conveyor had arrived with a thud against the hull, and the big oval port swung inward; Jameson watched her go with faint regret. He had been on the verge of asking her to dinner.

He joined the surge to the exit, a tall, lean figure with his black hair cut spaceman-short. He looked cool and neat in lightweight gray slacks and an open-necked white shirt. He carried nothing but a small zipbag.