The Jupiter Theft

A beefy tourist, loaded down with cameras, last-minute purchases, and a bulging shoulder bag that had doubtless seemed light on the Moon, bumped into him. Jameson helped him retrieve a gift-wrapped bottle of champagne from Eurostation—one that had come from Earth in the first place. “Thanks,” the man said. There was hash on his breath. “What a trip, but there’s no place like home, right?” Jameson agreed with him politely and helped him negotiate the moving belt to the terminal. Around him cameras were clicking as they were carried past the controversial memorial statue of John F. Kennedy, an heroic nude more than fifty meters high, molded of gleaming polymers; the figure balanced a representation of the Moon in one hand and held a rocket aloft like a sword in the other.

His clearance through customs was fast. The inspector flipped to the holopic in Jameson’s ident-book and said, “Hey, you’re not the Commander Jameson that’s going to Jupiter?”

“I’m the one,” Jameson said.

The inspector snapped the book shut and shoved it briefly under the scanner linked to the federal computer. There was no warning light. The computer noted Jameson’s, position on the planet, along with the last known positions of a billion other Americans, and sent the appropriate signals to both the central locator files and Jameson’s own biographical file. It also automatically deducted his port-entry fee from his bank account.

“Nothing to declare, right, Commander?” the inspector asked cheerfully.

“Not a thing.”

The inspector slid the zipbag over to him, unopened, and handed him back his book. “Enjoy your stay, Commander,” he said. “And give our regards to the beasties on Jupiter.”

“I’ll do that.” Jameson laughed. He took his bag and headed for the slideway to the levi-car terminal.

He’d just missed a car. He was in time to see it rolling down the tube, retracting its landing wheels from the tunnel’s side flanges as it picked up speed and began to levitate.

The next car slid in a minute later, a long, sleek, windowless bullet, painted with graffiti. It was amazing how teenagers painted their slogans on the hulls during the few seconds a levi-car was at rest.

Curved sections of hull swung open and became ramps. Jameson boarded with long strides, found a seat, and sat down. He kept his zipbag in his lap. The hull sealed itself shut, and the levi-car launched itself smoothly down the tube.

The car rocked slightly as the side wheels retracted and the vehicle began to hover above the guideway, riding on a cushion of magnetic flux. Shielding coils under the floor protected the passengers from the intense fields generated by the superconducting levitation magnets. There was a momentary feeling of lag as the car’s bullet nose penetrated the elastic petals of the first tunnel seal, a second momentary resistance, and then the car was hurtling down the evacuated tubeway in full electromagnetic flight. Jameson raised his eyes to the display board at the front of the car. The reeling numbers told him that Greater Houston was 221 miles away, that they were building quickly toward their optimum 600-mph speed, and that E.T.A. was approximately 23 minutes.

His seat companion was a priest, a large jolly woman with close-cropped hair, wearing a gray cassock with a government badge and serial number pinned below one shoulder. “Your first visit to Houston?” she asked.

“Yes, Parent,” Jameson said, remembering his manners. His own family had been nominal members of the Church of the Reborn—his father, he suspected for career purposes, though all registered religions were theoretically equal in the eyes of the government. “How could you tell?”

The priest laughed. “You had that eager look. It always shows. I hope Houston won’t disappoint you.”

“I’m sure it won’t. I’m a small-town boy myself. I’m looking forward to my choice of theaters; concerts, the holo pageants…”

“And some earthier amusements too, I don’t doubt,” the priest said, a twinkle in her eye. “You look like a healthy young man. I won’t preach at you—the Good Lord knows that clergypersons have a stuffy enough reputation as it is—but take my advice and stay away from Privatetown. You’ll have plenty of fun without slumming—and it could be dangerous.”

“Thanks for the advice, Parent,” Jameson said, grinning. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“You young people.” The priest sighed. “Well, remember to keep a tight grip on your bankchip.”