Arthur C. Clarke - 2061

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Title: 2061: Odissey three

Author: Arthur C. Clarke

Original copyright year: 1987

Genre: science fiction

Comments: to my knowledge, this is the only available e-text of this book.

Source: scanned and OCR-read from a paperback edition with Xerox TextBridge Pro 9.0, proofread in

MS Word 2000.

Date of e-text: September 5, 1999

Prepared by: Anada Sucka

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TO THE MEMORY OF

JUDY-LYNN DEL REY,

EDITOR EXTRAORDINARY,

WHO BOUGHT THIS BOOK FOR ONE DOLLAR

- BUT NEVER KNEW IF SHE GOT HER MONEY'S WORTH

Author's Note

Just as 2010: Odyssey Two was not a direct sequel to 2001: A Space Odyssey, so this book is

not a linear sequel to 2010. They must all be considered as variations on the same theme,

involving many of the same characters and situations, but not necessarily happening in the same

universe.

Developments since Stanley Kubrick suggested in 1964 (five years before men landed on the

Moon!) that we should attempt 'the proverbial good science-fiction movie' make total consistency

impossible, as the later stories incorporate discoveries and events that had not even taken place

when the earlier books were written. 2010 was made possible by the brilliantly successful 1979

Voyager flybys of Jupiter, and I had not intended to return to that territory until the results of

the even more ambitious Galileo Mission were in.

Galileo would have dropped a probe into the Jovian atmosphere, while spending almost two years

visiting all the major satellites. It should have been launched from the space shuttle in May

1986, and would have reached its objective by December 1988. So around 1990 I hoped to take

advantage of the flood of new information from Jupiter and its moons...

Alas, the Challenger tragedy eliminated that scenario; Galileo - now sitting in its clean room

at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory - must now find another launch vehicle. It will be lucky if it

arrives at Jupiter merely seven years behind schedule.

I have decided not to wait.

Colombo, Sri Lanka,

April 1987

THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN

The Frozen Years

'For a man of seventy, you're in extremely good shape,' remarked Dr Glazunov, looking up from

the Medcom's final print-out. 'I'd have put you down as not more than sixty-five.'

'Happy to hear it, Oleg. Especially as I'm a hundred and three - as you know perfectly well.'

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'Here we go again! Anyone would think you've never read Professor Rudenko's book.'

'Dear old Katerina! We'd planned a get-together on her hundredth birthday. I was so sorry she

never made it - that's what comes of spending too much time on Earth.'

'Ironic, since she was the one who coined that famous slogan "Gravity is the bringer of old

age."'

Dr Heywood Floyd stared thoughtfully at the ever-changing panorama of the beautiful planet,

only six thousand kilometres away, on which he could never walk again. It was even more ironic

that, through the most stupid accident of his life, he was still in excellent health when

virtually all his old friends were dead.

He had been back on Earth only a week when, despite all the warnings and his own determination

that nothing of the sort would ever happen to him, he had stepped off that second-storey balcony.

(Yes, he had been celebrating: but he had earned it - he was a hero on the new world to which

Leonov had returned.) The multiple fractures had led to complications, which could best be handled

in the Pasteur Space Hospital.

That had been in 2015. And now - he could not really believe it, but there was the calendar on

the wall - it was 2061.

For Heywood Floyd, the biological clock had not merely been slowed down by the one-sixth Earth

gravity of the hospital; twice in his life it had actually been reversed. It was now generally

believed - though some authorities disputed it - that hibernation did more than merely stop the

ageing process; it encouraged rejuvenation. Floyd had actually become younger on his voyage to

Jupiter and back.

'So you really think it's safe for me to go?'

'Nothing in this Universe is safe, Heywood. All I can say is that there are no physiological

objections. After all, your environment will be virtually the same aboard Universe as it is here.

She may not have quite the standard of - ah - superlative medical expertise we can provide at

Pasteur, but Dr Mahindran is a good man. If there's any problem he can't cope with, he can put you

into hibernation again, and ship you back to us, COD.'

It was the verdict that Floyd had hoped for, yet somehow his pleasure was alloyed with

sadness. He would be away for weeks from his home of almost half a century, and the new friends of

his later years. And although Universe was a luxury liner compared with the primitive Leonov (now

hovering high above Farside as one of the main exhibits at the Lagrange Museum) there was still

some element of risk in any extended space voyage. Especially like the pioneering one on which he

was now preparing to embark.

Yet that, perhaps, was exactly what he was seeking - even at a hundred and three (or,

according to the complex geriatric accounting of the late Professor Katerina Rudenko, a hale and

hearty sixty-five.) During the last decade, he had become aware of an increasing restlessness and

a vague dissatisfaction with a life that was too comfortable and well-ordered.

Despite all the exciting projects now in progress around the Solar System - the Mars Renewal,

the establishment of the Mercury Base, the Greening of Ganymede - there had been no goal on which

he could really focus his interests and his still considerable energies. Two centuries ago, one of

the first poets of the Scientific Era had summed up his feelings perfectly, speaking through the

lips of Odysseus/Ulysses:

Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one of me

Little remains; but every hour is saved

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From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things: and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this grey spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

'Three suns', indeed! It was more than forty:

Ulysses would have been ashamed of him. But the next verse - which he knew so well - was even

more appropriate:

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

'To seek, to find...' Well, now he knew what he was going to seek, and to find - because he

knew exactly where it would be. Short of some catastrophic accident, there was no way in which it

could possibly elude him.

It was not a goal he had ever consciously had in mind, and even now he was not quite sure why

it had become so suddenly dominant. He would have thought himself immune to the fever which was

once again infecting mankind - for the second time in his life! - but perhaps he was mistaken. Or

it could have been that the unexpected invitation to join the short list of distinguished guests

aboard Universe had fired his imagination, and awakened an enthusiasm he had not even known he

possessed.

There was another possibility. After all these years, he could still remember what an

anticlimax the 1985/6 encounter had been to the general public. Now was a chance - the last for

him, and the first for humanity - to more than make up for any previous disappointment.

Back in the twentieth century, only flybys had been possible. This time, there would be an

actual landing, as pioneering in its way as Armstrong's and Aldrin's first steps on the Moon.

Dr Heywood Floyd, veteran of the 2010-15 mission to Jupiter, let his imagination fly outwards

to the ghostly visitor once again returning from the deeps of space, gaining speed second by

second as it prepared to round the Sun. And between the orbits of Earth and Venus the most famous

of all comets would meet the still uncompleted space-liner Universe, on her maiden flight.

The exact point of rendezvous was not yet settled, but his decision was already made.

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'Halley - here I come...' whispered Heywood Floyd.

First Sight

It is not true that one must leave Earth to appreciate the full splendour of the heavens. Not

even in space is the starry sky more glorious than when viewed from a high mountain, on a

perfectly clear night, far from any source of artificial illumination. Even though the stars

appear brighter beyond the atmosphere, the eye cannot really appreciate the difference; and the

overwhelming spectacle of half the celestial sphere at a single glance is something that no

observation window can provide.

But Heywood Floyd was more than content with his private view of the Universe, especially

during the times when the residential zone was on the shadow side of the slowly revolving space

hospital. Then there would be nothing in his rectangular field of view but stars, planets, nebulae

- and occasionally, drowning out all else, the unblinking glare of Lucifer, new rival to the Sun.

About ten minutes before the beginning of his artificial night, he would switch off all the

cabin lights - even the red emergency standby - so that he could become completely dark-adapted. A

little late in life for a space engineer, he had learned the pleasures of naked-eye astronomy, and

could now identify virtually any constellation, even if he could glimpse only a small portion of

it.

Almost every 'night' that May, as the comet was passing inside the orbit of Mars, he had

checked its location on the star charts. Although it was an easy object with a good pair of

binoculars, Floyd had stubbornly resisted their aid; he was playing a little game, seeing how well

his ageing eyes would respond to the challenge. Though two astronomers on Mauna Kea already

claimed to have observed the comet visually, no-one believed them, and similar assertions from

other residents of Pasteur had been treated with even greater scepticism.

But tonight, a magnitude of at least six was predicted; he might be in luck. He traced the

line from Gamma to Epsilon, and stared towards the apex of an imaginary equilateral triangle set

upon it - almost as if he could focus his vision across the Solar System by a sheer effort of

will.

And there it was! - just as he had first seen it, seventy-six years ago, inconspicuous but

unmistakable. If he had not known exactly where to look, he would not even have noticed it, or

would have dismissed it as some distant nebula.

To his naked eye it was merely a tiny, perfectly circular blob of mist; strain as he would, he

was unable to detect any trace of a tail. But the small flotilla of probes that had been escorting

the comet for months had already recorded the first outbursts of dust and gas that would soon

create a glowing plume across the stars, pointing directly away from its creator, the Sun,

Like everyone else, Heywood Floyd had watched the transformation of the cold, dark - no,

almost black - nucleus as it entered the inner Solar System. After seventy years of deepfreeze,

the complex mixture of water, ammonia and other ices was beginning to thaw and bubble. A flying

mountain, roughly the shape - and size - of the island of Manhattan was turning on a cosmic spit

every fifty-three hours; as the heat of the Sun seeped through the insulating crust, the

vaporizing gases were making Halley's Comet behave like a leaking steam-boiler. Jets of water

vapour, mixed with dust and a witch's brew of organic chemicals, were bursting out from half a

dozen small craters; the largest - about the size of a football field - erupted regularly about

two hours after local dawn. It looked exactly like a terrestrial geyser, and had been promptly

christened 'Old Faithful'.

Already, he had fantasies of standing on the rim of that crater, waiting for the Sun to rise

above the dark, contorted landscape which he already knew well through the images from space.

True, the contract said nothing about passengers - as opposed to crew and scientific personnel -

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going outside the ship when it landed on Halley.

On the other hand, there was also nothing in the small print that specifically forbade it.

They'll have a job to stop me, thought Heywood Floyd. I'm sure I can still handle a spacesuit.

And if I'm wrong...

He remembered reading that a visitor to the Taj Mahal had once remarked: 'I'd die tomorrow for

a monument like this.'

He would gladly settle for Halley's Comet.

Re-entry

Even apart from that embarrassing accident, the return to Earth had not been easy.

The first shock had come soon after revival, when Dr Rudenko had woken him from his long

sleep. Walter Curnow was hovering beside her, and even in his semi-conscious state he could tell

that something was wrong; their pleasure at seeing him awake was a little too exaggerated, and

failed to conceal a sense of strain. Not until he was fully recovered did they let him know that

Dr Chandra was no longer with them.

Somewhere beyond Mars, so imperceptibly that the monitors could not pinpoint the time, he had

simply ceased to live. His body, set adrift in space, had continued unchecked along Leonov's

orbit, and had long since been consumed by the fires of the Sun.

The cause of death was totally unknown, but Max Brailovsky expressed a view that, highly

unscientific though it was, not even Surgeon-Commander Katerina Rudenko attempted to refute.

'He couldn't live without Hal.'

Walter Curnow, of all people, added another thought.

'I wonder how Hal will take it?' he asked. 'Something out there must be monitoring all our

broadcasts. Sooner or later, he'll know.'

And now Curnow was gone too - so were they all except little Zenia. He had not seen her for

twenty years, but her card arrived punctually every Christmas. The last one was still pinned above

his desk; it showed a troika laden with gifts speeding through the snows of a Russian winter,

watched by extremely hungry-looking wolves.

Forty-five years! Sometimes it seemed only yesterday that Leonov had returned to Earth orbit,

and the applause of all mankind. Yet it had been a curiously subdued applause, respectful but

lacking genuine enthusiasm. The mission to Jupiter had been altogether too much of a success; it

had opened a Pandora's box, the full contents of which had yet to be disclosed.

When the black monolith known as Tycho Magnetic Anomaly One had been excavated on the Moon,

only a handful of men knew of its existence. Not until after Discovery's ill-fated voyage to

Jupiter did the world learn that, four million years ago, another intelligence had passed through

the Solar System, and left its calling card. The news was a revelation - but not a surprise;

something of the sort had been expected for decades.

And it had all happened long before the human race existed. Although some mysterious accident

had befallen Discovery out round Jupiter, there was no real evidence that it involved anything

more than a shipboard malfunction. Although the philosophical consequences of TMA 1 were profound,

for all practical purposes mankind was still alone in the Universe.

Now that was no longer true. Only light minutes away - a mere stone's throw in the Cosmos -

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was an intelligence that could create a star, and, for its own inscrutable purpose, destroy a

planet a thousand times the size of Earth. Even more ominous was the fact that it had shown

awareness of mankind, through the last message that Discovery had beamed back from the moons of

Jupiter just before the fiery birth of Lucifer had destroyed it:

ALL THESE WORLDS ARE YOURS - EXCEPT EUROPA.

ATTEMPT NO LANDINGS THERE.

The brilliant new star, which had banished night except for the few months in each year when

it was passing behind the Sun, had brought both hope and fear to mankind. Fear - because the

Unknown, especially when it appeared linked with omnipotence - could not fail to rouse such

primeval emotions. Hope - because of the transformation it had wrought in global politics.

It had often been said that the only thing that could unite mankind was a threat from space.

Whether Lucifer was a threat, no-one knew; but it was certainly a challenge. And that, as it

turned out, was enough.

Heywood Floyd had watched the geopolitical changes from his vantage point on Pasteur, almost

as if he was an alien observer himself. At first, he had no intention of remaining in space, once

his recovery was complete. To the baffled annoyance of his doctors, that took an altogether

unreasonable length of time.

Looking back from the tranquillity of later years, Floyd knew exactly why his bones refused to

mend.

He simply did not wish to return to Earth: there was nothing for him, down on the dazzling

blue and white globe that filled his sky. There were times when he could well understand how

Chandra might have lost the will to live.

It was pure chance that he had not been with his first wife on that flight to Europe. Now

Marion was part of another life, that might have belonged to someone else, and their two daughters

were amiable strangers with families of their own.

But he had lost Caroline through his own actions, even though he had no real choice in the

matter. She had never understood (had he really done so himself?) why he had left the beautiful

home they had made together, to exile himself for years in the cold wastes far from the Sun.

Though he had known, even before the mission was half over, that Caroline would not wait, he

had hoped desperately that Chris would forgive him. But even this consolation had been denied; his

son had been without a father for too long. By the time that Floyd returned, he had found another,

in the man who had taken his place in Caroline's life. The estrangement was complete; he thought

he would never get over it, but of course he did - after a fashion.

His body had cunningly conspired with his unconscious desires. When at last he returned to

Earth, after his protracted convalescence in Pasteur, he promptly developed such alarming symptoms

- including something suspiciously like bone necrosis - that he was immediately rushed back to

orbit. And there he had stayed, apart from a few excursions to the Moon, completely adapted to

living in the zero to one-sixth gravity regime of the slowly rotating space hospital.

He was not a recluse - far from it. Even while he was convalescing, he was dictating reports,

giving evidence to endless commissions, being interviewed by media representatives. He was a

famous man, and enjoyed the experience - while it lasted. It helped to compensate for his inner

wounds.

The first complete decade - 2020 to 2030 - seemed to have passed so swiftly that he now found

it difficult to focus upon it. There were the usual crises, scandals, crimes, catastrophes -

notably the Great Californian Earthquake, whose aftermath he had watched with fascinated horror

through the station's monitor screens. Under their greatest magnification, in favourable

conditions, they could show individual human beings; but from his God's-eye-view it had been

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impossible to identify with the scurrying dots fleeing from the burning cities. Only the ground

cameras revealed the true horror.

During that decade, though the results would not be apparent until later, the political

tectonic plates were moving as inexorably as the geological ones - yet in the opposite sense, as

if time was running backwards. For in the beginning, the Earth had possessed the single

supercontinent of Pangaea, which over the aeons had split asunder. So had the human species, into

innumerable tribes and nations; now it was merging together, as the old linguistic and cultural

divisions began to blur.

Although Lucifer had accelerated the process, it had begun decades earlier, when the coming of

the jet age had triggered an explosion of global tourism. At almost the same time - it was not, of

course, a coincidence - satellites and fibre optics had revolutionized communications. With the

historic abolition of long-distance charges on 31 December 2000, every telephone call became a

local one, and the human race greeted the new millennium by transforming itself into one huge,

gossiping family.

Like most families, it was not always a peaceful one, but its disputes no longer threatened

the entire planet. The second - and last - nuclear war saw the use in combat of no more bombs than

the first: precisely two. And though the kilotonnage was greater, the casualties were far fewer,

as both were used against sparsely populated oil installations. At that point the Big Three of

China, the US and the USSR moved with commendable speed and wisdom, sealing off the battle zone

until the surviving combatants had come to their senses.

By the decade of 2020-30, a major war between the Great Powers was as unthinkable as one

between Canada and the United States had been in the century before. This was not due to any vast

improvement in human nature, or indeed to any single factor except the normal preference of life

over death. Much of the machinery of peace was not even consciously planned: before the

politicians realized what had happened, they discovered that it was in place, and functioning

well...

No statesman, no idealist of any persuasion invented the 'Peace Hostage' movement; the very

name was not coined until well after someone had noticed that at any given moment there were a

hundred thousand Russian tourists in the United States - and half a million Americans in the

Soviet Union, most of them engaged in their traditional pastime of complaining about the plumbing.

And perhaps even more to the point, both groups contained a disproportionately large number of

highly non-expendable individuals - the sons and daughters of wealth, privilege and political

power.

And even if one wished, it was no longer possible to plan a large-scale war. The Age of

Transparency had dawned in the 1990s, when enterprising news media had started to launch

photographic satellites with resolutions comparable to those that the military had possessed for

three decades. The Pentagon and the Kremlin were furious; but they were no match for Reuters,

Associated Press and the unsleeping, twenty-four-hours-a-day cameras of the Orbital News Service.

By 2060, even though the world had not been completely disarmed, it had been effectively

pacified, and the fifty remaining nuclear weapons were all under international control. There was

surprisingly little opposition when that popular monarch, Edward VIII, was elected the first

Planetary President, only a dozen states dissenting. They ranged in size and importance from the

still stubbornly neutral Swiss (whose restaurants and hotels nevertheless greeted the new

bureaucracy with open arms) to the even more fanatically independent Malvinians, who now resisted

all attempts by the exasperated British and Argentines to foist them off on each other.

The dismantling of the vast and wholly parasitic armaments industry had given an unprecedented

- sometimes, indeed, unhealthy - boost to the world economy. No longer were vital raw materials

and brilliant engineering talents swallowed up in a virtual black hole - or, even worse, turned to

destruction. Instead, they could be used to repair the ravages and neglect of centuries, by

rebuilding the world.

And building new ones. Now indeed mankind had found the 'moral equivalent of war', and a

challenge that could absorb the surplus energies of the race - for as many millennia ahead as

anyone dared to dream.

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Tycoon

When he was born, William Tsung had been called 'the most expensive baby in the world'; he

held the title for only two years before it was claimed by his sister. She still held it, and now

that the Family Laws had been repealed, it would never be challenged.

Their father, the legendary Sir Lawrence, had been born when China had re-instituted the

stringent 'One Child, One Family' rule; his generation had provided psychologists and social

scientists with material for endless studies. Having no brothers or sisters - and in many cases,

no uncles or aunts - it was unique in human history. Whether credit was due to the resilience of

the species or the merit of the Chinese 'extended family' system would probably never be settled.

The fact remained that the children of that strange time were remarkably free from scars; but they

were certainly not unaffected, and Sir Lawrence had done his somewhat spectacular best to make up

for the isolation of his infancy.

When his second child was born in '22, the licensing system had become law. You could have as

many children as you wished, provided only that you paid the appropriate fee. (The surviving old

guard communists were not the only ones who thought the whole scheme perfectly appalling, but they

were outvoted by their pragmatic colleagues in the fledgling congress of the People's Democratic

Republic.)

Numbers one and two were free. Number three cost a million sols. Number four was two million.

Number five was four million, and so on. The fact that, in theory, there were no capitalists in

the People's Republic was cheerfully ignored.

Young Mr Tsung (that was years, of course, before King Edward gave him his KBE) never revealed

if he had any target in mind; he was still a fairly poor millionaire when his fifth child was

born. But he was still only forty, and when the purchase of Hong Kong did not take quite as much

of his capital as he had feared, he discovered that he had a considerable amount of small change

in hand.

So ran the legend - but, like many other stories about Sir Lawrence, it was hard to

distinguish fact from mythology. There was certainly no truth in the persistent rumour that he had

made his first fortune through the famous shoe-box-sized pirate edition of the Library of

Congress. The whole Molecular Memory Module racket was an off-Earth operation, made possible by

the United States' failure to sign the Lunar Treaty.

Even though Sir Lawrence was not a multitrillionaire, the complex of corporations he had built

up made him the greatest financial power on earth - no small achievement for the son of a humble

videocassette peddler in what was still known as the New Territories. He probably never noticed

the eight million for Child Number Six, or even the thirty-two for Number Eight. The sixty-four he

had to advance on Number Nine attracted world publicity, and after Number Ten the bets placed on

his future plans may well have exceeded the two hundred and fifty-six million the next child would

have cost him. However, at that point the Lady Jasmine, who combined the best properties of steel

and silk in exquisite proportion, decided that the Tsung dynasty was adequately established.

It was quite by chance (if there is such a thing) that Sir Lawrence became personally involved

in the space business. He had, of course, extensive maritime and aeronautical interests, but these

were handled by his five sons and their associates. Sir Lawrence's real love was communications -

newspapers (those few that were left), books, magazines (paper and electronic) and, above all, the

global television networks.

Then he had bought the magnificent old Peninsular Hotel, which to a poor Chinese boy had once

seemed the very symbol of wealth and power, and turned it into his residence and main office. He

surrounded it by a beautiful park, by the simple expedient of pushing the huge shopping centres

underground (his newly formed Laser Excavation Corporation made a fortune in the process, and set

a precedent for many other cities).

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One day, as he was admiring the unparalleled skyline of the city across the harbour, he

decided that a further improvement was necessary. The view from the lower floors of the Peninsular

had been blocked for decades by a large building looking like a squashed golfball. This, Sir

Lawrence decided, would have to go.

The Director of the Hong Kong Planetarium - widely considered to be among the five best in the

world - had other ideas, and very soon Sir Lawrence was delighted to discover someone he could not

buy at any price. The two men became firm friends; but when Dr Hessenstein arranged a special

presentation for Sir Lawrence's sixtieth birthday, he did not know that he would help to change

the history of the Solar System.

Out of the Ice

More than a hundred years after Zeiss had built the first prototype in Jena in 1924, there

were still a few optical planetarium projectors in use, looming dramatically over their audiences.

But Hong Kong had retired its third-generation instrument decades ago, in favour of the far more

versatile electronic system. The whole of the great dome was, essentially, a giant television

screen, made up of thousands of separate panels, on which any conceivable image could be

displayed.

The programme had opened - inevitably - with a tribute to the unknown inventor of the rocket,

somewhere in China during the thirteenth century. The first five minutes were a high-speed

historical survey, giving perhaps less than due credit to the Russian, German and American

pioneers in order to concentrate on the career of Dr Hsue-Shen Tsien. His countrymen could be

excused, in such a time and place, if they made him appear as important in the history of rocket

development as Goddard, von Braun, or Koroylev. And they certainly had just grounds for

indignation at his arrest on trumped-up charges in the United States when, after helping to

establish the famed Jet Propulsion Laboratory and being appointed Caltech's first Goddard

Professor, he decided to return to his homeland.

The launching of the first Chinese satellite by the 'Long March 1' rocket in 1970 was barely

mentioned, perhaps because at that time the Americans were already walking on the Moon. Indeed,

the rest of the twentieth century was dismissed in a few minutes, to take the story up to 2007 and

the construction of the spaceship Tsien.

The narrator did not gloat unduly over the consternation of the other spacefaring powers, when

a presumed Chinese space station suddenly blasted out of orbit and headed for Jupiter, to overtake

the Russian-American mission aboard the Cosmonaut Alexei Leonov. The story was dramatic - and

tragic - enough to require no embellishment.

Unfortunately, there was very little authentic visual material to illustrate it: the programme

had to rely largely on special effects and intelligent reconstruction from later, long-range photo-

surveys. During their brief sojourn on the icy surface of Europa, Tsien's crew had been far too

busy to make television documentaries, or even set up an unattended camera.

Nevertheless, the words spoken at the time conveyed much of the drama of that first landing on

the moons of Jupiter. The commentary broadcast from the approaching Leonov by Heywood Floyd served

admirably to set the scene, and there were plenty of library shots of Europa to illustrate it:

'At this very moment I'm looking at it through the most powerful of the ship's telescopes;

under this magnification, it's ten times larger than the Moon as you see it with the naked eye.

And it's a really weird sight.

'The surface is a uniform pink, with a few small brown patches. It's covered with an intricate

network of narrow lines, curling and weaving in all directions. In fact, it looks very much like a

photo from a medical textbook, showing a pattern of veins and arteries.

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'A few of these features are hundreds - or even thousands - of kilometres long, and look

rather like the illusory canals that Percival Lowell and other early-twentieth-century astronomers

imagined they'd seen on Mars.

'But Europa's canals aren't an illusion, though of course they're not artificial. What's more,

they do contain water - or at least ice. For the satellite is almost entirely covered by ocean,

averaging fifty kilometres deep.

'Because it's so far from the Sun, Europa's surface temperature is extremely low - about a

hundred and fifty degrees below freezing. So one might expect its single ocean to be a solid block

of ice.

'Surprisingly, that isn't the case because there's a lot of heat generated inside Europa by

tidal forces - the same forces that drive the great volcanoes on neighbouring Io.

'So the ice is continually melting, breaking up and freezing, forming cracks and lanes like

those in the floating ice sheets in our own polar regions. It's that intricate tracery of cracks

I'm seeing now; most of them are dark and very ancient - perhaps millions of years old. But a few

are almost pure white; they're the new ones that have just opened up, and have a crust only a few

centimetres thick.

'Tsien has landed right beside one of these white streaks - the fifteen-hundred-kilometre-long

feature that's been christened the Grand Canal. Presumably the Chinese intend to pump its water

into their propellant tanks, so that they can explore the Jovian satellite system and then return

to Earth. That may not be easy, but they'll certainly have studied the landing site with great

care, and must know what they're doing.

'It's obvious, now, why they've taken such a risk - and why they claim Europa. As a refuelling

point, it could be the key to the entire Solar System...'

But it hadn't worked out that way, thought Sir Lawrence, as he reclined in his luxurious chair

beneath the streaked and mottled disc that filled his artificial sky. The oceans of Europa were

still inaccessible to mankind, for reasons which were still a mystery. And not only inaccessible,

but invisible: since Jupiter had become a sun, both its inner satellites had vanished beneath

clouds of vapour boiling out from their interiors. He was looking at Europa as it had been back in

2010 - not as it was today.

He had been little more than a boy then, but could still remember the pride he felt in knowing

that his countrymen - however much he disapproved of their politics - were about to make the first

landing on a virgin world.

There had been no camera there, of course, to record that landing, but the reconstruction was

superbly done. He could really believe that was the doomed spaceship dropping silently out of the

jetblack sky towards the Europan icescape, and coming to rest beside the discoloured band of

recently frozen water that had been christened the Grand Canal.

Everyone knew what had happened next; perhaps wisely, there had been no attempt to reproduce

it visually. Instead, the image of Europa faded, to be replaced by a portrait as familiar to every

Chinese as Yuri Gagarin's was to every Russian.

The first photograph showed Rupert Chang on his graduation day in 1989 - the earnest young

scholar, indistinguishable from a million others, utter1y unaware of his appointment with history

two decades in the future.

Briefly, to a background of subdued music, the commentator summed up the highlights of Dr

Chang's career, until his appointment as Science Officer aboard Tsien. Cross-sections in time, the

photographs grew older, until the last one, taken immediately before the mission.

Sir Lawrence was glad of the planetarium's darkness; both his friends and his enemies would

have been surprised to see the moisture gathering in his eyes as he listened to the message that

Dr Chang had aimed towards the approaching Leonov, never knowing if it would be received.

'... know you are aboard Leonov... may not have much time... aiming my suit antenna where I

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Arthur C. Clarke - 2061

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