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发信人: by (春天的小懒虫), 信区: SFworld
标  题: 2010 (12)
发信站: 哈工大紫丁香 (Wed Oct  6 14:34:27 1999), 转信

PART III
DISCOVERY
                              12
                    Downhill Run

The  ship  was  gaining  speed  at  last,  on  the  downhill run
toward  Jupiter.  It  had  long  since  passed the gravitational
no-man's-land   where  the  four  tiny  outer  moons  -  Sinope,
Pasiphae,  Ananke,  and  Carme  -  wobbled  along  their  retro-
grade   and   wildly   eccentric  orbits.  Undoubtedly  captured
asteroids,  and  completely  irregular in shape, the largest was
only  thirty  kilometres  across. Jagged, splintered rocks of no
interest  to  anyone  except  planetary  geologists, their alle-
giance   wavered   continually  between  the  Sun  and  Jupiter.
One day, the Sun would recapture them completely.
  But Jupiter  might  retain  the  second  group  of four, at half
the  distance  of  the  others.  Elara,  Lysithea,  Himalia, and
Leda  were  fairly  close together, and lying in almost the same
plane.  There  was  speculation  that they had once been part of
a  single  body;  if  so,  the  parent  would have been barely a
hundred kilometres across.
  Though   only   Carme   and   Leda   came   close   enough   to
show  disks  visible  to  the  naked eye, they were greeted like
old friends. Here was the first landfall after the longest ocean
voyage  -  the  offshore  islands of Jupiter. The last hours were
ticking  away;  the  most  critical  phase of the entire mission
was approaching - the entry into the Jovian atmosphere.
  Jupiter  was  already  larger  than  the  Moon  in the skies of
Earth,  and  the  giant  inner  satellites could be clearly seen
moving   around   it.  They  all  showed  noticeable  disks  and
distinctive  colouring,  though  they  were  still  too far away
for  any  markings  to  be  visible.  The  eternal  ballet  they
performed   -   disappearing   behind  Jupiter,  reappearing  to
transit the daylight face with their accompanying shadows -
was an endlessly engaging spectacle. It was one that astro-
nomers had watched ever since Galileo had first glimpsed it
almost exactly four centuries ago; but the crew of Leonov
were the only living men and women to have seen it with
unaided eyes.
  The interminable chess games had ceased; off-duty hours
were spent at the telescopes, or in earnest conversation, or
listening to music, usually while gazing at the view outside.
And at least one shipboard romance had reached a culmina-
tion: the frequent disappearances of Max Brailovsky and
Zenia Marchenko were the subject of much good-natured
banter.
  They were, thought Floyd, an oddly matched pair. Max
was a big, handsome blond who had been a champion
gymnast, reaching the finals of the 2000 Olympics. Though
he was in his early thirties, he had an open-faced, almost
boyish expression. This was not altogether misleading; des-
pite his brilliant engineering record, he often struck Floyd
as naive and unsophisticated - one of those people who are
pleasant to talk to, but not for too long. Outside his own
field of undoubted expertise he was engaging but rather
shallow.
  Zenia - at twenty-nine, the youngest on board - was still
something of a mystery. Since no one wished to talk about
it, Floyd had never raised the subject of her injuries, and his
Washington sources could provide no information.
Obviously she had been involved in some serious accident,
but it might have been nothing more unusual than a car
crash. The theory that she had been on a secret space mis-
sion - still part of popular mythology outside the USSR -
could be ruled out. Thanks to the global tracking networks,
no such thing had been possible for fifty years.
  In addition to her physical and doubtless psychological
scars, Zenia laboured under yet another handicap. She was a
last-minute replacement, and everyone knew it. Irina
Yakunina was to have been dietician and medical assistant
aboard Leonov before that unfortunate argument with a
hang-glider broke too many bones.
  Every day at 1800 GMT the crew of seven plus one
passenger gathered in the tiny common room that separated
the flight deck from the galley and sleeping quarters. The
circular table at its centre was just big enough for eight
people to squeeze around; when Chandra and Curnow were
revived, it would be unable to accommodate everyone, and
two extra seats would have to be fitted in somewhere else.
  Though the `Six O'Clock Soviet', as the daily round-
table conference was called, seldom lasted more than ten
minutes, it played a vital role in maintaining morale. Com-
plaints, suggestions, criticisms, progress reports - anything
could be raised, subject only to the captain's overriding
veto, which was very seldom exercised.
  Typical items on the non-existent agenda were requests
for changes in the menu, appeals for more private commu-
nication time with Earth, suggested movie programmes,
exchange of news and gossip, and good-natured needling of
the heavily-outnumbered American contingent. Things
would change, Floyd warned them, when his colleagues
came out of hibernation, and the odds improved from 1 in 7
to 3 in 9. He did not mention his private belief that Curnow
could outtalk or outshout any three other people aboard.
  When he was not sleeping, much of Floyd's own time
was spent in the common room - partly because, despite its
smallness, it was much less claustrophobic than his own
tiny cubicle. It was also cheerfully decorated, all available
flat surfaces being covered with photos of beautiful land- and
seascapes, sporting events, portraits of popular video-
stars, and other reminders off Earth. Pride of place, however,
was given to an original Leonov painting - his 1%5 study
`Beyond the Moon', made in the same year when, as a
young  lieutenant-colonel, he left Voskhod II and became the
first man in history to perform an extravehicular excursion.
  Clearly  the  work  of  a  talented amateur, rather than a
professional,  it  showed the cratered edge of the Moon with
the  beautiful  Sinus  Iridum  -  Bay  of  Rainbows - in the
foreground.  Looming  monstrously  above  the  lunar horizon
was  the  thin  crescent  of  Earth,  embracing the darkened
nightside  of  the  planet.  Beyond that blazed the Sun, the
streamers of the corona reaching out into space for millions
of kilometres around it.
  It  was a striking composition-and a glimpse of the future
that  even then lay only three years ahead. On the flight of
Apollo  8,  Anders,  Borman,  and  Lovell  were  to see this
splendid  sight  with  their  unaided  eyes, as they watched
Earth rise above the farside on Christmas Day, 1968.
  Heywood  Floyd  admired  the  painting,  but  he  also re-
garded  it  with mixed feelings. He could not forget that it
was  older  than  everybody  else  on  the  ship  - with one
exception.
  He  was  already  nine  years  old  when Alexei Leonov had
painted it.

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