Jupiter IV

JUPITER IV

A novel by Doug Turnbull

Illustrated by Joe Hardwick

© 2011 Doug Turnbull

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

First published by Dog Ear Publishing

4010 W. 86th Street, Ste H Indianapolis, IN 46268 www.dogearpublishing.net

Published by Doug Turnbull at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Formatted by Jo Harrison.

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

To Fred C. Jacob

1924-1986

Science Educator

From whom I learned that the exact sciences are seldom exact.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter I-The Long Jump

Index Card-Newton’s Cannon

Chapter II-Galileo Mission

Index Card-Track of the Galileo Mission

Chapter III-Transit to Jupiter

Chapter IV-Jupiter IV

Index Card-Oberth Effect

Chapter V-The View from Valhalla

Index Card-The Modern Pressure Suit

Chapter VI-My Science Project

Chapter VII-R.T. "Beto"

Chapter VIII-Clavius

Index Card-Copernicus to Clavius

Chapter IX-Diplomacy

Chapter X-Homeward Bound

Epilogue

Appendix-Planetary Comparisons

Glossary

The Author

I must go down to the seas again,

to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship

and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song

and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face

and a grey dawn breaking.

From Sea Fever by John Masefield (1878-1967)

Prologue

I could hear voices above the surface of the water, but didn’t recognize any of them; I slipped farther down into the pool again. I couldn’t swim because my hands and feet wouldn’t move; nonetheless I seemed to be able to breathe all right. I slowly drifted back to the surface and heard the voices again.

Hey, kid, wake up. I felt my face being slapped. Come on, don’t play ’possum with me, up and at ’em.

Quit hitting me! Hey, cut that out! I couldn’t see my assailant as something was covering my eyes.

Quit hitting me, the voice mocked.

Let him come around on his own now, Simonson. How come you always got to be so mean, like you enjoy it?

You’re too soft, Oakley. That’s gonna get us in trouble someday, all the time goin’ soft like that. Come on, kid, sit up!

I felt myself spun around and jerked into an upright position. My head kept spinning and I thought I was going to be sick.

Well, there’s our million-dollar baby. This third voice was vaguely familiar. I searched my memory, but it wasn’t working. I couldn’t remember how I got here. The last thing I recalled was going to sleep in my room at the Luna Imperial Hotel.

Since Clavius was a big city and had crime, that place had all sorts of security. The door to my room had a real, no-kidding lock on it and the room itself had a robo surveillance cam in it. So much for privacy on Luna. All that stuff didn’t do me much good though, because here I was, kidnapped.

If you’re looking for ransom, you grabbed the wrong guy, I said groggily. I don’t have any family. There’s nobody who will pay you for me.

Don’t worry about that, kid, you’re already bought and soon to be paid for.

Shut up, Simonson. You talk too much! the third voice commanded. But my burly friend speaks the truth, Señor Rodriguez. That tipped it. The voice was that of the oily assistant to the UN pro-consul, part of the diplomatic delegation we had been meeting with over the previous days.

What do you guys want?

Surely you jest, Señor. The drive, Señor; we want — or rather, our clients want the drive.

You better start thinking fast, Augustine, I thought. That was the name my folks used when I was in trouble, and it sure fit this scene to a Texas T. But I think I better bring you up to speed by starting right at the beginning, or at least close to it.

CHAPTER I

The Long Jump

"The world is always partly a mirror of ourselves."

–Lewis Carroll

Father and Son

I had dreamed about being on the mission, but pretty much discounted the possibility because of my age. By the time I was old enough and educated enough to qualify, it would already have happened. What I hadn’t figured on was Dad, who completely floored me when he took me to coffee and asked: What would you think if I put in for the Galileo Mission? Before I could even answer, he followed with: I don’t expect you to come along. After all, you were born and raised here on Mars and all of your friends are here.

When did this idea come up, Dad? Why didn’t you mention that you were thinking about it? Of course I’m going along. Besides, you were born and raised on Mars, too, and all of your friends are here, also.

Well, Augie, this is a pretty big decision to make at your age. Copernicus Station will be a fairly small colony and as lonesome a place as there is in the solar system.

Aw, come on, Dad. Don’t pull the age number on me. Grandpa Hector was my age when he joined the Marines and fought in the Second Middle East War. He told me that his dad signed for him to go, even though he was personally against it. He respected Grandpa’s wishes and let him go anyway.

Dad rolled his eyes at this one. Your grandfather talks too much and his memory is blurred by his age. I’m sure he must have been older.

Not a chance, Dad; he showed me his papers and everything. Besides, he wouldn’t forget something like that. Anyway, you see my point. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We’ll be pioneers like no others. Callisto is twice as remote as Mars.

That is exactly my point, Augie. I hate to see you make such an irrevocable decision at your age. I think you better stay here on Mars and pursue your education. With your math skill, you’d do very well in any of the hard sciences.

I can do just as well on Callisto.

Well, we can talk about this some more in the morning.

I’m not changing my mind, Dad. I’ll put in for it myself if you won’t take me with you.

Well, let’s sleep on it, son.

It was always a bad sign when he called me son. He had his mind made up: he was going on the mission by himself. He was ditching me here on Mars, which, compared to the far-off and sparkling new Copernicus Station, seemed like a futureless backwater. At least that is how I felt about it at the time.

R.T. Texas Ranger

Dad was the chief (and only) plant engineer at Heinlein Station, where the two of us had been for the better part of a year Mars before we signed on to the Galileo Mission. Heinlein is located about 8,000 kilometers east of Schiaparelli Station, which is the largest and oldest of Mars Colony’s settlements. Located just south of the equator, Heinlein is small by comparison and is primarily a research station. As he described it, Dad’s job was to keep the lights on and the toilets flushing so that the great minds of Heinlein’s planetary research team could concentrate on thinking great thoughts.

After we both slept on it, I think Dad realized I was serious about going along with him when he read a note I sent him.

Dad,

I understand your concerns with my safety and that Copernicus is at the far end of the settled solar system; but really, when you think about it, until Copernicus is occupied, Mars is the far end of the system. After we talked, I went back and re-read a history book I used in school about the colonial expansion into North America and the settling of the American West. Whole families went. Men did not go alone and leave their young adult sons behind. Opening up a new world, which is what they called it by the way, takes everyone working together if it is to succeed. You are thinking of me as a child, a burden, when I will really be an asset. I am the top Boy Scout on Mars, have a good head for figures and a strong back. The rest I can learn. For these reasons, I am asking that we put in for the mission as a team.

Augie

Well, I don’t know if my note did the trick or if Dad changed his mind on his own, but the next day I got a note from him:

Augustine, (must be serious)

I contacted the Mayor and Andrew Smithers and they will submit our names together as applicants for the Galileo Mission. On reflection, I decided that your mother would have preferred that we go together on this venture. Now we have to try our best to get accepted. It still has to be approved by a committee of Earth-side dudes, so it is by no means a sure thing.

Love,

Dad

To cut a long story short, we got accepted. Oh, we had to take tests, submit a lot of medical data, and generally go through a bunch of silly stuff first, but in the end, the geniuses on Earth finally doped out that they had two of the best pioneers in the solar system right here on Mars. By the time we were accepted, there was only about half a year Mars left before the launch window to link up with the mission fleet, so all of us had to report to Schiaparelli for training.

******

"Hey, Dad, check it out! It’s the Texas Ranger. That has to be good luck for us."

As I spoke I pointed toward the sleek form of the four-passenger Mars Stratoliner poised on her launch pad outside the station. The front half of the cylindrical ship’s twenty-five-meter length enclosed the passenger compartment and the wings that would deploy once we were in the glide phase of our trip. The back half carried the propulsion system of liquid fuel rocket engines, their support machinery, as well as the liquid methane and liquid oxygen fuel tanks. Two stubby wings jutted out from the sides just aft of the passenger area. They were the tips of the larger wings concealed inside, and a vertical stabilizer rose from the fuselage toward the rear of the front half. The stabilizer sported the company logo, RT (for Reaction Transport), in large block letters, topped by a stylized drawing of a cowboy hat.

With Dad and me was Samantha Sam Washington, one of the station’s scientist/engineers who was rotating back to Schiaparelli. Her replacement as well as Dad’s had arrived ten days earlier in the Texas Ranger.

My dad was originally from Ohio, Sam pointed out in response to my comment about the Texas connection.

That’s in northeastern Texas, I think, Sam, Dad said. You know Andy, Sam. Everything is like something out of one of those old western movies he likes so much.

Your father was one of the first Mars colonists, wasn’t he? I asked Sam.

Yep. Dad is an engineer by trade and came to the space program from the U.S. Navy. That’s where he picked up the nickname ‘George,’ even though his real name is Edward. He is retired now.

I remember meeting him once. I didn’t mention how ancient he seemed to me.

Howdy, folks! The voice in our helmet radios was that of Andrew Smithers, the president of Reaction Transport. Your ship is all set to go. She will depart, barring any launch holds, in about half an hour, so you have plenty of time to board and get settled in.

Thanks, Andy, Dad said. How’s everybody at your end?

Fine, Beto, everyone is fine. Ana, Bob, and the children are just as ornery as ever. Oh, by the way, I need everyone’s voice signature on the transport contract before you get on board. Insurance rules, you know.

Boy, Andy, you really should have been a lawyer, Dad said. That contract means that we agree to hold you harmless no matter what happens. You could set out to deliberately kill us all and we, or rather our heirs, still couldn’t sue.

I had read the transport agreement once, when we flew out to Heinlein the year before. It was very long and made for interesting reading once I figured out that it was designed to be confusing. Basically, we agreed to pay RT a certain amount of money in U.S. dollars and they agreed to make a reasonable effort to transport us to our destination, but with no guarantees. Essentially, they were really obligated to nothing at all. According to Dad, Andrew Smithers was like those early pioneers in railroads and commercial aviation on Earth, a true believer who didn’t care whether he made money or not so long as he kept his operation running. Because of him, Mars has a really good long-distance transportation system. After reading the transport agreement, I had the feeling that Mr. Smithers was a sharper businessman than Dad gave him credit for.

It’s just legal boilerplate, Beto. Means nothing, Mr. Smithers said dismissively. I had the Mars Corporation lawyer in San Francisco draw it up. I think she used an airline ticket as a template. Don’t worry, I like to keep my passengers alive and in one piece. It’s better for business. We’ll get you to Schiaparelli. See y’all in a couple of hours.

Okay, Andy, I trust you, Sam said, laughing. Remember the old Goddard Society?

Sure do, Sam. We did some good work in those days, and on a shoestring, too.

But your rockets were always the best, Andy. Just like now.

We talked as we headed up the ramp alongside the ship and climbed into the passenger seats. Sam and I took the front seats and Dad took one in back. The robos had already stowed our gear, and once we were strapped in with all the lights green, the canopy came down and sealed. The cabin was pressurized, but we kept our suits sealed against a possible loss of integrity. Any serious problems along those lines, however, particularly during reentry, would turn the Texas Ranger and its passengers into shooting stars. I wasn’t worried because in over fifteen years of passenger service, only one death had occurred and it was really unrelated to the transport service. A man had a heart attack and died during a flight. Doc Swoboda said he would probably have died if he had been right there in the infirmary. Sometimes it just happens that way. So as far as I was concerned, RT had a perfect safety record.

Looks like you’ll have clear skies all the way. Thirty seconds to ignition, by the way. Put your false teeth in your pocket, Beto!

Very funny, Andy.

T-minus fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, the autopilot counted us down. Ignition. The five rocket engines at the base of the now vertical Texas Ranger rumbled to life, sending vibrations through the body of the ship and those of its passengers.

One, two, three, four, the autopilot counted off as the engines built up thrust and smoothed out.

Liftoff. The ship lunged slightly as the clamps holding her down against the upward thrust released; then she began steadily accelerating. We started out at about 1.5 G, but since she was consuming fuel at a rate of 250 liters per second, Ranger got lighter with each passing moment, so that the rate of acceleration increased rapidly.

Powering up to one hundred percent, the autopilot announced, ten seconds into the flight.

Hang onto your hats, folks! Mr. Smithers said over the intercom. You’ll hit five Gs by the time the tanks in the booster sleeve are empty, which will be in another minute. Then you get a breather till she builds to about three Gs at the end of the boost phase.

I’d been through this once before, when we came out to Heinlein, but that didn’t make it one bit easier. The recommended strategy is to relax and just let it happen, and it looked like Sam was doing just that. Her eyes were closed and she appeared to be asleep. I gripped the armrests with all my strength and clenched my teeth so hard that my jaw hurt. Neither action made the two and a half minutes of the boost phase go by any faster.

Now you’re going to feel a let-up in acceleration to about Mars normal gravity when the four engines of the booster sleeve shut down, Mr. Smithers warned us.

Whoa! I let out an involuntary yell as the Ranger performed as predicted. I then felt our rate of acceleration increase suddenly again as the booster sleeve slipped away and fell behind us, leaving the Ranger only a fraction of its original mass. The sleeve would be under automatic attitude control until it descended and slowed enough for a drogue chute to deploy. A huge paraglider-type chute would then deploy and carry it to within a few kilometers of Heinlein, where it could be retrieved by a robo rover.

You just lost over a ton of dead weight, so the sustainer engine has more sock than it did a second ago, Mr. Smithers continued.

With only a single engine pushing her forward and using fuel at a mere 50 liters per second, proportionally less energy poured into the ship’s body, making for a much smoother ride. Ranger was no longer climbing vertically. During the first 75 seconds of brutal acceleration, her course had curved into an arc. Ranger gradually merged into a path that would, at engine shutdown, have the ship moving parallel to the surface of Mars. The sky was now black and the planet’s surface shone brightly below as we raced west with increasing speed.

Just as Mr. Smithers promised, the engine shut down after 150 seconds of powered flight. With an initial mass of over 26,000 kilograms, Ranger had burned 22.5 tons of propellants and discarded the booster sleeve. She now weighed only 1,500 kilograms, including us and our bags. But since we were in orbit at an altitude of 300 kilometers and moving 3,700 meters per second, we were weightless.

Let me clarify some of this before I get you totally confused. When I say that Ranger weighed 1,500 kilos, I mean she massed at that amount. If she had been on the surface of the Earth and put on a scale, she would have weighed that amount. On Mars, that same scale would have weighed her at 38 percent of that, or about 570 kilos. In orbit around Mars she actually weighed nothing at all, but her mass remained exactly the same, so for consistency’s sake we express it as though she were being weighed on the surface of the Earth.

This is my least favorite part, Sam said. Going from three Gs to zero G in the blink of an eye is tough on the tummy.

Ditto to that, Sam, Dad said. I’m real glad I skipped breakfast this morning.

Hey, Dad! Check out the terrain below us. I sure wouldn’t want to land there and have to walk out. Looks pretty rough. Motion sickness and such don’t affect me the way they do other folks. Guess I’m a born space man.

Can’t see it from back here, Augie. Have to wait till the autopilot rolls us over.

On cue, the robo slowly rotated Ranger end for end onto her back so the business end of the rocket engine faced our direction of motion. This put the canopy upside down, with the nose of the ship at a slight angle toward Mars. We were now moving backward toward our goal.

I’m closing my eyes again, Sam said. The view is a little too spectacular for me.

I should have let you sit in the back, Sam, Dad said. I didn’t know you were prone to motion sickness.

I’ll be okay. In fact, I seem to be getting my bearings already. I think it was the flip over that did it. But I’m still closing my eyes for a minute.

During this exchange I eagerly took in the scenery. I had hoped to catch a glimpse of Heinlein Station, but by the time the autopilot finished its maneuver we were already ten minutes and 2,100 kilometers along our flight track. It had slipped over