The Sentinel - Arthur C. Clarke [59]
Or at least the first part of it, for we will never finish unravelling the complexities of the mini-solar-system formed by Jupiter and his moons. And dated though this story has been by the astonishing speed of space exploration (it was written, please remember, when Sputnik I was still six years in the futurel), it may yet contain some elements of truth.
Those fuzzy, long-range shots of little Jupiter V (now officially christened Amalthea) look very, very odd indeed . . .
PROFESSOR FORSTER IS SUCH A SMALL MAN that a special space-suit had to be made for him. But what he lacked in physical size he more than made up—as in so often the case—in sheer drive and determination. When I met him, he’d spent twenty years pursuing a dream. What is more to the point, he had persuaded a whole succession of hard-headed business men, World Council Delegates and administrators of scientific trusts to underwrite his expenses and to fit out a ship for him. Despite everything that happened later, I still think that was his most remarkable achievement. . . .
The “Arnold Toynbee” had a crew of six aboard when we left Earth. Besides the Professor and Charles Ashton, his chief assistant, there was the usual pilot—navigator—engineer triumvirate and two graduate students—Bill Hawkins and myself. Neither of us had ever gone into space before, and we were still so excited over the whole thing that we didn’t care in the least whether we got back to Earth before the next term started. We had a strong suspicion that our tutor had very similar views. The reference he had produced for us was a masterpiece of ambiguity, but as the number of people who could even begin to read Martian script could be counted, if I may coin a phrase, on the fingers of one hand, we’d got the job.
As we were going to Jupiter, and not to Mars, the purpose of this particular qualification seemed a little obscure, though knowing something about the Professor’s theories we had some pretty shrewd suspicions. They were partly confirmed when we were ten days out from Earth.
The Professor looked at us very thoughtfully when we answered his summons. Even under zero g he always managed to preserve his dignity, while the best we could do was to cling to the nearest handhold and float around like drifting seaweed. I got the impression—though I may of course be wrong—that he was thinking: What have I done to deserve this? as he looked from Bill to me and back again. Then he gave a sort of “It’s too late to do anything about it now” sigh and began to speak in that slow, patient way he always does when he has something to explain. At least, he always uses it when he’s speaking to us, but it’s just occurred to me—oh, never mind.
“Since we left Earth,” he said, “I’ve not had much chance of telling you the purpose of this expedition. Perhaps you’ve guessed it already.”
“I think I have,” said Bill.
“Well, go on,” replied the Professor, a peculiar gleam in his eye. I did my best to stop Bill, but have you ever tried to kick anyone when you’re in free fall?
“You want to find some proof—I mean, some more proof—of your diffusion theory of extraterrestrial culture.”
“And have you any idea why I’m going to Jupiter to look for it?”
“Well, not exactly. I suppose you hope to find something on one of the moons.”
“Brilliant, Bill, brilliant. There are fifteen known satellites, and their total area is about half that of Earth. Where would you start looking if you had a couple of weeks to spare? I’d rather like to know.”
Bill glanced doubtfully at the Professor, as if he almost suspected him of sarcasm.
“I don’t know much about astronomy,” he said. “But there are four big moons, aren’t there? I’d start on those.”
“For your information, Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto are each about as big as Africa. Would you work through them in alphabetical order?”
“No,” Bill replied promptly. “I’d start on the one nearest Jupiter and go outward.”
“I don’t think we’ll waste any more time pursuing your logical processes,” sighed the Professor. He was obviously