The Space Opera MEGAPACK ®. Jay Lake

factor. He could be right. Everything was done in such a hurry that something could have been unchecked. And the pilots weren’t as experienced as they might have been.”

      Hurry, he thought, and fear, and the desire for secrecy. Bucket boat riders might have done the job, but they were all under contract aside from those no longer fit. And no bucket rider in his right mind would have agreed to take a ship down so far.

      * * * *

      Nanset said, “This really isn’t necessary, Durgan. I can assure you that the field will give us ample protection.”

      “I like protection,” said Durgan. “As much of it as I can get. That’s why we’re going to wear the suits from the beginning.” His voice echoed in his ears, and he remembered there was no need to project his words. The radio would do that.

      “Engineers,” said Pendris sourly. “Give me a field man every time.”

      “How the hell do you think we’re going to move down there without the suits? Or did you figure we could get them on just before we land?”

      “All right, I’ll accept that, but why the increased pressure in the cabin? Surely we could wear the suits and leave the face-plates open?”

      Durgan checked his instruments before replying. The ship handled well despite the alterations but, in space, that told little. The test would come when they hit the atmosphere and began to fight the winds.

      “Protection,” he said flatly. “Our internal pressure is as high as the fabric will take. We’ll equalize it a few miles down, but it will give us an advantage. Now shut up and let me get on with the job.”

      It had been the same in the old days. The voice of the monitor had been a source of irritation, a scratching at his concentration best ignored if he was to put all he had into the dangerous business ahead. Then he had ridden alone without others to keep informed. Now he was not alone but all else was the same. The darkness of star-shot space, the transmitted thrum of the tubes, the mounting tension as the great ball of Jupiter swam closer and closer until it filled both mind and vision.

      “Monitor to ship. You are three degrees off course.”

      Sheila, riding with Creech in an attendant vessel, checking his flight with her stolen data, hoping to guide him through a screaming hell of frozen gases and hit a minute bullseye far below.

      Durgan acknowledged and returned to his concentration. At first it wouldn’t be too bad, a slowing, a tendency to veer and twist, a mounting whine from beyond the hull. Then he would match speeds and begin to fall. The whine would increase, the shuddering fight as winds tore at the vessel and negated the controls. To fight them was useless. The trick was to use them, to ride the streaming currents, using vanes and jets to maintain some measure of control. If he lost it, the ship would spin, flung by mighty forces and turning end over end to be torn apart in shattered ruin.

      He heard the sharp intake of breath as the winds caught them, sensed the tension of Nanset and Pendris as they gripped their couches. Strapped down, they were relatively safe, but he could understand their fear. The screens pictured a seething fog of fuming nightmare, the external friction a nerve-tearing whine.

      It lessened a little as he matched velocities, ignoring the voice from his radio, knowing that he was off-course but knowing that he could do nothing about it for the moment. Durgan checked his instruments, the big red hand of the external pressure gauge centered in the panel, handling the ship automatically with the skill of hard-won experience.

      “Prepare for first pressure-adjustment,” he said to Pendris.

      “System ready.”

      “Seal first compartment at double interior pressure.”

      As they descended, the compartments between the hulls would be filled and sealed with gases of increasing pressure, each helping to bolster the metal skins against that outside. With four extra hulls and a highly pressurized cabin, they would be able to withstand six times the pressure of a single hull.

      Six times…a wide margin, but enough?

      Durgan grunted as he rode the winds. Already he was down further than he had ever been before, and now the ship seemed sluggish, the exterior density robbing it of easy manoeuvrability. And the old fear was growing. The knowledge that pressure mounted the lower he went until it would reach a million atmospheres.

      “You are widely off-course.” Sheila’s voice reflected her strain. “Correct seven degrees north.”

      Durgan made the adjustment.

      “Final compartment sealed.” Pendris dropped his hands from the bank of controls before which he lay. “Now it’s up to Nanset.” He grunted as something rose beneath them and sent the ship into wild gyrations. “Durgan!”

      He made no answer, hands dancing on the controls, jets of fire streaming from the tubes as he judged time and pressure. It was a thing impossible to teach and learned only by doing. The instinctive reaction of a trained pilot, a man who was almost a flesh-and-blood extension of his vessel.

      As the ship settled, he snapped to Nanset: “Activate your shield.”

      A faint blue shimmer spread throughout the cabin and vanished as it raced for the outer hull. A generator moaned as it took the strain, the note rising as the engineer made an adjustment.

      “Field adjusted and operating at optimum level.” Nanset’s voice was confident. “Now we’ve nothing to worry about. The field is established on the fringe molecules and will take all this planet can give it. It’s a form of stasis,” he explained. “An energy-concept linked to the center of the generator. The higher the pressure, the more power will automatically be fed into the field and, in a sense, the pressure is fighting itself. The function can best be expressed by he mathematical formula—”

      “Forget it,” said Pendris impatiently. “This is no time for a lecture. Just so long as it works I’ll be satisfied. How much longer, Durgan, before we find the jackpot?”

      “As long as it takes.”

      “Is that the best you can do?”

      “Quit bothering me.”

      Pendris inhaled with a spiteful hiss. Thickly he said, “I’m in this too, or have you forgotten?”

      Durgan made no answer.

      “Listen, you—”

      “Shut your mouth!” Durgan snarled, as he felt the ship twist and begin to spin. The last thing he wanted now was the idle chatter of fools! Sweat beaded his forehead and ran down his face as he struggled to maintain control. It stung his eyes, the raw patch on the side of his neck where the suit had chafed. Like a wild animal, the vessel fought his control. Something struck against the hull with a dull reverberation. Fog plumed in the screens, parting to show frothing masses of vapor, uniting in coiling tendrils.

      Nanset made a choking sound. “God!”

      Something rose before them, tall, white, jagged with broken peaks. The engines roared as Durgan fed extra power into the jets, the ship tilting as he lifted the nose. For a moment they seemed to hang stationary, and then the massed ice threw itself towards them, dropping as they climbed, exploding into raging steam at the touch of their blast.

      And, suddenly, the vapor lifted, seeming to jerk upwards in a lowering bank of cloud beneath which they flew with flaring jets and clear vision.

      “We’ve done it!” said Pendris. “By God, we’ve done it!”

      Below them lay the solid mass of Jupiter.

      * * * *

      It was a place of nightmare, the ebon darkness ripped by the ruby light of widespread volcanic activity, the crimson glow fanning out in feathered plumes of flaming gas. The scene brightened as Durgan adjusted the screens, utilizing the lower wavelengths of light, electronic magic converting them into the visible spectrum. Now they could see raging pools of liquid ammonia whipped into a frenzy by the tidal