Montrose did not answer. The Tower, towed very slowly through space by its pitifully inadequate ion drive, even assuming a fuel-efficient Hohmann transfer orbit, would take five years to reach the target. Once there, the skyhook would be able to do exactly nothing. The distance between Jupiter’s deep layers and that planet’s geosynchronous orbit altitude was much greater than the corresponding distances for Earth. Maintaining geosynchrony on a world that spins on its axis once every ten hours was that much more difficult. The gravity gradient was much steeper, and so the sheering forces much stronger, when compared to those of a Tower spanning the relatively modest height needed to bridge the gap between Earth’s surface and Earth’s geosynchronous point. A Jupiter skyhook would need to be that much taller, the and force of the weight pulling it apart would be unthinkable.
Even assuming all those problems solved, the skyhook mouth, even if it could be lowered into the miles-deep eternal storms of Jupiter, could not find the solid core of the planet, and any machines or devices sent out would be blinded in the dark, boiled in the heat, and crushed by pressures that made the bottom of the Mariana Trench seem nearly a vacuum. The skyhook certainly could not somehow find the scattered and busily self-replicating molecule-sized engines.
And that was calculating without the lateral force of the unceasing supersonic winds of storms larger than the entire surface area of Earth. This Tower, so impressive here on Earth, as mighty as the stronghold of warring titans and gods, would be of no more use against the sheer, blind, colossal magnitudes of the planet Jupiter than if it were a reed straw.
Menelaus frowned glumly. It almost seemed unfair that the word “planet” was used both for cute little blue Earth and for the gas giant swathed in storms, of a monster almost large enough to be a small sun. It was like saying the elephant and the shrew were both “mammals.” While true enough, they were very different sorts of critters.
“Earth could build a longer skyhook…,” Montrose began.
“This one took a century to build, and consumed a substantial segment of the resources of Earth. To build a taller one would cost more and take longer. How much of Jupiter’s mass would be converted before that?” Del Azarchel said.
Montrose was silent, glum.
Del Azarchel smiled a sharp and cold smile. “And suppose there was some way to halt the birth. Is it not the pinnacle of insanity to halt one’s own birth, and abort one’s own self? The Jupiter Brain is another Exarchel. I and I alone shall be the base and standard of all posthuman and postbiological life. It will all be me—and I shall be called the Master of the World no longer, but the Master of Worlds.”
“You mean Master of All, don’t you? I mean, once you get around to conquering stars, constellations, star clusters, the Orion Arm, the Upper Left One Quarter of the Milky Way Galaxy, to be known thereafter as the Great Pizza Slice.”
“I see no reason to curtail unrealistically my ambition,” said Del Azarchel coolly, his eyes narrow.
The two merely stared at each other for a moment. Montrose wrestled with the temptation to paste Blackie with an uppercut. Blackie was hefting the dirk in his hand thoughtfully.
Eventually, Del Azarchel said, “Do you see now why I offer you this Earth and all she contains? She is mine to give, and out of all my treasures, she is merely a trifle. But she is much to you, is she not? Foreswear the duel, kneel, serve me.”
Montrose said, “While I am thinking over your kindly meant offer, let me make a counteroffer.”
“I am listening.”
“You agree to fight, and I mean fight like the devil with every bursting brain cell in that dark whirlpool you call a brain, and I mean with every atom of hate in your entire hate-riddled heart, all your soul and all your strength against the Hyades, using all your toys, your powers, the core of the Earth, and the whole mass of Jupiter, and whatever else we—you and me together—can come up with in four hundred years. One condition is that you leave the human beings alone. You stop trying to evolve them, to domesticate them, or absorb them into savant circuits or Locust mass minds or whatever. Just leave them be. And I will kneel and serve you.
“Ponder on that one, friend. Consider that I ain’t never actually been under your command. I was mad as a March Hare during the Expedition. You ain’t never given me Order One. I’ve never obeyed you, but I will now, if you take up the fight to protect mankind.
“And we can share a smoke and a glass of hooch, and tour the moons of Jupiter that look so much like gems and geodes and goddam bright-colored Easter eggs. And I will shine your shoes and call you “Master” nice and respectful-like. Can’t you fight these star monsters, these living machines from Epsilon Tauri, with even half the spirit you waste fighting me?! They are the real damn enemy!”
Del Azarchel said, “Agreed. But one condition. You divorce Rania.”
Menelaus Montrose drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Let me, ah, think that one through carefully … I mean, there are angles to consider … there is this and that and that other thing … talk it over with my guys … try on a new pair of socks and see if that changes my perspective on things…”
“Cowhand! Just say ‘no’ and we can continue with the brutal killing of each other and of those around us. It seems to be all that we are suited for.”
Montrose had nothing to say.
Del Azarchel smiled thinly. “Do you know that I have had four of my closest associates and friends shot to death by you, all with that exact same weapon your Second over yonder is holding?”
Montrose turned his eyes back toward the others. They were all standing so still, he wondered if perhaps Preceptor Illiance, or whatever he was calling himself this hour, had accidentally petrified them. But no. Mickey the Witch blinked a moment after the decoration eyes in his hat did.
Del Azarchel said, “They will wait forever. Neither your men nor mine want to see this duel. They do not understand why we do this, you and I. Do you know that Melchor de Ulloa does not even own a firearm?”
Montrose looked at him warily. “That can’t be right. What does he do for hunting? Bow hunting? Throw a boomerang?”
“I think he is a vegetarian.”
“So is your old pal and my new friend Mictlanagualzin of the Dark Sciences, but that does not stop him from being a cool hand and a sharp eye with the twin fifty-calibers mounted on a little girl’s coffin. Maybe Mulchie just owns a small gun, and only uses it on Sunday to do clay pigeons.”
“No. Nothing at all.”
“Wow. I mean. Wow. I have met some folk in my life who never touch alcohol, called teetotalers; and I know nuns or men of the cloth who took the vow never to wed, called celibacy. But someone who doesn’t own a shooting iron? There ain’t no word for that. If there is no word for it, it never happens. What does he do if some big guy swaggers up to take his stuff or kiss his girl? And I know De Ulloa’s had a passel of girls. He’s a regular Whoremonger Harry.”
Del Azarchel, but not at first, realized that Montrose meant very little of what he was saying, and started to laugh. It was loud, happy, uncalculating laughter, such as he never had done in a very long time and certainly not before men he considered servants and underlings.
Del Azarchel wiped his eyes, and said, “You know I despise De Ulloa.”
“So do I. So does everyone.”
Del Azarchel said, “It’s funny that you know my Witch. You know that all that flab is not really flab, but biological material he can shape by means of enzymes he controls through a meditative technique? His comment about the Princess, though, most uncalled-for…”
“Oh. You heard that.”
“It is easier if you think of Exarchel and myself as the left and right hands of one soul. Even when there are different thoughts in my head or his, our goals and ideals are the same. And what truly shapes the thoughts of a man like me? An experience, which might change from time to time? Or an ideal, which is the star by which he steers, and which I will never permit to change? Lesser men would be two souls if housed in two brains. Not men like I am. Like we are. No experience of yours would deter you from Rania, would it?”