Luckily, the steamy, turbulent region immediately beneath Lucifer was a thousand kilometres away; Galaxy had descended in a relatively calm area, less than a hundred kilometres from the nearest land. At peak velocity, she could cover that distance in a fraction of a second; but now, as she drifted beneath the low-hanging clouds of Europa's permanent overcast, land seemed as far-off as the remotest quasar. To make matters worse – if possible – the eternal off-shore wind was taking her further out to sea. And even if she could manage to ground herself on some virgin beach of this new world, she might be no better off than she was now.

But she would be more comfortable; spaceships, though admirably watertight, are seldom seaworthy. Galaxy was floating in a vertical position, bobbing up and down with gentle but disturbing oscillations; half the crew was already sick.

Captain Laplace's first action, after he had been through the damage reports, was to appeal for anyone with experience in handling boats – of any size or shape. It seemed reasonable to suppose that among thirty astronautical engineers and space scientists there should be a considerable amount of seafaring talent, and he immediately located five amateur sailors and even one professional – Purser Frank Lee who had started his career with the Tsung shipping lines and then switched to space.

Although pursers were more accustomed to handling accounting machines (often, in Frank Lee's case, a two-hundred-year-old ivory abacus) than navigational instruments, they still had to pass exams in basic seamanship. Lee had never had a chance of testing his maritime skills; now, almost a billion kilometres from the South China Sea, his time had come.

'We should flood the propellant tanks,' he told the Captain. 'Then we'll ride lower and won't be bobbing up and down so badly.'

It seemed foolish to let even more water into the ship, and the Captain hesitated.

'Suppose we run aground?'

No one made the obvious comment 'What difference will it make?' Without any serious discussion, it had been assumed that they would be better off on land – if they could ever reach it.

'We can always blow the tanks again. We'll have to do that anyway, when we reach shore, to get the ship into a horizontal position. Thank God we have power...'

His voice trailed off; everyone knew what he meant. Without the auxiliary reactor which was now running the life-support systems, they would all be dead within hours. Now – barring a breakdown – the ship could sustain them indefinitely.

Ultimately, of course, they would starve; they had just had dramatic proof that there was no nourishment, but only poison, in the seas of Europa.

At least they had made contact with Ganymede, so that the entire human race now knew their predicament. The best brains in the Solar System would now be trying to save them. If they failed, the passengers and crew of Galaxy would have the consolation of dying in the full glare of publicity.

IV – AT THE WATER HOLE

32 – Diversion

'The latest news,' said Captain Smith to his assembled passengers, 'is that Galaxy is afloat, and in fairly good condition. One crew member – a woman steward – has been killed – we don't know the details – but everyone else is safe.

'The ship's systems are all working; there are a few leaks, but they've been controlled. Captain Laplace says there's no immediate danger, but the prevailing wind is driving them further away from the mainland, towards the centre of dayside. That's not a serious problem – there are several large islands they're virtually certain to reach first. At the moment they're ninety kilometres from the nearest land. They've seen some large marine animals, but they show no sign of hostility.

'Barring further accidents, they should be able to survive for several months, until they run out of food – which of course is now being strictly rationed. But according to Captain Laplace, morale is still high.

'Now, this is where we come in. If we return to Earth immediately, get refuelled and refitted, we can reach Europa in a retrograde, powered orbit in eighty-five days. Universe is the only ship currently commissioned that can land there and take off again with a reasonable payload. The Ganymede shuttles may be able to drop supplies, but that's all – though it may make the difference between life and death.

'I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, that our visit has been cut short – but I think you'll agree that we've shown you everything we promised. And I'm sure you'll approve of our new mission – even though the chances of success are, frankly, rather slim. That's all for the moment. Dr Floyd, can I have a word with you?'

As the others drifted slowly and thoughtfully from the main lounge – scene of so many less portentous briefings – the Captain scanned a clipboard full of messages. There were still occasions when words printed on pieces of paper were the most convenient medium of communication, but even here technology had made its mark. The sheets that the Captain was reading were made of the indefinitely reusable multifax material which had done so much to reduce the load on the humble wastepaper basket.

'Heywood,' he said – now that the formalities were over – 'as you can guess, the circuits are burning up. And there's a lot going on that I don't understand.'

'Ditto,' answered Floyd. 'Anything from Chris yet?'

"No, but Ganymede's relayed your message; he should have had it by now. There's a priority override on private communications, as you can imagine – but of course your name overrode that.'

'Thanks, Skipper. Anything I can do to help?'

'Not really – I'll let you know.'

It was almost the last time, for quite a while, that they would be on speaking terms with each other. Within a few hours Dr Heywood Floyd would become 'That crazy old fool!', and the short-lived 'Mutiny on the Universe' would have begun – led by the Captain.

It was not actually Heywood Floyd's idea; he only wished it was.

Second Officer Roy Jolson was 'Stars', the navigation officer; Floyd barely knew him by sight, and had never had occasion to say more than good morning to him. He was quite surprised, therefore, by the diffident knock on his cabin door.

The astrogator was carrying a set of charts, and seemed a little ill at ease. He could not be overawed by Floyd's presence – everyone on board now took him for granted – so there must be some other reason.

'Dr Floyd,' he began, in a tone of such urgent anxiety that he reminded his listener of a salesman whose entire future depends on making the next deal. 'I'd like your advice – and assistance.'

'Of course – but what can I do?'

Jolson unrolled the chart showing the position of all the planets inside the orbit of Lucifer.

'Your old trick of coupling Leonov and Discovery, to escape from Jupiter before it blew up, gave me the idea.'

'It wasn't mine. Walter Curnow thought of it.'

'Oh – I never knew that. Of course, we don't have another ship to boost us here – but we have something much better.'

'What do you mean?' asked Floyd, completely baffled.

'Don't laugh. Why go back to Earth to take on propellant – when Old Faithful is blasting out tons every second, a couple of hundred metres away? If we tapped that, we could get to Europa not in three months – but in three weeks.'

The concept was so obvious, yet so daring, that it took Floyd's breath away. He could see half a dozen objections instantly; but none of them seemed fatal.

'What does the Captain think of the idea?'

'I've not told him; that's why I need your help. I'd like you to check my calculations – then put the idea to him. He'd turn me down – I'm quite certain – and I don't blame him. If I was captain, I think I would too...'