There was a long silence in the little cabin. Then Heywood Floyd said slowly: 'Let me give you all the reasons why it can't be done. Then you can tell me why I'm wrong.'

Second Officer Jolson knew his commander; Captain Smith had never heard such a crazy suggestion in his life.

His objections were all well-founded, and showed little, if any, trace of the notorious 'not invented here' syndrome.

'Oh, it would work in theory,' he admitted. 'But think of the practical problems, man! How would you get the stuff into the tanks?'

'I've talked to the engineers. We'd move the ship to the edge of the crater – it's quite safe to get within fifty metres. There's plumbing in the unfurnished section we can rip out – then we'd run a line to Old Faithful and wait until he spouts; you know how reliable and well-behaved he is.'

'But our pumps can't operate in a near vacuum!'

'We don't need them; we can rely on the geyser's own efflux velocity to give us an input of at least a hundred kilos a second. Old Faithful will do all the work.'

'He'll just give ice crystals and steam, not liquid water.'

'It will condense when it gets on board.'

'You've really thought this out, haven't you?' said the Captain with grudging admiration. 'But I just don't believe it. Is the water pure enough, for one thing? What about contaminants – especially carbon particles?'

Floyd could not help smiling. Captain Smith was developing an obsession about soot...

'We can filter out large ones; the rest won't affect the reaction. Oh yes – the hydrogen isotope ratio here looks better than for Earth. You may even get some extra thrust.'

'What do your colleagues think of the idea? If we head straight for Lucifer, it may be months before they can get home...

'I've not spoken to them. But does it matter, when so many lives are at stake? We may reach Galaxy seventy days ahead of schedule! Seventy days! Think what could happen on Europa in that time!'

'I'm perfectly aware of the time factor,' snapped the Captain. 'That applies to us as well. We may not have provisions for such an extended trip.'

Now he's straining at gnats, thought Floyd – and he must know that I know it. Better be tactful...

'An extra couple of weeks? I can't believe we have so narrow a margin. You've been feeding us too well, anyway. Do some of us good to be on short rations for a while.'

The Captain managed a frosty smile.

'You can tell that to Willis and Mihailovich. But I'm afraid the whole idea is insane.'

'At least let us try it on the owners. I'd like to speak to Sir Lawrence.'

'I can't stop you, of course,' said Captain Smith, in a tone that suggested he wished he could. 'But I know exactly what he'll say.'

He was quite wrong.

Sir Lawrence Tsung had not placed a bet for thirty years; it was no longer in keeping with his august position in the world of commerce. But as a young man he had often enjoyed a mild flutter at the Hong Kong Race Course, before a puritanical administration had closed it in a fit of public morality. It was typical of life, Sir Lawrence sometimes thought wistfully, that when he could bet he had no money – and now he couldn't, because the richest man in the world had to set a good example.

And yet, as nobody knew better than he did, his whole business career had been one long gamble. He had done his utmost to control the odds, by gathering the best information and listening to the experts his hunches told him would give the wisest advice. He had usually pulled out in time when they were wrong; but there had always been an element of risk.

Now, as he read the memorandum from Heywood Floyd, he felt again the old thrill he had not known since he had watched the horses thundering round into the last lap. Here was a gamble indeed – perhaps the last and greatest of his career – though he would never dare tell his Board of Directors. Still less the Lady Jasmine.

'Bill,' he said, 'what do you think?'

His son (steady and reliable, but lacking that vital spark which was perhaps no longer needed in this generation) gave him the answer he expected.

'The theory is quite sound. Universe can do it – on paper. But we've lost one ship. We'll be risking another.'

'She's going to Jupiter – Lucifer – anyway.'

'Yes – but after a complete checkout in Earth orbit. And do you realize what this proposed direct mission will involve? She'll be smashing all speed records – doing over a thousand kilometres a second at turnaround!'

It was the worst thing he could possibly have said; once again the thunder of hooves sounded in his father's ears.

But Sir Lawrence merely answered: 'It won't do any harm for them to make some tests, though Captain Smith is fighting the idea tooth and nail. Even threatens to resign. Meanwhile, just check the position with Lloyd's – we may have to back down on the Galaxy claim.'

Especially, he might have added, if we're going to throw Universe on to the table, as an even bigger chip.

And he was worried about Captain Smith. Now that Laplace was stranded on Europa, he was the best commander he had left.

33 – Pit Stop

'Sloppiest job I've seen since I left college,' grumbled the Chief Engineer. 'But it's the best we can do in the time.'

The makeshift pipeline stretched across fifty metres of dazzling, chemical-encrusted rock to the now quiescent vent of Old Faithful, where it ended in a rectangular, downward-pointing funnel. The sun had just risen over the hills, and already the ground had begun to tremble slightly as the geyser's subterranean – or subhallean – reservoirs felt the first touch of warmth.

Watching from the observation lounge, Heywood Floyd could hardly believe that so much had happened in a mere twenty-four hours. First of all, the ship had split into two rival factions – one led by the Captain, the other perforce headed by himself. They had been coldly polite to each other, and there had been no actual exchange of blows; but he had discovered that in certain quarters he now rejoiced in the nickname of 'Suicide' Floyd. It was not an honour that he particularly appreciated.

Yet no-one could find anything fundamentally wrong with the Floyd-Jolson manoeuvre. (That name was also unfair: he had insisted that Jolson get all the credit, but no-one had listened. And Mihailovich had said: 'Aren't you prepared to share the blame?')

The first test would be in twenty minutes, when Old Faithful, rather belatedly, greeted the dawn. But even if that worked, and the propellant tanks started to fill with sparkling pure water rather than the muddy slurry Captain Smith had predicted, the road to Europa was still not open.

A minor, but not unimportant, factor was the wishes of the distinguished passengers. They had expected to be home within two weeks; now, to their surprise and in some cases consternation, they were faced with the prospect of a dangerous mission halfway across the Solar System – and, even if it succeeded, no firm date for a return to Earth.

Willis was distraught; all his schedules would be totally wrecked. He drifted around muttering about lawsuits, but no-one expressed the slightest sympathy.

Greenburg, on the other hand, was ecstatic; now he would really be in the space business again! And Mihailovich – who spent a lot of time noisily composing in his far from soundproof cabin – was almost equally delighted. He was sure that the diversion would inspire him to new heights of creativity.

Maggie M was philosophical: 'If it can save a lot of lives,' she said, looking pointedly at Willis, 'how can anyone possibly object?'

As for Yva Merlin, Floyd made a special effort to explain matters to her, and discovered that she understood the situation remarkably well. And it was Yva, to his utter astonishment, who asked the question to which no-one else seemed to have paid much attention: 'Suppose the Europans don't want us to land – even to rescue our friends?'