Cold Trap

Denise.

0

Sacramento CA: 09122027—Fifteen years ago

Lester Keppel stared out from behind the smoked glass of his second-story office at the angry throng calling for his head on the street out front. It had been just twelve hours since a small group of tech-beat reporters gathered in a university basement, some six thousand miles distant, to chronicle the Cube’s first public demonstration. In the event’s lead-up, a few establishment researchers deigned to acknowledge that, with the technology becoming so widely accessible, even a novice like Lester Keppel might hope to make a run at the three-digit mark, though it would, of course, be some time before one of the more reputable laboratories toppled the current factorization record of 299. It was an understandable reaction. Keppel Computing LLC was no major research institute, like at Cambridge or Waterloo, but a repurposed machine shop secreted in the treeless expanse of southeast Sacramento’s warehouse district.

Eleven hours ago, the first news van appeared across the street. The press had figured out that the unmarked structure was his daily haunt and the workplace of his five personal employees. Four of those five were loyalists he had peeled off from his birthright, Keppel Instrumentation. The fifth, Joel, had only been with him for a little over a year, though Keppel had no doubt that the boy was steadfast.

Eight hours ago, a prescient Sacramento police chief closed the street to vehicular traffic and ordered crowd barriers erected across the front of the property. The first clumps of demonstrators had arrived, drawn in like so many iron filings. Four hours ago, the riot squad showed up to maintain order as the protesters, now several hundred strong, lobbed hostile chants at the warehouse. Impromptu signage bobbed above the throng, railing against the dangers that Keppel and his Cube posed to everything from privacy and national security to e-commerce and 401Ks. This was not the same old anti-globalization crowd. There were retirees out there.

He leaned closer to the glass. On the burned-out strip of lawn in front of the building, a stout woman in a Dodgers cap and hiking boots pointed a video camera bearing the call letters KSAC at a reporter with slicked-back hair. Keppel pulled up KSAC’s website and touched the Live Coverage link. A window opened and a commercial played about a little boy coming home from preschool, bragging to his mother about how he had stayed dry all day. The mother smiled and hefted a box of big-boy diapers just as the Skip This Ad link appeared. Keppel scowled and poked the link.

The slicked-back reporter, a strong-chinned forty-something, appeared in front of the warehouse’s beige stucco facade. A red Breaking News banner pulsed at the bottom of the screen along with the tagline:

Quantum Computer Sends Stocks into Tailspin

—that you see behind me is thought to house Lester Keppel’s remarkable Cube quantum computer, a device light years ahead of the pack. The Cube’s capabilities were on display in the early morning hours at a live demonstration carried out with the help of professor of mathematics, Patrycja Baranoski, from Poland’s Lublin University of Technology. Professor Baranoski sent the Cube a number, called a semi-prime, which is the product of two prime numbers. Now you might be wondering: why all the fuss about a number? Well, the thing you need to understand about semi-primes is that they are the backbone of nearly every information security protocol on the planet. Large semi-primes, of say a hundred digits or more, are so difficult to factor back into their component primes that even the most powerful supercomputers can chug away, quite literally for millennia, without ever finding the solution. This makes semi-primes ideal for securing information.

An animated sequence showed bits of data streaming through a pipeline from one computer toward another. A lock with a keyhole at the front blocked the way.

The semi-prime serves as a kind of lock, to which the component primes supply the key.

Two strings of digits appeared on the screen of the sending computer and entered the information pipeline as a parade of glowing bits. They streamed into the keyhole and the lock opened. Information flowed freely in both directions.

Without the component primes, the semi-prime lock is virtually impregnable.

The scene shifted to the KSAC newsroom, where a fair-haired anchor in a tight dress asked the obvious question: Ethan, how was Lester Keppel’s Cube computer able to factor one of these large semi-primes?

Great question, Madison. Let’s hear what Professor Baranoski had to say after the demonstration.

The scene shifted again. A woman with dark complexion and blue-gray eyes stood, arms crossed, in front of a small assemblage of reporters and cameramen. The display screen behind her showed a single long string of digits. Cameras flickered intermittently as she spoke: In the simplest possible terms, quantum computers make use of the exotic properties of the subatomic realm, where particles can be linked together, or entangled, without anything connecting them physically, and where those same particles can exist in superposition, in multiple states of reality. Quantum computers exploit superposition, carrying out the search for the factors of a semi-prime simultaneously across many states of reality.

The lawyers had hit the mark with this one. Her delivery was frank and competent, her voice husky and sultry. The gal had mucho gravitas.

The first quantum computer was created three decades ago. It was able to factor the number fifteen. Other quantum computers have been created since then, but always they are—what do you say?—mere proofs of concept. This is because, to build a large-scale quantum computer, one must find a way to organize and entangle massive numbers of these teensy tiny particles ... Baranoski mimed the meticulous placement of particles. But, she said, finger raised, the universe, she works tirelessly to disorganize and disentangle. She swiped an arm across where she had placed the particles. As my advisor, Dr. Everett, once said, it is like trying to organize thousands of spinning tops on the deck of a ship as it is rocked by a gale, except that such a task would be child’s play as compared to that of creating a large-scale quantum computing device. Baranoski took a sip of water. And yet, she continued, "on this day, in less than one minute, Lester Keppel’s device, this ... this Cube, factorized a 253-digit semi-prime, a number that was carefully chosen. By me."

Baranoski glanced back at the computer screen and then, to staccato camera flashes, announced, Ladies and gentlemen, we have moved past the threshold and now stand squarely within the quantum age. This is as it should be, but still we must take care. There are consequences ... always, there are consequences.

Keppel clapped his hands. Everything had gone off splendidly. The spotlight was on, and the world was clamoring for information about the Cube. If the feds had any thoughts about breaking their end of the deal, he would give the world exactly what it wanted.

Ethan reappeared, smiling and nodding. Consequences indeed, Madison. An inverted hockey stick graph labeled Dow appeared beside him. When Wall Street received the news that a California inventor suddenly had the power to hack any networked computer on the planet, panic whipped through the markets like wildfire. The Dow shed 20 percent of its value as part of a massive selloff that tripped circuit breakers and cleared trading floors all across—

Ethan, Madison broke in, we are getting word that Lester Keppel is about to issue a statement by way of one Gavin Mott, junior partner at Sacramento’s own Wechsler, Schmidt, and Jacobs. That is the law firm that Mr. Keppel hired to oversee the integrity of the Cube demonstration.

Keppel looked out the window. Things were heating up along the barriers. Riot officers were now yelling at the pressing crowd and jabbing at them with their batons. A few yards closer in, Mott was stepping up to a cluster of microphones. In front of him, a gaggle of science reporters huddled, looking like tomorrow’s feast, on the inside of a roped-off square.

Keppel turned back to the KSAC feed.

Yes, ah ... hello ... hello, Mott said. I have, uh, two announcements for you today. First—

Shrieks of panic exploded from the crowd, which scattered radially away from a shaggy protester pointing a metallic object at one of the officers. A green substance spewed from its tip, striking the officer full on in the faceplate. A blur of black gloves and batons hauled the man over the barrier until he lay cuffed and bloodied against the sidewalk.

The stricken officer peeled foam party string from his faceplate.

First, Mott rasped, Mr. Keppel has denied the press’s request to allow a pool reporter in to photograph the Cube.

The crowd moaned and drifted back toward the barriers.

Second, in one week’s time, Wechsler, Schmidt, and Jacobs will oversee a new demonstration of the Cube’s capabilities.

A voice from the crowd screamed something about Nazis.

We have assembled a team of five biologists for this new demonstration, wherein the Cube will simulate, from the molecular level on up, a complete animal, a tiny flatworm called a ... planarian.

The protesters fell silent. Whatever they had been expecting, this was not it.

I have time for two questions, Mott said. "Yes, Jordan Peavey, LA Times."

The shot switched to Peavey, a young woman in horn-rimmed glasses with chopsticks in her hair. Thank you, Peavey replied. So what is the point of this second demonstration? It will be an impressive achievement, but not without precedent. The Blue Wave supercomputer accomplished something similar two years ago.

True, Mott answered, but it took Blue Wave weeks to process a few minutes of modeled time. Without spoiling the surprise, the Cube will run faster than that. Regardless, that is not the point of the demonstration.

What is? Peavey asked.

As I understand it, the biologists will be able to elicit from the modeled organism information about any of countless branching possibilities. These alternate realities will all run simultaneously in the background, ready at any time to be pulled to the fore for scrutiny. I assure you, nothing like this has ever been done.

The press area erupted with questions, but Keppel had given Mott specific instruction. He only need call on—

"Jake Swanlund, Wired," Mott said, pointing at a stout reporter, who elbowed his way to the front of the pack.

Swanlund stared at Mott, face pinched with disappointment. What you have just announced, he began, voice creaking like a rusty hinge, sounds quite incredible ... which is to say that it is, as a matter of fact, beyond the realm of possibility. Quantum computing has no such macroscopic applications.

Keppel smiled with anticipation. He had crossed paths with Swanlund before—the man was totally obnoxious—so this part was sure to be fun.

Thank you, Jake, Mott said. Mr. Keppel anticipated that you would be, shall we say, incredulous. He prepared a reply to your, uh, statement and asked that I read it to you.

The frame split between the two men. Swanlund smiled with smug pretension and raised a single, skeptical eyebrow.

Yes, this would be fun.

Here we go, Mott said. ‘Mr. Swanlund, while your barren imagination makes you uniquely qualified to report on other people’s achievements ...’

Condescension gave way to surprised indignation.

‘... what you have predictably failed to consider is that one can convert the task of designing an algorithm for modeling macroscopic multi-realities into a kind of cryptographic puzzle, one that, somewhat paradoxically, can only be solved by a large-scale quantum-computing device. A device such as the one that I have invented. A device such as the Cube.’

Once again, the crowd fell silent. Keppel watched with relish as Swanlund just stood there, simmering, lips puckered drawstring tight. Abruptly, Swanlund spun about and stormed from the reporters’ area.

Keppel hooted and slapped his knee. That shut the bastard up.

The remaining reporters barked out questions:

Has Mr. Keppel used the Cube to hack anyone’s system?

Why is Mr. Keppel hiding?

How do we know this is not an elaborate hoax?

Mott raised a hand. You have Mr. Keppel’s assurance that no computers will be hacked. Period. No more questions. Mott turned and broke for the safety of the warehouse.

1

Unity Lunar Outpost: 10082042—Present day

... three ... four ... Frank Deaver hunched over the tiny microwave, the central fixture in the modest pantry that was inset into the rear bulkhead of the Dispatch chamber. He counted the bubbles of cheesy, beany goo as they squeezed past the folds of his burrito.

... five ...

Cupped in his chunky left hand were the remnants of his weekly produce ration: a smidgen of chopped onion, a few sprigs of cilantro, and a single, exquisite slice of jalapeno.

... six ...

His right thumb waggled in front of the opener to the microwave.

... seven ... eight ...

The eggheads back in Huntsville had printed on the wrapper that two and a half minutes was optimal.

... nine ...

But no one had asked them to live off the stuff. Deaver knew better.

... ten bubbles!

He flipped open the door. The burrito heaved a steamy, contented sigh.

Perfection.

The Dispatch chamber occupied nearly a quarter of the upper floor of the Command and Control Dome. The room would have been rectangular if not for the outwardly bowing exterior bulkhead. Its long, narrow window offered a crystal-clear panorama of the sterile world outside the dome. The view was cleaved down the center by a thin, dimly lit plateau that wrapped with geometric precision around the inky-dark well that was Shackleton Crater’s interior. Unfiltered sunlight hit the high crater rim obliquely, making long shadows of even small imperfections, of which there were many after two-plus years of squat mining trucks and fleet little rovers rolling past.

To the unaided eye, the Dispatch chamber was white and nearly featureless. It had more the look of an empty padded cell than the nerve center of a major lunar outpost. A long, bare shelf ran beneath the window. Deaver’s rolling desk chair stood close by, vacant and facing inward. Plain oval hatches interrupted the two flanking bulkheads and a third hatch, smooth and round, lay recessed into the floor by the pantry.

As seen through a pair of standard-issue data-vision spectacles—or dataspecs as most called them—the Dispatch chamber was much, much busier. Down the length of the shelf by the window was projected a bewildering array of video displays, gauges, and meters, as well as knobs, sliders, levers, and other virtual human-interface devices. Most of the room was filled, waist-high, with a finely detailed, three-dimensional map of the lunar surface called the Extended Dispatch Display—or EDDi—which just then was zoomed out to take in Shackleton Crater and several of its comparably sized neighbors. The EDDi’s color-coded contours tracked surface temperatures, which ranged there at the southern lunar pole between extremes that could freeze nitrogen or melt lead. But up along the rim of Shackleton, where the Sun only seemed to roll lazily along the horizon in a month-long circuit, the surface was locked in a perpetual daybreak of downright hospitable temperatures.

Unity Outpost appeared on the EDDi as a blemish, perched by the drop-off to Shackleton’s interior, which in that place started nearly vertical before terracing its way ever more gradually toward the frigid crater floor some two miles below. Hovering over the blemish was a much larger, translucent blowup of the outpost. A few dozen garishly outfitted avatars milled about inside. Over a dozen more traipsed across the lunar surface on foot or dashed along it in numbered vehicles. The avatars tracked the position and orientation of an explorer’s dataspecs. The outfits were Deaver’s creation. They enabled him to find any explorer at a glance. Plus, tinkering with ensembles offered a pleasant distraction to help while away the lulls.

Deaver reached inside the microwave and tugged on the wrapper, sliding the burrito out onto the plate. Just behind him, on the map’s periphery, the swami avatar moved along the interior of a little-known, alphanumerically designated crater. He blinked in and out of existence a few times and then disappeared entirely. Up on the crater rim, the swami’s rover vanished as well.

Deaver pulled the plate from the microwave and sprinkled his little stash of veg over the burrito. The ear tubes running from his dataspecs piped in a sudden burst of garbled digital noise: Iss-iss-iss-iss- ... ej-ej-ej-ej-ej- ... ... ... el-el-el-el-el–

Now? Deaver muttered, setting the plate down with a clank. He pressed his ear tubes in tighter and turned to face the EDDi. Everything looked fine. Most likely, someone had bumped their emergency com button.

If it were half as important as his burrito, they would call back.

Deaver wafted the plate beneath his twice-broken nose. The aromas swirled and fused as they found passage into his nasal cavity, buoying his spirits. He trotted across the EDDi with what he imagined to be ghostly grace and settled into his chair. He spun to face the console.

Something was not right.

A record of the botched transmission blinked in red at the base of the communication log:

Incoming Transmission: 10082042 0324Z

Deaver scanned the other display screens. A second line of red text was being herded up screen by incoming status updates on Unity’s fleet of rovers, mining trucks, and telepresence vehicles:

Lost Rover: 10082042 0323Z

Three-oh-five was Dr. Sejkin Nharavi. The swami.

Trixie, Deaver ordered the computer, get me explorer three-oh-five.

Captain Deaver, Trixie answered, her synthetic cadence imbued with a hint of southern charm, I am sorry, but I am unable to reach explorer three-oh-five.

Deaver rolled his way over to the explorer log. He had to scroll up a few pages to find the entry:

Lost Explorer: 10082042 0323Z

Keep trying, Deaver said. He tried to puzzle out what might have happened.

Explorers often climbed into deep fissures or walked through lava tubes. Or else they wound up prone, and the instant their antennae touched that charged layer of dust blanketing nearly every lunar surface, communication became problematic. So to lose contact with an explorer was not terribly alarming.

But to lose a rover? That was disturbing. Rovers had large antennas and powerful transmitters, which doubled as repeaters, linking explorers to Unity. They were built with layers of redundancy, so if a malfunction ever did occur, no one outside of maintenance would even notice.

The central Dispatch log said that the swami was out gathering core samples, but that could have been a cover story. The swami’s work for Keppel Corp was so hush-hush that not even Commander Lutz knew what he was up to half the time. One thing everyone did know about the swami was that his driving bordered on reckless. He had yet to flip his ride, but it was only a matter of—

Deaver shot up from his chair.

Trixie! he snapped. Rewind EDDi at eight ex. Deaver stepped toward the map, which twitched into motion. He scanned for the swami. Flag three-oh-five when he reappears.

Yes, Captain.

Deaver chewed on a thumbnail and waited. A neon arrow appeared over the swami out along the map’s periphery. He was down inside of an obscure crater, a few kilometers in breadth, named 6L43A. Rover 11 reappeared as well. It was parked way up on the rim.

Deaver waded into the map. Center EDDi on the swami, and increase magnification tenfold. He could see now that the swami was actually standing within a big secondary crater, a kilometer-wide divot that some meteorite had gouged in the floor of 6L43A. The secondary crater was designated a cold trap, meaning that its floor lay forever shielded from even the most incidental rays of the Sun and so was a magnet for the white stuff ... or rather the gray stuff: grime. That foamy mixture of ice and dust that accumulated down inside the Moon’s deepest, coldest recesses.

The two craters had an odd configuration. The southern wall of the secondary crater ran beneath the wall of the primary crater, creating a giant mass of overhanging rock.

The swami blinked out again. This time Rover 11 remained visible.

Rewind twenty ex, Deaver ordered.

A minute later, the swami reappeared, exactly where he had been, and started traveling in reverse, due south. As he approached the overhang, he blinked out briefly and then reappeared shooting skyward. The winch on the front of the rover chugged in an exaggerated fashion. Deaver shuddered at the thought of dangling there in the blinding darkness. When the swami hit the rim, he darted around to the back of Rover 11 and then disappeared inside. The rover sped off in reverse in the general direction of Unity.

Trixie, resume live EDDi. He returned to his chair. And I want to broadcast an announcement to all explorers.

A palm-sized red button labeled Broadcast appeared on the desktop.

Captain, Trixie said, press the red button to begin your transmission. Release the—

Shut up, Trixie. Deaver set a hand on the button, which turned green. Attention. This broadcast is intended for explorer three-oh-five. If you can hear me, three-oh-five, this is Unity Dispatch. Please respond.

He waited twenty seconds and then repeated the transmission.

A call came in. Moochy. The swami’s girlfriend. Deaver took the call, voice only. Unity Dispatch.

Captain Deaver ... Frank. Has Sej responded yet? I can’t reach him, either.

There was another call. Commander Lutz.

Two-oh-seven, Deaver said to Moochy, I’m still waiting for Dr. Nharavi to report in. Please stand by. He switched over to Lutz. Unity Dispatch.

Lutz spoke with his thick Slavic accent: Captain Deaver, I hear your broadcast. Tell me, what eez situation? Lutz was notorious for micromanaging. Deaver had to keep him away.

Commander ... Deaver massaged his temples. "Commander, we lost contact with Rover 11. Normally, I would say that it flipped or drove somewhere that blocked the com signal, but it was motionless when it blinked out. No flares in the forecast. Plus, it was an isolated incident. I am investigating now."

Fine, fine. What does explorer three-oh-five say?

There was no avoiding it. Unfortunately, we also lost contact with three-oh-five. He may have tried to reach me, but the transmission was garbled. The rover’s onboard systems will have begun working through—

I am coming. Lutz out.

There it was. Deaver buried his face in his hands and groaned. He peeked through parted fingers at his burrito. The edges of the tortilla were already cracked and curling. He groaned again.

Moochy was still on hold. There was a time when Deaver thought that she and the swami made a fetching young couple. He even hinted that the three of them might find pleasure in one another’s company—just throwing it out there, of course. The way the swami shot him down, so prudish and squeamish, it was hurtful. He would not soon forget. He was still fond of Moochy, though. He reopened the connection.

"Two-oh-seven. Still no word from three-oh-five. I lost Rover 11 as well, but they were separated when it happened. It has to be a problem with the rover. Maybe just a software glitch, he lied. I’ll figure it out."

I’m not that far. Should I go—

Negative, Dr. Moichera. I will attempt to resolve things from this end. But stay close to your rover and be ready to move out. I will contact you the instant I have news or further instructions.

Thank you, Frank.

Deaver out. He pulled up a command prompt and began typing. Trixie was good for many things, including some that would make her designers blush, but she had no common sense. Sometimes it was easier just to do things manually. As he coded a fault-resolution routine, a whirring noise sounded from the floor hatch over by the pantry. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Lutz, bald-headed, broad-nosed, and barrel-chested, torpedoing through the opening.

He kept typing as Lutz hopped up beside him and flipped through the transmission log. Attempted contact at oh three twenty-four, he muttered.

Deaver hit Enter and lines of code scrolled up the display in fits and starts. Correct, Commander, he said, unsure if Lutz was expecting a response. "At the time, three-oh-five, Dr. Sejkin Nharavi, was still at the floor of a cold trap down inside of Crater 6L43A. He had disappeared from the EDDi about a minute earlier, along with Rover 11."

What measures have you taken to be reestablishing contact?

"I let Trixie work on it for a bit, and now I have instructed the com system to cycle through a series of fault-resolution routines. Of course, it could be that Rover 11’s difficulties stem from a local anomaly, such as a strong magnetic field. There are plenty of those up along the twentieth meridian, and he’s already stretching the useful range of his repeater."

How serious eez danger to three-oh-five?

If he sticks to protocol and returns to his rover, he will be fine until help arrives. If he gets stuck down there on foot, say because the winch has gone out, the biggest worry is that his PALS unit—NASA-speak for power and life support—will burn through its fuel just to keep him warm. Even so, there’s plenty of time to reach him before he ... ticks out. Deaver much preferred the common ticks out locution to the more verbose freezes, suffocates, or roasts to death in a designer, man-shaped pouch.

Lutz faced him. And what eez protocol saying we must do in case of missing man and missing rover?

Just to be clear, Commander, technically nobody is missing yet.

"Da, da, but this eez dam-ned strange, so let us think like three-oh-five eez missing."

Yes, Commander. By the book, we should send the nearest explorer, or explorers, out to 6L43A to locate three-oh-five ... although, matters may be complicated because he went missing inside of the Restricted Zone, which right now only he has clearance to enter.

"Captain, I have studied zone regulations ... completely. They say that in life-or-death situation, we must proceed as usual, except that unauthorized parties who enter Restricted Zone may take no action that they are not otherwise taking as normal part of search. We must treat all information about Restricted Zone as classified. Always. Continue, Captain. Tell me protocol."

As someone is sent to investigate, the security and safety chief should assemble a formal search party, which should suit up and remain on standby.

Supposing Nharavi does become stuck at floor of cold trap. When will he be ... ticking out?

Deaver tapped at the desktop. "He exited Rover 11 eighty-seven minutes ago. Assuming only moderate activity, he has at most 142 minutes of power and life support remaining. Trixie, pin three-oh-five’s tick-out clock to the window."

How long until nearest explorer arrives?

Deaver strode into the EDDi and stretched a line between the Mexican dancing girl avatar—Moochy—and the swami’s last known location. Explorer two-oh-seven, he reported, is already standing by. She is roughly thirty minutes from the rim of 6L43A. Figure another twenty to get down inside the cold trap and out to three-oh-five’s last known.

Lutz’s eyes narrowed. The dancer ... she eez Moo-chy?

Deaver nodded. Yes, Commander, the dancer is—

Duvaj ga! Lutz yelled, startling Deaver. There must be someone else nearby.

The next closest explorer has twice as far to travel, but if you would prefer—

No, Lutz said. Give order. Tell me when she eez approaching. Lutz leapt over to the floor hatch and tapped it with the toe of his shoe. As he waited for it to open, he caressed his smooth scalp and puffed out his cheeks, exhaling between slightly parted lips. Eez dam-ned strange ... When the hatch opened, he straightened and said, But everything will be fine. I am sure of it. He popped into the air and fell through the hole. The hatch closed behind him.

2

Twenty-five minutes later, Lutz stood beside Deaver, waist-deep in the EDDi. They watched as Rover 2, which had been making great time, slowed on its ascent of 6L43A’s outer rampart.

Unity Dispatch, this is explorer two-oh-seven. I am having a little trouble making the rise to the crater lip. Please stand by.

Deaver expanded the feed from the rover’s stereoscopic roof cam. The incline was smooth with a thin layer of dust. The rover slipped sideways several times, giving Deaver fits.

Moochy never let up. Unity Dispatch, she reported finally, "I have a visual on Rover 11."

Deaver could see it too.

It looks fine, she said, but I do not see three-oh-five.

Not good, Lutz whispered to Deaver.

He was right. Hadn’t the swami already tried, and failed, to make contact? He had to be aware that there was a communications problem, so his first action should have been to return to Rover 11. Where was he?

Um, Dispatch, Moochy said, "I am not sure how it was on your end, but Rover 11 reappeared on my display just as I was making visual." She sounded rattled.

Yes, two-oh-seven, Deaver answered, projecting calm. It happened the same way on our end. Do you have an explanation? He knew the answer, but he had to ask.

I do not, Unity. I see nothing out of the ordinary. Eleven looks as though it has been here the entire time. Three-oh-five’s PALS unit is gone. The front stabilizers are down. The boom is out past the lip, and the composite winch line is extended.

Deaver looked over at Lutz. He was miming something. Raising an anchor maybe.

Two-oh-seven, Deaver said, pull on the winch line to see if three-oh-five is attached.

Lutz nodded and made a new gesture ... someone falling.

If not ... then ... you ... should ... use your own winch line to descend to the floor of the cold trap.

More nods from Lutz, then something like flashing headlights.

Three-oh-five may reappear once you hit bottom.

Thumbs-up.

Will comply, Unity. I will be restricted to the narrow-bandwidth signal running through the winch line during descent, but I will reestablish full contact when I am back in the clear.

Roger that, two-oh-seven, Deaver answered. Exercise caution. We will be waiting to hear from you.

/////

Moochy hung from a loop at the belly of her suit and held herself upright with one hand. She corkscrewed through the darkness toward the floor of the cold trap. Her helmet spotlights projected overlapping circles of light against the crater wall, some five meters beyond reach. Next they lit up Sej’s winch line, which hung pin-straight and motionless. Then came the blackness. With no atmosphere to scatter the light, her spots were either hitting something or non-existent.

Wall ... line ... blackness ... wall ... line ... blackness ... It was lulling, and to say that her sleep had been troubled lately was a gross understatement. Wall ... line ... blackness ... wall ... line ... blackness ...

The heels of her boots hit bottom. Her heart fluttered and she staggered upright, sort of. She was listing ... or rather the ground was sloping off to her right. She pulled on the line for support, but it was still spooling out.

Specs, stop winch line! she screamed, hanging sideways.

The ground there had the same thin coating of dust as on the crater’s outer rampart. She stumbled getting her feet back under her. She took her time, orienting herself downslope and raising the winch line over her left shoulder. The way Sej had taught her.

Specs, extend winch line slow.

She plodded downslope, keeping close to Sej’s line, which was draped along the ground to her left.

When the incline was gentle enough to disconnect, she spotted the end of Sej’s line. There was no torch, spent or otherwise. Without a lit torch, the line might have been difficult to find. That could explain a few things. But why no torch? He would never have forgotten to set one.

Moochy pulled a foot-long metal cylinder from her thigh. Averting her eyes, she twisted the base clockwise. The slope lit up all around, tinted blue. Fearing that Sej was out there somewhere in the darkness, hurt or incapacitated, she waved the torch overhead and prayed that he would see it. She unclipped from the winch line and fastened the torch to it.

She continued downslope at a glide. She spotted a few loose rocks and a wide scuff mark. Sej had tumbled. Badly. She skidded to a stop. Heart racing, she swept out the area downslope with her spots. Was he down there, unconscious ... or worse? There were more scuff marks. Just beyond was the albedo line, a change in reflectivity marking the transition between two materials. Rock and grime.

She ran downhill until the crunching of grime echoed up through her suit. Scanning to her left, she saw several sets of boot tracks leading out across, and coming in from, the grime field. The set farthest away turned sharply left, probably the start of a search