worked out either a nonlethal contravirus or a straight chemical treatment. Sam Donabed, the only remaining medical specialist of the expedition, occasionally discussed the matter with colleagues on Earth when his other duties permitted, but neither they nor he had come up with any helpful procedure.
Sam was officially only a lieutenant colonel and Goodall could reasonably have lost patience and told the doctor to leave him alone; but neither the commander nor any of the others thought of him as a military type, scientist or otherwise. His rank was irrelevant; he was a doctor, and rational people still tended to follow doctors’ recommendations even with the full knowledge that they amounted to experiments with no two identical subjects. Human beings vary in more than hair color.
Besides, losing patience would have been ungentlemanly, immature, and rude, and at Goodall’s age he didn’t want to risk his reputation for maturity.
Doctors had, of course, a lot of work to do on other ailments, and there were only a few hundred cases of SAS at a time to worry about, so there was no use in Goodall’s complaining about being at the short end of a triage situation. Most people now alive shared that distinction.
With the pain growing ever worse, what he really wanted now was not a cure—not exactly. He wanted an opportunity. He had even worked out in some detail just what sort of opportunity. It should, he felt, occur somewhere on Titan. The plan needed only one of Maria Collos’s gel pools, not too far from a lake, and isolated in some way from the rest of the big moon’s surface.
There were a few impact scars on the ever-growing map he was developing on his own without consulting Maria. Crater walls might provide the isolation, though all mapped so far appeared badly weathered or nearly buried. This might seem surprising, since there appeared to be no high winds in Titan’s heavy atmosphere, and methane rain should be a far weaker erosive agent than water, but on the other hand both had presumably had several billion years to do their work.
At least two of the craters on Maria Collos’s less specialized maps did contain small lakes. This was hopeful, and the maps were still being revised and extended, partly in the standard course of planned operations and partly in Goodall’s personal, private files. He wondered more and more frequently how long he could keep that up. It was this sort of solid, detailed work that could best turn his attention from pain, sometimes for hours at a time, but the distraction by his body was getting harder and harder to fight.
The chances of finding an ideal site for his slowly developing personal project were decreasing, though he was not admitting this yet to himself. Titan’s equatorial regions had now been well mapped, and his personal travel problems made the rest of the satellite much less suitable. He still had hopes, however. He might be short on time, but not yet on patience.
He turned his attention back to the display of Belvew’s—more correctly Theia’s—Mollweide screen, and resumed looking for ground images which might bear detailed study. Even polar areas might be usable, although much less accessible.
But watching quickly became boring, and boredom gave the pain access to his attention. He wrenched his mind back to the Station, the best place to find the immediate, serious work which he needed. No immediate work? What should he read?
Belvew was in no trouble, and the new atmospheric data seemed trivial, however interesting. There was one bit of chemistry to be rechecked, but it would be a while yet before any more data could come from Maria’s tar pools, gel pools, prebiotic sites, or whatever they were.
To Goodall, the mistake about methanol’s being part of the gel had been interesting and somewhat embarrassing. He had of course corrected it with Status, but without calling the attention of his living colleagues. He did not intend to tell them until someone
Sam was officially only a lieutenant colonel and Goodall could reasonably have lost patience and told the doctor to leave him alone; but neither the commander nor any of the others thought of him as a military type, scientist or otherwise. His rank was irrelevant; he was a doctor, and rational people still tended to follow doctors’ recommendations even with the full knowledge that they amounted to experiments with no two identical subjects. Human beings vary in more than hair color.
Besides, losing patience would have been ungentlemanly, immature, and rude, and at Goodall’s age he didn’t want to risk his reputation for maturity.
Doctors had, of course, a lot of work to do on other ailments, and there were only a few hundred cases of SAS at a time to worry about, so there was no use in Goodall’s complaining about being at the short end of a triage situation. Most people now alive shared that distinction.
With the pain growing ever worse, what he really wanted now was not a cure—not exactly. He wanted an opportunity. He had even worked out in some detail just what sort of opportunity. It should, he felt, occur somewhere on Titan. The plan needed only one of Maria Collos’s gel pools, not too far from a lake, and isolated in some way from the rest of the big moon’s surface.
There were a few impact scars on the ever-growing map he was developing on his own without consulting Maria. Crater walls might provide the isolation, though all mapped so far appeared badly weathered or nearly buried. This might seem surprising, since there appeared to be no high winds in Titan’s heavy atmosphere, and methane rain should be a far weaker erosive agent than water, but on the other hand both had presumably had several billion years to do their work.
At least two of the craters on Maria Collos’s less specialized maps did contain small lakes. This was hopeful, and the maps were still being revised and extended, partly in the standard course of planned operations and partly in Goodall’s personal, private files. He wondered more and more frequently how long he could keep that up. It was this sort of solid, detailed work that could best turn his attention from pain, sometimes for hours at a time, but the distraction by his body was getting harder and harder to fight.
The chances of finding an ideal site for his slowly developing personal project were decreasing, though he was not admitting this yet to himself. Titan’s equatorial regions had now been well mapped, and his personal travel problems made the rest of the satellite much less suitable. He still had hopes, however. He might be short on time, but not yet on patience.
He turned his attention back to the display of Belvew’s—more correctly Theia’s—Mollweide screen, and resumed looking for ground images which might bear detailed study. Even polar areas might be usable, although much less accessible.
But watching quickly became boring, and boredom gave the pain access to his attention. He wrenched his mind back to the Station, the best place to find the immediate, serious work which he needed. No immediate work? What should he read?
Belvew was in no trouble, and the new atmospheric data seemed trivial, however interesting. There was one bit of chemistry to be rechecked, but it would be a while yet before any more data could come from Maria’s tar pools, gel pools, prebiotic sites, or whatever they were.
To Goodall, the mistake about methanol’s being part of the gel had been interesting and somewhat embarrassing. He had of course corrected it with Status, but without calling the attention of his living colleagues. He did not intend to tell them until someone
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