Titan by Ben Bova Page A

get enough air through his throat to speak.
    “Dead slow,” said the engineer.
    “But we didn’t command it to move. No one told it to move.”
    The engineer nodded. “It’s taking off on its own.”
    “But how? Why?”
    “Damned if I know,” said the engineer. “The big question is, where’s it going?”

    Da’ud Habib leaned in beside Urbain, his dark eyes intent on the display screen. Urbain saw that the computer engineer looked slightly disheveled: His hair was glistening wet, his shirt hanging outside his trousers.
    As if he could read Urbain’s face, Habib apologized, “Please excuse my appearance. I was in the shower when I was told that Alpha is moving.”
    “What do you make of it?” Urbain whispered tightly.
    Habib shook his head slowly. “It must be something in the programming. It has to be.”
    “But what?”
    “The learning subroutines. We built learning capability into the master program so that it could react to unexpected conditions down on the surface.”
    Urbain hissed, “I am aware of that.”
    “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it’s making its own decisions and ignoring our commands.”
    “Nonsense! Impossible!”
    Habib fell silent before Urbain’s glaring eyes.
    “Can you disable the learning subroutines?” Urbain asked. “To test your theory?”
    “I can try. But if it’s not responding to our commands—”
    “Bah! There must be a flaw in the programming.”
    “I haven’t been able to find it,” Habib admitted. “Not yet.”
    Urbain glared at him. “Well, you had better find it, whatever it is, before my Alpha blunders into a disaster.”

28 DECEMBER 2095: NIGHTFALL

    P ancho and Wanamaker strolled slowly through the shadows along the winding path down by the lake. The habitat’s broad circle of solar windows was slowly closing for the night. The effect was like a long twilight shading off into the darkness of night. Up the gentle rise, Pancho could see the low white-walled buildings of Athens.
    “Smell the flowers,” Wanamaker said, taking in a deep breath. “The air’s like perfume.” Even speaking softly, his voice had a rough, almost abrasive edge to it.
    “You’re getting to be a real romantic, Jake,” she said, smiling at him.
    “Always have been,” he replied. “Only, there weren’t many flowers to smell in a submarine or a spacecraft.”
    Pancho nodded. “I guess.”
    “Not even in Selene,” he added.
    “’Cept for Martin Humphries’s mansion, down on the bottom level. But that’s gone now.”
    Wanamaker nodded. Then, pointing overhead, he said, “Look at the lights up there. They look like constellations.”
    They both knew the lights were from other villages and roadways. Yet in the darkness of the encroaching night Pancho had to admit they did seem to form shapes. She made out something that looked sort of like a lopsided spider. And maybe a tulip.
    He slid his strong arm around her waist and she leaned against him. But then the rational side of her mind spoke up.
    “The human brain wants to make patterns,” Pancho said. “Part of our makeup. I remember back when I was chairman of the board at Astro, I’d sit in meetings and see patterns in the grain of the board room’s paneling.”
    “Must’ve been really interesting meetings,” Wanamaker said, chuckling softly.

    “Meetings of the b-o-r-e-d,” she spelled. “Some were worse’n others.”
    “You know what I wonder about,” he said, still holding her as they walked unhurriedly along the path.
    “What?”
    “We’re ten times farther from the Sun than the Earth is, yet when the solar windows are open the daylight in here is as bright as on Earth. The mirrors outside must be built to focus the sunlight, concentrate it.”
    “You can ask Holly about that.”
    “Or call up the habitat schematics when we get back to our place.”
    So much for the romantic, Pancho thought.
    “Whatcha you think of Holly’s boy toy?” she asked.
    “Tavalera? He seems like a nice enough