Read Online Venus by Ben Bova - Free Book Online Page B

more versatile and handier. And cheaper, too.
    The one crew member I dealt with on an almost daily basis was the physician, Dr. Waller. He kept tabs on my anemia and made certain that I was in good general health. He was quite a bit older, about Duchamp’s age, and claimed he had never used any rejuvenation therapy for himself. Yet he looked suspiciously young to me; the only sign of his age was his thinning hair, which he kept pulled back into a short ponytail. He was black—from Jamaica—and for some reason I usually found it hard to judge the age of black people. He always looked solemn, even grave. His eyes always seemed to be bloodshot.
    “There’s really not much for you to do around here, is there?” I asked him once, while he was running me through the diagnostic scanner.
    His red-rimmed eyes focused on the readouts, Dr. Waller answered, “Be glad of that, Mr. Humphries.”
    Even though his face was somber, he constantly hummed to himself, so low I could barely hear it, a tuneless background buzzing. His voice had a sort of singing lilt to it. If I kept my eyes closed I could imagine him smiling happily instead of the dour somber face he actually wore.
    “You can put your shirt on,” he said as the scanner yoke lifted up and slid back into its niche in the infirmary bulkhead.
    “Will I live, Doctor?” I kidded.
    He nodded briefly, but said, “Your triglyceride count is rising. Too many sweets. Must I put a block on the dispensing machines?”
    I laughed. “I’m the owner of this vessel, remember? I could remove any block that you code into the galley’s computer.”
    “Then we shall have to rely on your good sense. You need more exercise and less fatty foods.”
    I nodded. “Right.”
    “Otherwise you are in excellent condition.”

    As I sealed the Velcro front of my shirt I asked, “With everyone in good health and no accidents to deal with, how do you fill in your time?”
    His normally solemn expression brightened a little. “I am writing my Ph.D. thesis. I took this position so that I would have the time to write it. And no distractions! No interruptions. No excuses to put it off.”
    “What’s the subject of your thesis?”
    “The underlying similarities among the organisms of Mars, the Jovian moons, and Earth.”
    “Well,” I said, “maybe we’ll find some organisms on Venus to broaden your scope.”
    Dr. Waller actually smiled, a bright flashing smile full of white teeth. “I hardly think so, Mr. Humphries. I chose this mission specifically because I do not expect any new data to come up and cause me added complications.”
     
    During the first week of our flight I met Marguerite Duchamp exactly twice. The first time was shortly after we broke Earth orbit.
    Once we were safely through the keyhole and on the proper trajectory toward Venus, Captain Duchamp left Rodriguez in charge of the bridge and asked me to come with her to the captain’s cabin, as she called it. It was a compartment off the bridge, only a few paces along the passageway from my own quarters.
    “I want you to meet the expedition’s biologist,” she said over her shoulder as she slid open the compartment door.
    “Your daughter,” I said as I entered the cubicle.
    It was quite a small compartment, barely room enough for a bunk and a foldout table. She was at the bunk, taking clothes out of a travel bag that lay open atop it. She did not turn around when she heard the door open.
    “Marguerite, I want you to meet the owner of this vessel.”
    She turned, looking slightly surprised. I suppose I looked surprised, too. Stunned, actually. Marguerite was a duplicate of her mother. Younger, of course, not so taut or intimidating,
yet so physically alike that I thought she must be a clone. The same tall, slim figure. The same sculptured cheekbones and strong jaw. The same jet-black eyes and raven hair.
    Yet where her mother was demanding and dominating, the daughter seemed troubled, uncertain of herself. The mother wore