Energized Read Free

molasses. And in the sense that a popcorn ball remained a ball after it had been whacked a bit, dented here, flattened there. Phoebe was less a single object than a rubble pile loosely bonded by its mutual gravity. If its orbit had dipped much lower, the tidal forces from Earth’s gravity would have ripped the little moon to shreds.
    â€œTwo tethers,” Thad repeated. “Done. After you, Pearl.”
    Gabe pulled himself hand over hand along the cable, coasting above the inky surface. His eyes insisted he was soaring up a cliff face. Gravity’s feeble tug told his inner ears he was falling into the cliff face. His gut wished eyes and ears would come to some agreement.
    After twenty yanks Gabe stopped pulling. “Coasting,” he radioed the newbie.
    â€œThanks. The view from behind is unattractive enough without climbing up your butt.”
    Gabe slowed with gentle hand pressure against the cable at the first glint ahead of a piton anchored in the rock. Carefully he unclipped one carabiner and snapped it back onto the cable on the opposite side of the ring. He did the same with his second tether. He made sure the newbie followed the same fail-safe procedure before resuming the trip to sector twelve.
    The surface lights, antennae, and trash dump of the station dropped behind the too-close horizon. But a status icon in his HUD shone a steady, reassuring green, confirming connectivity with Tina and the command center. The metal guide cable did double duty as an antenna.
    Every hundred or so feet a piton interrupted their glide, and in such short increments they made their way toward sector twelve. After ten minutes Gabe checked in with Tina. Twice he saw survey robots—their silvery, octopoid shapes unmistakable—creeping along the surface. The second bot’s instrument suite must have sensed a buried ice seam, because the machine was staking a radio beacon. Had Gabe cared to tune to the proper frequency, he would have heard soft beeping from the marker.
    Ice meant water. Water meant oxygen and hydrogen. And water, oxygen, and hydrogen already in near-Earth orbit—not lofted from Earth’s surface or the permanently shadowed polar craters of the distant moon, in either case at the cost of thousands of dollars per pound—were dearer than gold or platinum. So, too, whatever mineral wealth could be wrung from the rocks of Phoebe. On scheduled outings, he continued to survey for exploitable resources.
    It was said: Low Earth orbit is halfway to anywhere in the solar system. That was a metaphorical truth, almost poetic. Half the work of going anywhere in the solar system was expended fighting Earth’s gravity. Building powersats with Phoebe’s mineral resources, beaming down solar energy to an energy-starved world, would be only the beginning. Phoebe would be the gateway to the planets.
    Away from the station the moonscape dissolved into a shadowy sameness. They passed the pilot distillery sited at a safe distance from the habitat. Parallel glints revealed pipes snaking across the dark surface, delivering water, oxygen, and hydrogen to the base.
    Gabe played tour guide, pointing out the little world’s interesting features. “On our left, the thermal nuclear rockets that nudged Phoebe into orbit.” He glanced at his Geiger counter, even though workers had long since recycled the uranium fuel rods in the base power plant. No matter how many powersats got their start here, Phoebe, forever behind its sunshield, would stay nuclear. “And on our right, the Grand Chasm. It’s no great shakes by Earth standards, but relative to Phoebe, it’s huge.”
    â€œUh-huh,” Thad said.
    Newbie had been moody since they left the station. As for what preoccupied him, Gabe could only guess. Maybe no more was at work here than that Thad—like most of the crew—was an engineer, without interest in Phoebe itself. When Thad deigned to interrupt the travelogue, it