Something about this light possessed what felt to Lamont like a hypnotic quality, as if it teased at a warmth or depth just beyond what was visible. He was reminded unnervingly of a moth being drawn toward a flame…
Seemingly within moments, the dark mass of the moon all but filled their field of view, while the blue shape of the gas giant behind it appeared to stay the same size. Despite their closer proximity, Lamont’s eyes could not make out any clear details of the satellite’s surface; it was a misty gray sphere that appeared almost black against the blue backdrop of the planet.
“What are you seeing, Bishop?” Ed asked.
Abigail’s voice answered from outside the cockpit. “No surprises yet, sir. We’re looking at a thick atmosphere of suspended gases, rich in oxygen. Beneath that, I’m seeing indications of a solid surface, very dense.”
Lamont suspected that he was not alone in being preoccupied with the structure that rose out of that surface. The bulk of the tower was quickly growing to occupy their view, and they could now see the reflection of the pod’s powerful spotlights reflecting off its metallic surface. On the dome-shaped tip of the structure, the petal-shaped beacon glowed a steady amber. Something about this light possessed what felt to Lamont like a hypnotic quality, as if it teased at a warmth or depth just beyond what was visible. He was reminded unnervingly of a moth being drawn toward a flame—a comparison that was in no wise contradicted by what Ed said next.
“Westward, are you receiving?” The chief technician asked.
“Just barely,” came the response over the speaker in the console, heavily muffled by static. “Interference…closer…get.”
Ed sighed. “Okay, okay. I’ve disengaged rocket thrusters. We’re falling toward the structure and will be in spitting distance shortly.”
“We are going to spit at it?” Rico asked.
“We’re falling?” Clifford added.
Spratt ignored the security specialist’s question entirely, glancing over his shoulder in Ashton’s direction. “The gravity of the moon is pulling us toward the center of its mass. In astrometric parlance, it’s called ‘falling.’”
Clifford’s fingers, folded in his lap, twitched uncomfortably.
“That’s not completely accurate, though, is it?” Abigail asked from behind them.
Ed nodded, his mouth twisting in a faint smirk. “Fair enough, Bishop. Truth is, we’re drifting toward the tower. It’s exercising a slightly greater gravity pull than the moon itself.”
“How do you account for that?” Lamont asked.
“I can’t,” Ed shrugged. “At least, not yet.”