VI City

As Peter started down the slope, he was completely ignorant of Photophore Etiquette. He just blithely assumed from what he had seen that they were all luminescent all the time. Even Jane now understood that turning it off was impolite, in certain circumstances impertinence or insolence, and in some primitive cultures, a gross insult. So Peter made himself invisible without giving it much further thought. Even so, he was still very lucky.

He followed the rock outcrops and found a disused trail, while Jane held on to Eleutherius as he powered on his fast water jet. Peter’s trail was well hidden and he darted behind crags at the approach of a ’pod. As he approached the city, he came across a hatch that led to a tunnel.

Jane and the octopus were frantic. After an hour of fruitless patrols, Jane said glumly, "He must have got in somehow." Thankfully, just then they found a squid messaging post and Mr E’s little cousin sped into the darkness with their tidings.

Peter was amazed as he took in the grandeur of the city from a lofty viewpoint, but he carried on down, finding by fluke another hatch and tunnel. But when he emerged from the second tunnel, things were quite different. The ’pods looked different, the buildings and activity were totally different. It was a city under the city! For a moment he paused and considered returning -- maybe he had come too far? But could he go back up the tunnel? So he carried on down, and at last approached a large forbidding hatch with some kind of lock on it, and started to fiddle.

Now, in this guardroom, a further Law of Photophores applied, that darkness was permitted to those whose occupations required stealth, like guarding a door. With the poor light, Peter thought that he needed his tiny flashlight. To the two sentries at the door, he might have been turning on a searchlight.

"What is it?" asked the first.

"It must be one of those things they are seeing upper-side," replied his corporal.

"So what is it doing here?"

"Trying to get into The Vault, by the look of it."

"Bloody hell! Let’s grab it."

"Nah. I want to test its problem-solving abilities. I mean, it just blundered in here without seeing us at all."

"True. HEY BLOCKHEAD!" But the thinned out ’phores on the signing arms were pulsating in the infra-red. Peter carried on fiddling.

"Nope. Not a peep. Ha ha ha! What does it think it is?" said the first.

"Hey – Shhh – it’s figuring out the lock," said his superior.

"Wow!"

Peter turned the handle.

"Whoa, can’t have this," said the corporal. "Grab it!"

Peter found his arms bound to his waist in a vice-like grip. He gulped. They turned their lights on; the corporal re-secured the lock.

"And what the hell are you doing here?" he demanded. "Who are you? What are you?" But Peter had no sign language, and just quaked in fear and confusion. O Christ, he thought. What have I done now?

They had him penned up, as he frantically pointed to his oxygen tanks. But inhaling a free gas was even more alien to them than breathing with gills was to him.

"What shall we do with it?" asked the guard.

"Keep it secure here. You guard it, while I report the incident," said the NCO, who quickly jetted off to a command post.

Peter then realised he should not waste a cubic centimetre of his precious oxygen on panic. There were only two alternatives now – be rescued, or die.

Eleutherius started making careful inquiries, while it was Jane’s turn to marvel at the city close up. But the news of Peter’s arrest spread like wildfire, and they rushed to the scene.

Jane had brought along a spare tank of oxygen, which Peter accepted with alacrity, while Eleutherius explained to the commander that Peter had to be returned to the upper-side, and quickly.

"What were you doing?" asked Jane angrily. "You could have got us both killed!"

Peter, weak with hypoxia, could only tap on his forearm, "Sorry. Sorry. Sorry."

"He says he is sorry," she told Eleutherius and the commander.

"And I should hope so!" said the ’pod, "But now we must meet the Mayor."

Eleutherius persuasively told everybody that Peter was an inquisitive fool who meant no harm. The three of them and a large escort quickly jetted up the mountain.

Stacey was unamused. "You deserve a court martial for this, Peter. You defy my orders, and then get arrested for breaking and entering! You damage our relations with the ’pods at the most sensitive moment! You take the most outrageous risks, not only with yourself, but the entire mission! Anything could have happened! One thing is for sure though," she said, calming down. "We must mandate signing as an essential qualification for all future Europa missions."

Peter was terribly contrite. He moped around looking at rocks. One day though, he was approached by Jane. "Eleutherius has something to tell you," she said.

It was with pride that the grand old octopod showed Peter around the Europan workshops, powered by globules of molten rock, which had given the smaller, darker race of ’pods a mastery of metals, glass and other furnace technology, including that stylus, which Jane now knew was not quartz, but diamondoid.

"You only had to ask," chided Eleutherius gently. And Peter saw that the two races of ’pods lived in symbiosis of exchanging food for tools.

"It’s never what we expect," he said.

"And I’m sure, that your planet will not be for me either," said Eleutherius. His huge eyes twinkled, the light the humans recognised as the questing cognitive spirit which they all were.