Galileo's Dream

Chapter five The Other

Galileo strode to the gate and hauled it open just as another knock pounded it. The tall stranger stood there looking down at him, his massive perspicillum’s case in a heap at his feet. He looked flushed, and his eyes were like black fire.

Galileo felt his blood pound in his head. “Already you have found me.”

“Yes,” the man said.

“Did this servant you foisted on me tell you where I was?” Galileo demanded, jerking a thumb toward the hangdog Cartophilus.

“I knew where you were. Are you willing to make another night journey?”

Galileo’s mouth was dry. He struggled to remember more than that flicker of blue. Blue people—”Yes,” he said, before knowing he would.

The stranger nodded dourly and glanced over at Cartophilus, who trudged out the gate and hauled the case over the paving stones into the courtyard. Jupiter lay low in the sky above Scorpio, still tangled with the trees.

The man’s heavy perspicillum seemed more than a spyglass. Galileo helped Cartophilus set up the tripod and to lift the fat tube, which looked to be made of something like pewter, but felt heavier than gold. When they had the device set on its stand and pointed toward Jupiter, which aiming it seemed to do on its own, Galileo swallowed hard, feeling again his dry mouth, his nameless apprehension. He sat on his stool, looked into the strangely luminous glass of the eyepiece. He fell up into it.

Around him lofted a transparent glow, like talcum in sunlight. What is it, he tried to say, and must have succeeded; the stranger replied in his crow’s Latin. “Around Jupiter hums a magnetic field so strong that people would die of it, if unprotected. It has to be held off by a similar field of our own creation—a counterforce. The glow marks an interference of the two forces.”

“I see,” Galileo murmured.

So he stood on the surface of Europa—again. Some memory of his previous visit had come back to him, though vaguely. The stars trembled overhead as if he were still looking at them through his occhialino, the bigger ones fulgurous, shedding flakes and threads of light into the blackness around them.

The surface of Europa, on the other hand, was exceptionally sharp and clear. The flat ice extended to the horizon that circled them so tightly, opaque white tinted the color of Jupiter, and stained blue or ochre in some areas. Sometimes it was pocked or chewed at the surface, sometimes deeply cracked in radial patterns. Elsewhere it was smooth as glass. Everywhere it was littered with small rocks, and here and there stood a few house-sized boulders, pitted with holes and depressions. Most of the rocks were almost as black as the sky, but a few were metallic gray, or the red of the red spot low on the banded immense surface of Jupiter. That awesome globe loomed directly overhead, huge in the starry night sky even though only half lit. That was the thing that was twenty-five or thirty times bigger, which he had been trying to remember. Its dark half was very dark.

Possibly the tight horizon and the thin air gave the landscape its unreal clarity. The thin air was cool, the sun nowhere to be seen. The two men cast sharp shadows on the ice under them. Galileo, constantly troubled at home by fogged or ringed vision, stared around avidly. Here everyone had hawks’ eyes.

“This is a hot spot, in local terms,” the stranger said in the breathy silence. To Galileo the ice looked everywhere the same, and cold. Their feet crunched as the stranger led him to one of the biggest boulders.

There proved to be a door in this rock, which was not a rock, but rather some kind of carriage or ship, roughly ovoid in shape, lying on the ice like a great black egg. Its surface was smooth, not rocky or metallic, but more like horn or ebony.

A door in this surface opened by sliding sideways in the wall, revealing a small vestibule or antechamber at the top of low black steps. The stranger gestured to Galileo, indicating the entry.

“This is our vessel. We have heard that the Europans are going to stage an illegal incursion into the ocean under this ice. They have ignored our warnings, and the relevant authorities in the Jovian system have declined to interfere, so we are taking it on ourselves to stop them. We think any incursion will be potentially disastrous in ways these people haven’t even considered. We want to intercept them if we can, and keep them from doing harm. And at the very least, see what they do down there. If what happens is as bad as I fear it could be, they will not tell the truth about it. So we must follow them in. With luck we will get down there first, and can stop them when they break through the layer of ice into the water below.”

“And you want me along?” Galileo asked.

“Yes.” Ganymede hesitated, then said, “If you do happen to get exposed to certain experiences, it might be a help to you later on.”

Then something caught his attention over Galileo’s shoulder, and he looked startled; Galileo turned and saw a silver object on a tripod, like the perspicillum only bigger, coming down on a pillar of white fire, roaring faintly in the thin air.

The tall man put a hand to Galileo’s shoulder. “If there is danger, I will transport you back to your own time. The transition may be abrupt.”

A slit in the silver craft opened and a figure in white emerged.

“Do you know who this is?” Galileo asked.

“Yes, I think so. You met her before, when we spoke to the council.”

“Ah yes. Hera, she said. Jupiter’s wife?”

“She thinks she’s that big,” the stranger said sourly, then added under his breath, “It’s almost true.”

The woman was indeed large: tall, broad-shouldered, wide-hipped, thick-armed, deep-chested. She approached and stopped before them, looking down at the stranger with her ironic smile. “Ganymede, I know you hate what they plan to do here,” she said. “And yet here you are. What’s going on? Are you planning to hurt them?”

The stranger, who did not look like Galileo’s idea of Ganymede, faced her like an upright ax. “You know what they’ll say about this on Callisto if they hear about it. We hold the same view they do. The only difference is that we’re willing to do something about it.”

“And so you bring this Galileo along with you?”

“He is the first scientist. He will be our witness to the council, and speak for us later.”

She did not think much of this, Galileo saw. “You use him as a human shield, I think. While you have him with you, the Europans won’t attack you.”

“They won’t in any case.”

She shrugged. “I want to be a witness too. I want to see what happens, and I am your appointed mnemosyne, whether you acknowledge that or not. Let me join you, or my people will alert the Europans that you are here.”

Ganymede stepped to the side, gestured at the door of the ovoid vessel. “Be my guest. I want everyone to see just how irresponsible their incursion is.”

Inside the vessel a few people huddled over banks of glass instruments and glowing squares of jewel color. Their faces, lit from below by their glowing desktops, looked monstrous. The livid glare of Jupiter seemed to leak out of their eyes.

Hera stood beside Galileo, and leaned over to speak in his ear. Again her words came to him in a rustic Tuscan Italian, like something from Ruzante. “You understand that they’re using you?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“This is one of the four moons orbiting Jupiter. I named them myself; they are called the Medicean Stars.”

Her smile was wicked. “That name didn’t stick. It’s only remembered now by historians, as a notorious example of science kissing the ass of power.”

Affronted, Galileo said, “It was nothing of the sort!”

She laughed at him. “Sorry, but from our perspective it’s all too obvious. And always was, I’m sure. You failed to consider that major planetary bodies are not best named for one’s political patrons.”

“What do you call them, then?”

“They are named Io, Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto.”

“Collectively,” Ganymede interjected, “they are called the Galilean moons.”

“Well!” Galileo said, taken aback. For a moment he was at a loss. Then he said, “That’s a good name, I must admit.” After a moment’s confusion, he added, “Not greatly different than a name like Medici, if I am not mistaken,” with a bold look at Hera.

She laughed again. “The discoverer of something is not the same as the discoverer’s patron. His hoped-for patron, to be precise. Making the name a gross bit of flattery, a kind of bribe.”

“Well, I couldn’t very well name them for myself,” Galileo pointed out. “So I had to choose something useful, did I not?”

She shook her head, unconvinced. But she had stopped laughing at him.

When he saw a chance, Galileo drifted over to her so they could speak sotto voce again. “You all speak as if I am someone from your past,” he noted. “What do you mean?”

“Your time is earlier than ours.”

Galileo struggled to comprehend this; he had been presuming that the stranger’s device had merely been transporting him across space. “What time is it here, then? What year?”

“In your terms it is the year 3020.”

Galileo felt his mouth hanging open as he struggled to grasp this news. Transported not only to Europa, but to a time some fourteen hundred years after his own…. Stunned, he said weakly, “That explains many things I did not understand.”

Her smile was wicked.

“Of course it creates new mysteries as well,” he added.

“Indeed.” She was looking at him with an expression he couldn’t read. She was not an angel, or an otherworldly creature, but a human like him. A very imposing woman.

There was a ping, a small jolt, and the room tilted to the side. Ganymede pointed to a white globe, lit from within, floating in the corner of the room. “A globe of Europa,” he said to Galileo. Its whites were faintly shaded to indicate the temperature of the surface. Most of it was pale blue, crisscrossed by many faint green lines. Galileo crossed the room to look more closely at it, checking automatically for geometrical patterns in the surface craquelure. Triangles, parallelograms, spicules, radiola, pentagons … Where the lines intersected, the greens sometimes turned yellow, and in a few cases the yellow shifted to orange.

“The tides break the ice,” Ganymede explained, “and convective upwellings fill some of the cracks in the ice, forming vertical zones like artesian wells, that can serve as channels down to the liquid ocean. On Ganymede we called them flues.”

“Tides?” Galileo asked.

“Under the ice, this world is covered entirely by an ocean. The water is a hundred miles deep. Only the top few miles are frozen, and that ice is shattered by the tides below.”

“So Europa rotates?” Galileo thought that tides were caused by water sloshing on the surface of a body that both rotated on its axis and circled some other object, causing the motion at its surface to vary its speed in a way that tossed the water side to side. He had seen fresh water carried in a barge behave in just that way when rowed across the lagoon, sloshing forward when the barge ran into a Venetian dock.

“Yes, Europa rotates, but at the same speed as its orbit around Jupiter.”

“So how can there be tides?”

All the Jovians stared at him. Hera shook her head briefly, as if the explanation would be beyond Galileo’s understanding. Irritated, he looked to Ganymede, who shrugged uncomfortably.

“Gravity, you see…. Perhaps we can discuss it another time. Because now we have begun our journey into the interior. We descend by melting as we go, to clear the flue.”

The craft tilted first at one angle then another. There was a large rectangular patch of the chamber’s wall filled with glowing primary colors, as if a rainbow had been used for paint. Their vessel was represented as a black pendant in the middle of this rectangle, and flowing upward past it were ribbons of rainbow color—orange strands closest to the black blob, yellow and green twining around them. A larger rectangle on another part of the wall was apparently a window, giving them a view of what passed outside; this consisted of nothing but a field of the darkest blue imaginable—a blue so deep and pure that it captured Galileo’s eye. It exhibited small reticulations and lighter gleams, revealing perhaps that it was an icy slush. It gave him much less information than the other rectangle, with its brilliant colors indicating temperatures.

Down, down, down some more. The blue outside the window flowed upward more swiftly, and darkened. The temperature screen likewise flowed. Otherwise there was only the hum of the vessel’s machines, the brush of its air. Once Galileo had dreamed of falling off a ship and sinking into the Adriatic. Now they were all dreaming together.

Ganymede hated the necessity of this dive, hated the very idea of an intrusion into the ocean under the ice, and it soon became clear that his crew shared his opinion. They eyed their screens with grim expressions, and said little. Ganymede strode back and forth nervously behind them, consulting with them in turn.

On the rainbow panel, a green potato-shaped patch moved upward; it looked like a boulder. Galileo asked about it.

“A meteorite,” Ganymede replied. “Space is full of rocks. The shooting stars you see in your night sky are rocks, often as small as sand grains, burning very brightly.”

“Friction with air is enough to ignite rock?”

“They are moving really very fast. Here on Europa there is no atmosphere, however, so whatever it encounters crashes straight into the ice. It happens a lot, but impact craters in ice quickly deform and flow back toward flatness.”

“No atmosphere? What about the air we were breathing up there?”

“We live inside bubbles of air, held in place by forces or materials.”

Their vessel stopped in its descent. It was interesting to Galileo how clearly he could feel the halt, subtle though it was.

Ganymede said, “Pauline, is everything going well?”

“All is well,” said a woman’s voice, apparently from within the walls of the vessel.

“How soon will it be before we reach the ocean?”

“If we maintain this speed, it will be thirty minutes.”

“Is the Ariadne thread unspooling cleanly?”

“Yes.”

Ganymede said to Galileo, “The Ariadne thread is also a heating element, and will keep the central line of our flue liquid, to ease our return.”

They waited, absorbed in their thoughts. The light downward pull of Europa made the crew’s movements around the bridge fluid and slow, like dancing in a dream. Galileo found it hard to keep his balance; it was somewhat like floating in a river.

He drifted to Hera’s side and said, “All these machines have to work for us to stay alive.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“It seems risky.”

“It is. But because it is, we engineer for safety. Materials and power are terrifically advanced compared to your time. And there is a principle called redundancy at the criticalities. Do you know this term? Replacement systems are available in case of failures. Bad things still sometimes happen. But there you are. They do anywhere.”

“But on Earth,” Galileo objected, “in the open air, the things you make don’t have to work for you to survive.”

“Don’t they? Your clothing, your language, your weapons? They all have to work for you to stay alive, right? We are poor forked worms in this world. Only our technologies, and our teamwork, allow us to survive.”

Galileo pursed his lips. There might be some truth to what she had said, but still he felt it obscured a real difference. “Worm or not,” he said, and she was a rather magnificently shaped worm, he did not add, “you could stay alive on Earth by breathing, eating, and staying warm. Granted these take effort, but you could make the effort. You have tools to help you, but they don’t have to remain unbroken for you to survive. A single man alone on an island could do it. There are no mechanical contrivances that surround you and protect you, like a fortress, that have to function successfully forever or else you very quickly die.”

She shook her head. “It’s like a sea voyage. You could not have your ship sink and survive.”

“But you people never land. You sail on forever.”

“Yes, that’s true. But it’s true for everyone, always.”

Galileo recalled standing in his garden at night, in the open air, under the stars. It was an experience this woman had never had. Possibly she could not imagine it. Possibly she had no idea what he was talking about. “You don’t know what it is to be free,” he said, surprised. “You don’t know what it is to stand free in the open air.”

She shook her head impatiently. “Have it your way.”

“I will.”

Again her amused glance, as if she were looking down on a child. She said, “You were famous for that, as I recall. Until things went wrong.”

The voice Pauline announced they were coming to the bottom of the ice layer, and were in what she called brash ice. They could hear floating chunks and clinkers striking the hull—a grinding noise full of scrapes and thuds.

Then they were moving freely, in water. Galileo had spent so much time on barges and ferries, and on a few well-remembered trips out into the Adriatic, that he recognized the feel in his feet. Such kinetic sensations were so slight as to disappear when one focused on them, but when focusing attention elsewhere, one became aware of the totality of the effect.

Ganymede said, “Pauline, search for the Europans’ flue, also any other vessels, of course. And give us an analysis of the water too, please.”

Pauline reported the water was nearly pure, with trace amounts of salts, floating particulates, and dissolved gases. Some of the crew began tapping madly at their desktops. Outside the window, the omnipresent blue had long since turned black. They might as well have been deep in the bowels of the Earth. Only one’s sense of movement suggested they were in a liquid.

Thus it was a great surprise to see a brief flash of cobalt blue in the window, like the random blue spark one sometimes saw crossing the inside of the eyelid.

“What was that!” Galileo said.

“We call that Cherenkov radiation,” Ganymede said.

“Somebody’s patron?” Galileo inquired, glancing at Hera.

“The discoverer of the phenomenon,” she said firmly.

Ganymede ignored their fencing. “There are tiny particles called neutrinos, which pour through our manifold in great numbers, but very seldom interact with anything. Once in a while one hits a proton—which is a small but substantial part of an atom—hits a proton in such a way that the proton releases a muon, which is a very small component of a proton. If that happens in an ocean like this, the muon will fly through the water in such a way as to spark a short trail of light in the blue wavelength. We will see a few per minute.”

Another little flare of blue appeared, again like the flaws that plagued Galileo’s vision. “Like shooting stars,” he noted.

“Yes. A very subtle fire.”

“A fire in water?”

“Well, a light, let us say. Though some fires will burn in water, of course.”

Galileo tried to imagine that. This dream was testing him in all sorts of ways. Could he find a way to test it back? Maybe answer the basic question: Was this really happening? He looked around to see if there was something small that he could take and conceal in his coat. Stealing ideas from dreams—perhaps it wasn’t so unusual. Perhaps it was a fundamental mode of thought.

The next flick of blue light was followed by a blue ball, which rapidly expanded, then became a kind of diffuse polyhedron, shedding spicules and other radiola of blue light that then curved away from the polyhedron in spirals—some of them tight equable spirals, making cylindrical coils, others equiangular spirals, growing wildly outward in conic shapes. One of these flashed right by the window, and for a second or two their chamber pulsed sapphire.

Some of the crew cried out, then there was silence.

Galileo said, “What was that?”

Ganymede appeared astonished. He stood pressed against the window, his blade of a nose touching it.

He straightened up, expression black, “It’s here. I knew it. The anomalies made it very clear. I’ve been saying so all along.” He turned to his crew. “We shouldn’t be here! Have the Europans shown up yet?”

“We haven’t seen them,” one replied.

“Find their flue, then! Get to it—we have to get to it before they do, to stop them!”

They turned back to their screens and their crowded desktops. After a time one said, “We’ve found it. They’re descending. We’re closing on it—wait. There they are. Two of them, just leaving their flue.”

Ganymede hissed. “Go!” he exclaimed. “Ram them! Get under them and ram them from below! Full speed until you reach them, then get in position to shove them right back up the flue!” He looked stricken, grim beyond telling. “We have to make them leave.”

“How can you do that?” Hera asked.

“We’ll ram them until they turn back.”

“Are you going to warn them?”

“I don’t want to break radio silence. Who knows what effect it might have on what’s in here?”

“What about the sound of collisions? What about the sounds and the exhaust from your engines?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying to them! None of us should be here.”

Another blue conic spiral flashed by them. Ganymede read the screens and the desks. “That could be some kind of signal. Speech, or thought, in some language of light.”

“Who would it speak to?”

“The light may be secondary. Who knows who it talks to? I have my suspicions, but …”

“Try numbers,” Galileo suggested. “Display a triangle, see if it knows the Pythagorean theorem.”

Ganymede shook his head, visibly trying to remain patient. “That’s what the Europans will do, I’m afraid. Reckless interventions like that. They have no idea what they may be getting into.”

“Is it some kind of fish?”

“Not a fish. But on the floor of the ocean are layers of something—perhaps a slime that is organized into larger structures.”

“But how would a slime make light?”

Ganymede clutched his black hair in his hands. “Light from slime is bioluminescence,” he said tightly. “Slime from light is photosynthesis. Both are very common. They’re like alchemical interactions.”

“But alchemy doesn’t really work.”

“Sometimes it does. Be quiet now. We have to get the Europans out of here.”

On the screen that had held the rainbow images of the flue, there stood now an image all in grays, in which near-white shapes defined an object much like their own vessel, shifting against a rumpled gray field. Ganymede took over at one desk and began to tap gently on the array of tabs and knobs. A solid bump, and then the screen showed nothing but the ghostly image of another ship. “Hold on,” Ganymede ordered grimly, and began tapping harder than ever. “Pauline, keep the vectors such that we push it up into its flue.”

Then a loud bang and instant deceleration knocked them all forward and up into the air. When they fell back, Galileo found himself in a heap of bodies in the corner, with Hera under him. He got up and tried to give her a hand, but staggered back as the vessel tipped again.

The voice named Pauline said, “They’re in their flue now, but they can descend out of it again.”

“Go after the other one anyway. Wait, while we’re in contact with them, speak hull to hull and tell them to get back to the surface. Tell them if they don’t, we’ll ram them hard enough to breach both ships. Tell them who we are and tell them I’ll do it.”

Suddenly a storm of blue flashes exploded in the window, and all the screens lit up as if with torn rainbows. The visual chaos was split by black lightning that somehow was just as devastating to the eyes as white lightning. Cries of alarm filled the air. Then the vessel lurched down and began to spin. Everyone had to hold on to something to stay upright. Galileo clutched Hera by the elbow, as high as his shoulder, and she held him up with that same arm while grasping a chair back with her other hand. One of the crew clutched her desk while pointing at her screen with the other hand. Ganymede moved like an acrobat across the bucking deck, inspecting one screen and then another. The officers shouted at him over a high ringing tone. On the screens, Galileo caught sight of a swirl of a steep conic spiral rising from the depths, now revealed to be immense—a matter of many miles. The blue light flashed in their chamber again.

“It doesn’t want us here,” Ganymede said. “Pauline, open radio contact with those ships. Send this: Get out! Get out! Get out!”

A high moan lofted up Galileo’s spine, leaving his short hairs as erect as a hedgehog’s. The sound resembled wolves howling at the moon. Often Galileo had heard them in the distance, late at night, when the rest of the world slept. But the sound filling him now was to wolves’ howls as wolves’ howls were to human speech—a sound so uncanny that actual wolves would surely have run away whimpering. Fear turned his bowels watery, and he saw all the others in the craft were just as afraid. He clutched Hera’s thick biceps, felt himself moaning involuntarily. It was too loud now for anyone to hear him; the super-lupine howls became a keening shriek that seemed everywhere at once, both inside and outside him. The blue flashes were now inside the vessel, even inside his eyes, though they were squeezed shut.

“Go!” Hera shouted. Galileo wondered if anyone else could hear her. In any case the vessel was spiraling upward now, so forcefully that Galileo was knocked to his knees. Hera swung him up and around the way he would have swung a child, and plopped him into a chair. She staggered, almost landed on him, then sat hard on the floor beside him. Black flashes still shot through them like lightning, through floor to ceiling, as if carrying them along in some stupendous explosion, aquatic but incorporeal, everything spiraling in a dizzying rise. It was like being in the grip of a living Archimedes screw. Up and up again, until there was an enormous crash, casting everyone up onto the ceiling, after which they flailed awkwardly down and thumped to the floor. They had struck the shell of ice capping the ocean, Galileo presumed, and it seemed the vessel might have cracked and everyone would soon drown. Then Galileo felt shoved toward the floor, indicating a new acceleration, as when rocked back on a bolting horse. The vessel itself now creaked and squealed, while the eerie shriek was muffled. The chamber was still bathed in flickers of blue fire. Ganymede, propped on both arms before the biggest table of screen and instruments, conferred in sharp tones with crew members holding on beside him. It seemed they were still trying to steer the thing.

Up they tumbled, turning and spinning this way and that, pitching and yawing but always moving up.

Ganymede said loudly, “Are the Europans ahead of us?”

“There’s no sign of them.” Pauline’s voice was small under the muffled shriek.

The shriek shot up the scale in a rising glissando, until it was no longer audible, but immediately a violent earache and headache assaulted Galileo. He shouted up at Ganymede. “Won’t we emerge too quickly, if we don’t slow down?”

Ganymede glanced at him, started tapping again on one of the desks.

Then the black on the screens turned blue, an indigo that lightened abruptly, and they shot up in a violent turquoise acceleration. Galileo’s head banged the floor of the vessel and he thrust an arm under Hera. The back of her head smacked his forearm, and it hurt, but she turned and saw he had saved her a knock.

On one screen splayed the starry black sky, under it the shattered white plain of Europa’s surface.

“We’re going to fall!”

But they didn’t. The column of water under them had fountained out of its hole and then quickly frozen in place, so that it stood there as ice, supporting their vessel just as certain sandstone columns held up schist boulders in an area of the Alps. Icicles broke and clattered away from the vessel’s sides, shattering on the low frozen waves now surrounding the column. Black sky, white ice, tinted the oranges of Jupiter; their vessel, like a roc’s egg on a plinth.

“How will we get down?” Galileo inquired in the sudden silence. His ears buzzed and hurt, and he could see crew members holding their heads.

“Something will come to us,” said Ganymede.

Hera laughed just a touch wildly, detached Galileo’s fingers from her arm. “The Europans will come for us. The council will come for us.”

“I don’t care, if they get the others too.”

“The others may have died inside.”

“So be it. We’ll tell the council what we did, and tell them they should have done it.” He turned to one of his crew. “Prepare the entan-gler to send Signor Galileo back.”

The crewman, one of the pilots, bustled out of the chamber through a low door. Ganymede turned to speak to another of them.

Hera leaned over and said quickly in Galileo’s ear, “They will give you an amnestic, and you won’t remember any of this. Drink salt water the moment you wake. Do your alchemists have magnesium sulfate? Well, shit—you won’t remember this either. Here—” she reached inside her tunic, pulled out a small tablet, gave it to him. “This is better than nothing. Hide it on you, and when you see it again, eat it!” She glared at him, her nose inches from his, and pinched his arm hard. “Eat this! Remember!”

“I’ll try,” Galileo promised, slipping the pill into his sleeve and feeling his arm throb.

Ganymede towered over him. “Come, signor. There is no time to lose, we will soon be apprehended. The other ships may not have made it, in which case good riddance to them, but we will have a lot of explaining to do. Let me convey you back to your home.”

Galileo stood. As he passed Hera she pinched him again, this time on the butt. Eat the pill, he thought, ignoring her, and walked with Ganymede to the side of his thick perspicillum. Eat the pill.

“Here,” Ganymede said, and a mist from his hand hit Galileo’s face.